Pakshi's Story - Part V (The End)

Passing back through the archway, Pakshi quietly thanked the old, cross-legged lady in faded pink with a small bow, as if that was the signal for the spell to be broken – and Pakshi broke into immediate chatter about our next stop in the temple: the communal eating hall.
Along the one side of the small hall was a row of trestle tables, laden all along its length with steel pots and dishes, each manned by an oldish or ancient Indian man. Pakshi handed me a steel, compartmented tray, a spoon and a little see-through plastic mug. As each man dished up his fare onto my plate, I was met with a heavy, suspicious glare – each one slightly different from the next -- as if they were silently asking: “White, Christian woman, why are you here to eat our food that has been blessed by our priest?” I was asking myself the same question – guiltily, embarrassed. Their eyes were so hard. It felt terrible to be so obviously scorned and unwanted.
Sitting on the floor with our food and hot, sweet tea, Pakshi quickly explained we needed to face a way – that is, in the direction of ‘the great book’ in the hall we’d visited before. The younger women and their little, noisy children smiled openly at me, as though we’d just passed each other in the street – and I wondered what it was that made the older generation seem to hard and hurt. Pakshi tore off a piece of still-warm chapatti and showed me how to grasp it in my fingers to dexterously mop up the spicy, yellow lentils. She ate quickly, habitually, while I laboured slowly over the mopping and soaking up of the different glowingly spicy vegetables and sauces which I gratefully diluted in plain yoghurt. (While I write this, I now suddenly remember that one older man at the food counter did smile at me: a magnificent, happy smile that seemed to apologise for everyone else – making his white, waxed moustache twitch as his face stretched to accommodate his smile!) Next on my plate was a small portion of pale, runny rice pudding worlds apart from the almost chokingly sweet one of my youth – and scented with the barest hint of rosewater. Thank goodness I had a spoon to eat this with!
Pakshi clangingly stacked our plates against the far wall with all the others before we headed out to the reception area to get ready to leave. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to be leaving this place – but then, it was one of those experiences that change the very make-up of who you are. What I learned, quite harshly, was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of mistrust and contempt – and all because I was not one of them. And yet, as soon as we stepped out of that temple, the roles were suddenly reversed and I was the ‘normal’ one again – and no-one would dare look at me as they had in the temple. Their temple was their sanctuary in more than just a religious way. It was the one place where they were back in India. Where they could BE Indian without the West interfering. And, I know that by being there, I was like a finger of that white interference twisting its way into their sacred India. I understood their hard, hurt eyes now.
Back on the streets of Southall, we headed towards a well-known Indian supermarket that Pakshi says was set up by an Indian man who won the lottery! Along the way, we were accosted by glittering silks and sequinned shoes that overflowed from the interiors of the shops, the sounds of sharp bartering going on inside. There were sweet stalls selling intriguing shapes, colours and flavours of traditional Indian confectionery that we stopped and gawked at – Pakshi explaining how each was made and the ingredients before hurrying me along to the next shop (of which there were so many) which sold all their jewellery for 1 pound each!! Needless to say, each trip to Southall saw my handbag full of bangles, necklaces and earrings – what more could a girl want? The jewellery wasn’t of the best quality, but it was wildly fascinating to me because it wasn’t Accessorize or Topshop: it was all the way from India and very obviously, exotically so!
The supermarket was an adventure in itself with its heavily layered scents and aromas, brightly colourful packaging and menagerie of Indian sounds: questions being asked, instructions shouted, Hindi music dancing through it all like a thousand fluorescent butterflies. Oil was sold in big, yellow plastic containers the size of a very thick briefcase. Sacks of basmati rice leaned against each other like old, fat people. Pakshi dragged me excitedly to the spice section where she started pointing out the various spices I needed to buy: ground cumin, green cardamoms, black cardamoms, garam masala, ground coriander… My mouth watered crazily and my eyes felt like they might pop out of my head! And, amazingly, it was all so very, very cheap! I left with two heavy plastic packets of all the spices I could ever need – my favourite purchase being a smallish white plastic jar with blue Indian script listing its ingredients: it was a ready-made concoction of the five chai spices! Pakshi had seen it and gasped with being pleased to find it on the shelves for me, saying (with that cheeky wink of hers) she could hardly imagine me doing it her way, rolling pin and all – and all I’d need to do was put some of this straight into my tea! (I’ve guarded that little jar jealously while I was in South Africa the last two years, only deigning to share it with my mom. On the way to the airport in May, she said, “Oh darling, you forgot to pack your bottle of chai! Shall we go back and get it?”
“No, no. It’s okay. Let’s just get to the airport now.”
You see, I had two thoughts: one selfish, one not. Firstly, after my expired passport debacle and being separated from Craig for a month, I didn’t want to jeopardise ANY chance of getting to the UK. And secondly, I thought it would be good for me to leave the chai for my mom so she could enjoy it and think about me each time she uses it. (Though knowing my mom, she will have put it aside to post to me, or put it back in the pantry awaiting my return home…)

Pakshi's Story - Part IV: Southall, Sikhs & Scarves

The first adventure Pakshi and I shared was to Southall, at her suggestion. We met at Paddington, wrapped up in our thick, wool coats and scarves, and clumped along in our heavy winter boots to the train bound for this little Indian kingdom of temples, bazaars and restaurants. We complained about the dreadful English cold that ate into our bones, and how the sunless days turned our skins, robustly tanned since childhood, into nothing more than translucent white maps of blue veining. Our winters back home were almost like the English summers, and our entire 15 minute train journey to Southall was devoted to discussing the overheated English shops which blasted you with stifling, stale air which turned your layers and layers of clothing into nothing more than obsolete and the ensuing claustrophobic struggle to free yourself. She brought up our initial meeting at the Home Office, telling me how she just knew I could not have been English by the very fact that I warmly extended myself into more than a courteous hello (and no doubt, too, by the fact that I was there to apply for something a British citizen certainly wouldn’t need!) Obviously flattered by this, we thrashed out this peculiar English penchant for cold reserve – especially toward foreigners. Having both come from cultures with sad and violent histories of racial/class discrimination, we were both acutely sensitive in our assessment of the English’s reaction to us, but it is something I have discussed with a number of South Africans and English, but to which the responses have been incredibly varied so as to not help me reach any sort of understanding at all, except that it seems to be a highly personal and individualised thing. I think that perhaps it is rooted in a person’s particular experience of foreigners in living in their country. For example, my neighbour, Maureen, is a lovely, gentle and intelligent lady in her early 60s – but had the rather unlucky experience of working in the same office of a young South African woman who arrogantly and loudly told anyone and everyone that the only reason she was in England was to be awarded British citizenship – as though the actual living in England were a trauma and trial to be endured for this particular prize. What a bloody cheek! I felt embarrassed and defensive when Maureen tole me this story – and because this girl behaved so appallingly, there was nothing I could say except blush in agreement. To make matters worse, the girl would natter deliberately in loud Afrikaans to the young South African psychiatrist in whose office they were secretaries – causing each group to be isolated in or outside of this language barrier. “And yet”, Maureen says, “I felt no resentment at all towards the young man as a South African. He was an excellent psychiatrist and exhibited none of the ugly arrogance of the secretary.” And so, in this one little story, it can be seen that the problem is not so much to do with being South African, as much as the South African’s attitude toward England and their reasons for being here.

When I first moved to the UK in 2003, it was supposedly only for my ex-husband to attempt the Olympic Games as a British citizen. After four years, it became painfully obvious he never intended for us to return home. He had a bizarre loyalty to a country he wasn’t even born in and had only briefly visited once or twice before in his young lifetime. (I didn’t share his warped sense of national allegiance and returned home without him - for good, in 2006, just three days short of attending the ceremony where I was to be awarded my British citizenship, having written a ridiculous little test I apparently wrote in the fastest time they had seen and paid obscene amounts of money to the government – but I had decided that breathing African air was more important than this sought after document – a decision I have since come to regret… The laws changed while I was back in Cape Town between 2006 and 2008 ; I now have another 5 years to go before I can think of applying for British citizenship again. This time, however, I am more concerned about attaining citizenship – the main reason being that I am in the middle of my first pregnancy and suddenly having a family’s future to consider rules out the faithful love I feel for my country which seems never to stop struggling with so many turmoils. For the first time, I find myself among the ranks of foreigners who are seeking some kind of asylum and financial refuge.

Hmmm… that was quite a digression! Where were we? Ah – Southall! Alighting at the station, we were immediately swamped with the surreal sense of being in another, more exotic country. Darker skins in so many shades ranging from sun-starved caramel to the richest darkness shimmered inbetween tightly wrapped dark blue turbans, thick black beards, sparkling brown eyes, orange chiffon swirls of sari and fuschi, turquoise, emerald, gold… The street outside the busy station was even busier – cramped with hurrying pedestrians and hooting, tooting cars and taxis. Descending the little hill from the station, Pakshi pointed out the various temples explaining the religious and cultural differences, saying she considered herself a Sikh and that, for lunch, we would be eating inside the temple she worshipped at whenever she came to Southall. It was not so much the free fare as the exciting and novel experience she wanted to feed me. Like many white South Africans, I have been a Christian my whole life – and the thought of eating the blessed food in this alien temple felt exceedingly uncomfortable – even unnerving, maybe even ... a little frightening. I suppose I was afraid of the reactions I’d provoke. The furthest away from a regular, suburban church I’d ventured was on a primary school outing. We explored an old mosque in the historically rich Bo Kaap area in Cape Town – feeling only the tiniest threat of awkwardness at the outskirts of my fascination – protected by my identity as a gawking spectator as in a museum or curiosity shop. No-one looked at us through slanted eyes – and probably largely because during its 'off hours', the mosque operated as museum of Cape Malay culture and was mostly deserted by worshippers! This penetration of mine into a Sikh temple where I most certainly did not belong made me feel more afraid and awkward than I am able to admit… Pakshi merely laughed at me in her wise way and led me by the hand through the big, metal security gates which were dwarfed before the colossal, white marble temple which glistened luminously in the pale winter sun. Apparently the marble had been shipped laboriously but faithfully all the way from India, costing the Sikh community in Southall an astronomical 17 million GBP.

Inside, the temperature confused me – being too clammily hot but also cold, austere. Pakshi’s voice dropped to a reverent hush as she pointed to the wicker basket overflowing with scarves, miming the action of choosing one and placing it over my head. Burrowing into the top layer of scarves, I found a translucent pink scarf amongst a sea of thick, navy ones, polka dots, striped ones, sheer silk ones and colourful woven prints. Amongst the bustle of people buzzing quietly around us, Pakshi stood in front of me, arranging the scarf proudly over my head, wrapping it deftly around my neck, letting the ends fall gently over the backs of my shoulders. A satisfied nod later and I was following her into a large, brightly lit cloakroom lined with pigeonholes and lockers glaringly bare of any locks. We wrestled our boots off, leaving our thick, woolly socks on, and stuffed them into the same locker along with our handbags. (I didn’t want to ask if they’d be safe or not.) At the top of a very wide flight of white marble steps veined with the same grey as the clouds outside, we were met by an old woman rocking meditatively, cross-legged on the floor. Swathed in a threadbare pale pink sari, she barely registered our arrival except for reaching with a practised hand into the bowl to pinch off a piece of the pale brown, sweet dough for Pakshi as she kneeled before her. The quiet exchange of melodious words between them sounded like an oft-said round of blessings, but I couldn’t be sure because I was under the spell of the awed spectator, locked in deep fascination at every new detail and sound that unfolded itself so generously before me. Because I also felt a sense of shame at being so noticeably alien, I kept my eyes pressed down onto the once plush red carpet as I trailed Pakshi up the aisle between what I could sense were many worshippers on either side of the aisle. I prayed they were too absorbed in their own prayers to notice my interloping intrusion into their sacred place, unable to bring myself to look to my right or my left. A loud, praying voice was transmitted via surround-sound through the cavernous hall over what sounded like giant speakers sunk deep into the cold, stone walls. The warbling, rumbling incantations seeped into my bones and made my brain hum with its hypnotism. Up ahead I discovered the focus of worship (and the source of The Voice) – a large, square tent dazzled amongst spotlights and acres of luxurious brocade and glimmering gold fringing. A large, turbaned priest swayed, mesmerised, before an enormous and ancient looking book. It was before this man and book that Pakshi kneeled and kissed the floor with her forehead. I felt perplexed and ashamed of my unfair witnessing of this intimate moment, wishing I’d rather waited for her outside.

(More to follow very soon - promise!)