Julie & Kishore (3 page)
Authors: Carol Jackson
The Hindi word for life is jeevan.
Kishore
shook with nervous anticipation as the plane carried him on his way towards his
new life. He tried to calm himself by watching the on-board video showing
scenic pictures of New Zealand. The unfolding scenes of the country’s
landscapes, mountains, snow and rolling pastures mesmerized him. The narrator’s
voice hypnotised him with words like, ‘the land of milk and honey’ and welcomed
him, as it did all immigrants, to this diverse country where anyone could
literally walk off the plane and into employment.
As
the plane touched down in Auckland, one thought hit him pretty hard, in fact it
was with such a jolt he felt like he had been hit by a train, ‘I am here, I
have made it.’ He was excited and nervous in equal measure - he almost muttered
out loud, ‘Well Kishore this is it, no turning back now.’ All he had in his
wallet was twenty dollars.
Telephone calls
to Aunt Bhamini, immigration papers and his air ticket were
terribly
expensive but he was determined to use
that one note as a stepping stone to a fulfilling future.
His
first taste of being spoken to in a Kiwi accent was by the immigration officer
as he asked to see Kishore’s passport. He had to listen carefully to understand
what the officer was saying, his accent being very strong. As Kishore collected
his luggage different words assailed his ears, of course he spoke English but
the sound of people talking seemed so odd.
He
walked into the International Arrivals area, searching for a familiar face. He
grinned as his eyes locked onto someone beaming back at him. Akarsh, Kishore’s
cousin, his Aunt’s son, had come to the airport to collect him. Kishore was relieved
to see a recognisable face amongst the crowd. As the cousins approached one
another there was a great reunion. They had not seen each other for years and
by this time had grown into men. With big silly grins they slapped each other
on the back and punched
each
other
’
s shoulder.
As
they made their way to the exit, Kishore watched as people were rushing
here and there – leaving to go on a journey or coming
back
.
Friends and families meeting in Arrivals or seeing each other off in Departures
and employees going about their business.
Once
outside with Kishore’s luggage stowed in the boot of Akarsh’s tired looking
white Vauxhall Viva, they climbed in. Akarsh told him to buckle up his
seatbelt, something Kishore was not used to because it was not law in India.
Kishore spoke in Hindi,
“Oh no
,
it is okay, I trust your driving
.
”
“The
law is strict here mate, you have to wear your seatbelt I don’t want to get a
ticket” Akarsh replied
in English
.
Kishore,
for the first time in his life obediently buckled his seatbelt.
They
left the airport and as they approached the motorway Akarsh indicated,
manoeuvred into an empty lane
,
then
pressed his foot hard on the accelerator pedal.
Kishore was quiet, he was amazed at all of the greenery and cleanliness but
surprised by the lack of other cars and people.
“Where are all the people?” he asked
, again
in Hindi.
Akarsh
laughed out loud and replied in English, “You’d better start speaking in
English mate. There are not as many people here as there are in India but today
everyone is at work or school.”
Kishore
smiled as he remembered a line from the video on the plane stating New Zealand
had more sheep than people. Although Kishore knew Aotearoa’s - New Zealand in
Maori language
‘land of the long white cloud’ first language was
English before he arrived it made him acutely aware of the reality of his
situation, he was now in a foreign country and had better start speaking in
English as much as he could in order to grasp the strange accent.
He
was also soon to discover the cultural differences were huge. The Kiwi accent
was one thing but the clothing, mannerisms and the way society worked was
another. He was to realise his greatest challenge was all things Kiwi. Words he
had never heard before such as ‘mate,’
-
his cousin had
already called him ‘mate’ twice, chilly bin, fish and chips – pronounced
‘
fush un chups
,’
pavlova, stoked, awesome and the word ‘aye’ or ‘eh’ at the end of a sentence.
Why would people use the word ‘aye
?'
He came to
understand it was a term commonly used after asking a question, when you want
the person to agree with you, such as, “It’s nice weather outside today, aye?”
As
Akarsh drove, the needle on his car speedometer never wavered, remaining firmly
on the speed limit of 100km per hour. Kishore, lost in his thoughts caught
sight of the road signs
on the other
side of the motorway
as they flashed past, Mangere, Onehunga...he wondered how on earth were those
names were pronounced? He soon came to realise some words didn’t sound as they
were written, which absolutely confused him such as: chemist, picturesque,
island, knife, photo and pharmacy.
As
they exited the motorway and entered a suburban area the car finally slowed to
a more moderate pace. Kishore was intrigued at the pedestrians walking along
the footpath. Men wearing wrinkled shirts and shorts with jandals
which
showed their splayed bare feet. Women with pink
painted lips, squeezed into short skirts and tiny t-shirts. Kishore wondered
why would people go out of the house looking so casual, immodest and why didn’t
they iron their clothes?
Finally
Akarsh drove into the driveway of Kishore’s Aunt’s home. He was happy to see
his Aunt and Uncle but even happier that now the wheels of the next stage of
his life could begin to turn. He had crossed the biggest hurdle
,
he was here.
He
was surprised to see their house. It seemed so big. In fact it was a typical
Kiwi house made of brick, with
three bedrooms,
a garage
underneath and a big back yard. Once inside and after being shown to the room
he was to share with Akarsh, he was eager to take on his next big challenge, to
secure employment. Kishore, determined to find a position in accounting as soon
as possible asked his Aunt for the Situations Vacant section from the
newspaper. Aunt Bhamini said, “You must take a few day’s rest, Kishore, you may
suffer from jet lag, get yourself settled first.”
But
Kishore was impatient, his new life beckoned him, he wanted to get started.
The Hindi word for happy is khushi.
It
was a wonderful time growing up in New Zealand
(godzone)
in the late seventies and early eighties.
The
hippie era was ending and the emergence of computers, big haircuts and even
bigger mobile phones was beginning. A melting pot of a diverse range of
cultures had just begun to arrive on these shores. New Zealand, still young and
under the umbrella of England, was a country known for its peace and beauty but
also for its own certain individuality with its unique icons: L&P, paua
shells, rugby, beetroot, swandris and Watties tomato sauce.
The
fond memories from my childhood were carefree and happy.
Mum and Dad raised us three kids in a
typical New Zealand middle class neighbourhood. Quaint wooden 'Neil' houses (a
building company that built many new homes in subdivisions around Auckland)
lined the streets of the community we lived in. Dad and Mum bought their house
with their combined life savings and as newlyweds, with suitcases in hand,
moved into the contemporary neighbourhood. Over the years as the houses around
them being constructed rose from the ground, the landscape changed from vast
empty plots, to the neighbourhoods that exist today. Although the layout of
each house was basically the same, each had a different appearance, unique in
its own way. The area was designed for young families and was dubbed
Nappy Valley
due to the many cloth
nappies that hung on washing lines and flapped in the breeze.
Mum,
Helen was a housewife while Dad, Peter worked for the AEPB (Auckland Electric
Power Board). I am not entirely sure what Dad’s job actually entailed only
knowing he did
something with
electricity.
When I was
quite
young, about
three or four, Dad occasionally brought one of the company vans home. I
remember being
so
excited as he lifted
me into the back and under his watchful eye let me carefully open the little
drawers which lined the walls. I liked to pretend I was a pirate looking for
lost treasure as I opened each drawer
and
peered
curiously inside at the array of wires, nuts, bolts, sockets and screws.
Dad
and Mum spent their Saturdays tending to the garden. Dad mowed the
well-manicured lawn while Mum fussed pruning her blossoming roses.
My
parents were not rich but then again they were not poor. Being born during a
splendid time in New Zealand, Andrew, Sarah and I had a relaxed upbringing.
With our neighbouring friends we happily attended the local primary,
intermediate and high schools where, we as part of the school curriculum were
taught basic Maori language and culture. Being welcomed onto a Marae with a
powhiri, giving hongi’s, watching heart pounding hakas and seeing beautiful
wahine with moko on their chins dancing with poi’s, were part of a Kiwi child’s
culture.
Andrew
and Sarah had given into my whining and the three of us clambered onto the
couch in the lounge room. I giggled with delight as I had finally convinced my
big brother and sister to play a game with me. In our wondrous childhood
imagination
s
, the couch became our boat, the floor was the ocean
and placing cushions on the carpet, they were
the
hungry
sharks. With squeals of delight we jumped precariously from couch to chair to
couch
,
hoping not to fall and be eaten. I knew it was just
a game but as a four year old the fear I felt of falling into the ocean and
being eaten by the sharks was definitely real.
Waiting
eagerly with a spoon in our hands we sat at the dining table as Mum placed a
bowl of hokey-pokey ice-cream in front of
each of
us.
With excitement rippling through our bodies Andrew, Sarah and I waited for her
to shout ‘go.’ As she did, we all used our spoons to quickly whip our ice-cream
round and round. The first sibling, usually Andrew, to have the creamiest
swirliest ice-cream was the winner. During the long hot Kiwi summer hokey pokey
ice-cream was a delightful treat. Creamy vanilla with little golden nuggets of
toffee was tastiest when it was whipped smooth, soft and velvety.
It
was the summer holidays and I had packed an overnight backpack with my pajamas,
toothbrush and togs. Doing up the zip I slid my arms through the straps so it
fit snugly on my shoulders. At ten years old I was finally allowed to ride by
myself to my friend Louise’s house. I climbed astride my blue Raleigh twenty
bike and waved goodbye to Mum
,
promising I
would call her as soon as I got there. I peddled making my way
on the footpath,
on a familiar route
, which would take me along three
streets
to get from my house to her house. Wanting to gain
speed, I pumped my legs harder and harder making the bike go faster and faster
and as I didn’t wear a helmet, I felt the wind whipping through my hair.
Precariously balancing the bike I let go of the handle bars. I raised my arms
high
,
I was flying, soaring through the air like an
eagle. I wanted to shout, “Y
aaa
ah
ooo
oo.” In fact I did! All too soon, breathless but
exhilarated, I arrived at Louise’s house. Her Mum had prepared a treat of fairy
bread,
a
spread of margarine, sprinkled with hundreds
and thousands
on slices of bread with the crusts cut
off. Once we had eaten, Louise produced a balloon and we went
out
into the back yard as she blew it up.
She fastened the top so we could play catch -
the first one to drop the balloon was ‘out.’ Louise’s family were the only
people I knew who had their very own swimming pool. It wasn’t just a little
paddling pool either but a proper sized pool, deep enough to actually dive into
and swim lengths. As we played with the balloon, I peered longingly at the
pool, the sun’s rays glistened on its surface,
the water was sparkling,
it
seemed to
be
call
ing
me, inviting
me to jump into it.
I didn’t want to ask but I
wished Louise would hurry up and say the sentence I was dying to hear, “Do you
want to go for a swim?”
Finally
she said those magic words and trying not to sound desperate, I
casually
replied, “Oh, yeah, okay but only if
you
want to.” In fact I wanted to shout,
“YES PLEASE.” Changing into our togs we spent the rest of the hot afternoon
swimming and splashing in the refreshing, cool water.
As
a teenager, the 80’s rocked for me,
wonder
woman
was my idol and I was in love with life. I was crazy about Bruce
Springsteen and was absolutely captivated by the man and his moves when
watching his music videos on TV. My favourite food, which no one in the family
could understand was marmite and chip sandwiches. I adored the movie
E.T.
and cried buckets when he finally
got to go home.
But
our family home that had once echoed with the noisy sounds of children’s
laughter, squabbles and tears was now quiet as the year I turned eighteen, my
two older siblings had
flown the coop
leaving
me the only child left at home. Andrew
,
who was
twenty-four was already married to Tanya and they lived in their own house.
Sarah,
who was twenty-two, was engaged to a nice enough bloke and they lived not far
away in a simple flat. With their wedding day looming, they were planning to
move out of Auckland once married. I met up with her every Wednesday at the
gym, we loved participating in the latest exercise craze – jazzercise. Although
we sometimes bickered as sisters do, we were now each involved in our own
lives.
I had heard all of the clichés about people
from India – they were called, amongst other things
curry muncher
’
s
. As far as I
knew Indian people owned all of the dairies or corner shops and all of the
fruit shops all over New Zealand and were bright, happy
people who were
highly respected.
My
Mum often sent me to the local dairy to buy a loaf of bread or a bottle of
milk. As I entered the shop, the pungent smell of spicy food being cooked
beyond the shop counter, would immediately hit my nose. As I moved towards the
counter the shop keeper would emerge from another room, wiping his hands on a
cloth as he hurriedly approached the register. Clutching the one dollar note my
Mother had entrusted me with tightly in my hand, I apprehensively faced him.
“Yes
Miss?” the brown skinned man asked in his funny accent.
I
was hesitant to speak at first to this overwhelming person.
“A
loaf of white bread please.” I finally managed to timidly say as I handed over
my note.
“Yes
Miss, certainly Miss, thank you Miss.” the shop keeper replied
while
moving his head from side to side as he handed me
the bread and my change.
A
person from another culture was still a relatively new concept in New Zealand.
Immigrants were mostly British or Dutch, the
ir skin colour was the
same as everyone else but Indians stood out. They
were not
white
. If your neighbour or
work colleague was Indian, it didn’t mean you had to associate with them. An
ignorance of each other’s culture and understanding was evident.
You
were polite to them sure and said a friendly ‘hello’ if that person sat next to
you on the bus but nobody
wanted to
take the time to
appreciate each other’s ways.
Indian
women wore strange clothes and what were those bizarre things Indian men wore
wrapped around their heads? Or, Indian men resembled Gandhi – you know, short,
thin, balding and wearing little round glasses perched on their nose. I had
seen strange pictures of people from India doing Yoga and remembered seeing a
man in a Yoga book poised in a bizarre position with his leg wrapped around his
neck. And what on earth was a guru?
I
didn’t know any better than to listen to these clichés from my childhood. There
was never a time when I had, had a real conversation with an Indian person to
know any different. Although I do recall one Indian boy during my school years
but I had never spoken to him, only seeing him sometimes in the playground.
Oh
the excitement! A school disco! It was my last few weeks of intermediate
school, which meant our last chance to be
kids
as the next year we were to join the
cool
teenagers or so I thought
,
at high
school.
As
twelve year olds, Louise and I had talked for weeks about this boy or that boy,
would he ask us to dance? Mum had sewn an outfit for me to wear, a lavender
sleeveless shirt with a matching skirt, when I did a twirl, the skirt lifted
right up in a circle around my waist, it was choice! The night of the dance
arrived, Louise and I were buzzing with excitement as we arrived together at
the decorated school hall. The music was loud but as we gazed around, to our
disappointment the glum-faced boys were sitting on one side of the room and the
girls on the other. As we joined the solemn looking girls we realised no one
was brave enough to make the first move, to venture across the dance floor to
ask the other person to dance. Eventually with the teacher’s encouragement we
did
all get up but still
,
the girls stayed huddled
dancing
with the girls
and the boys with the boys. Finally a boy managed to manoeuvre himself near
enough to a girl to claim he was dancing with her. This gave way for everyone
else to follow.
This
was the same in society there was nothing wrong with another race, they weren’t
sick or unapproachable - it was just having the courage to break down those
barriers.