Tag Archives: people

The little Indian woman

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“We don’t eat wog food,” Rachel’s mother spat. “You should know better than to bring that poisoned rubbish into this house!”

For years Rachel had watched the small, dark woman with the red dot on her forehead, tightly wrapped in her bright coloured, exotic clothing, as she would make the short walk to her husband’s workplace.

There would always be a stacked silver canister-looking thing in her hand. Rachel didn’t know it was called a tiffin carrier but she did know it held the hot lunch of the woman’s husband.

On more than one occasion, Rachel had placed herself on the footpath strategically at 11.50am so the woman would pass her.

She would always look at Rachel and give a slight smile and almost imperceptible nod of her head. Rachel barely noticed these as her attention would time and again be drawn to the metal food containers, captivated by the strange but enticing smell coming from them. It always made her mouth water which was a new sensation for her. 

Her mouth never watered at the routine fried-to-death meat and boiled-to-within-an-inch-of-mush three veg her mother would serve every night.

But young Rachel longed to know the contents of the container but dared not look the woman in the eye. 

Over time Rachel had come to realise the woman was Indian though her and her husband were often referred to as “paki” or “wog’ or some other name intended to dehumanise them to any impressionable young children and make the adults feel better about their lives.

Rachel’s mother was particularly venomous towards the woman, while her father’s anger was reserved for the husband who, he would frequently remind them, had “taken a job from a hard-working Aussie”.

For as long as Rachel could remember, it had been made clear to her she should have nothing to do with the few foreigners who lived scattered around their small but growing rural neighbourhood. Neighbourly-ness was to be reserved for the Australian born and bred only.

But as Rachel grew older, she started to question this more and more. As far as Rachel knew, the Indian woman and her husband had never hurt anyone. Yes, there were plenty of rumours they ate cats and dogs and some other unspeakable things.

However this so was at odds with the timid woman Rachel saw each day making the walk to her husband’s workplace every day – regardless of how hot or rainy or cold it was – she started to wonder more and more about the woman.

When word started to filter out that the little Indian woman was taking lunch orders from her husband’s workmates, there was quite the kerfuffle in Rachel’s house. Her parents were outright furious friends and neighbours would open themselves up to being poisoned or “who-knows-what-else”.

Rachel’s parent’s anger didn’t little, if anything, to deter the food orders.

The little Indian woman soon found herself running quite a business as she also started taking orders for evening meals. Word had spread through the town that the food was incredible and affordable and different.

She was so successful, the little Indian woman soon had another Indian woman working with her to keep up with the orders.

It wasn’t long before Rachel’s growing curiosity overtook her parents strong warnings and she timidly climbed the stairs of the little Indian woman’s house, the smells wafting through taking Rachel to far away places she could never have dreamt existed.

The little Indian woman was pleasant and welcoming of this neighbour she had seen on the street many times as she took her husband his lunch. The Indian woman wondered why she would always stand there looking into the distance, seeming to ignore her.

Rachel explained this was her first time and she wasn’t sure what to order and was nervous. The little Indian woman sat the young teenage Rachel down offering her a taste plate of a few of the meals she had prepared – butter chicken, lamb korma, even a goat curry.

But it was the breads she loved the most – the fluffy naan bread, the roti, the papadums.

For weeks Rachel would sneak to the little Indian woman’s house every chance she could to absorb the flavours and smell and the love the food had been prepared with. 

She soaked it all in and soon her and the Indian woman were having animated conversations. The woman’s head would bobble from side to side with as much regularity as Rachel would nod her head up and down in agreement, both never realising how similar their gestures were.

After a few months, Rachel felt compelled to share her incredible discovery with her parents and took home some naan bread and a very mild butter chicken – the mildest and tastiest dish she could think of which her parents may enjoy.

“We don’t eat wog food,” her mother spat. “You should know better than to bring that poisoned rubbish into this house!” 

And with that, she scooped it up and threw it in the bin, yelling at her husband they needed to go to the pub to get a steak otherwise they would go hungry.

Rachel’s parents never tried Indian food.

 Rachel moved to India.

The mobile Rocky Horror Show

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Have you ever had one of those days where you wonder if you have woken up in a parallel universe? Where all kinds of weird inexplicably happens to you at every turn? I did one day last week, but thankfully it was all kinds of good weird. And I still can’t get my head around it.
But of all the weird to arrest me on this particular day, nothing could match not just my bus trip into the city, but the inescapable feeling I had accidentally entered a mobile version of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
I had intended to walk into town for my appointment – in Queensland “town” is used to describe anything close to a CBD. In my case, I live within walking distance of the city of Brisbane and it is an easy and pleasant walk along the river. But as soon as I left my building, the suffocating heat of an October heat wave day swept over me. I was determined though and did the mental coin toss – do I walk into town using the main roads or the river walk. In this heat it was a no brainer.
I crossed the road to get to the river quickly but found myself within seconds at a bus stop. Every step was hard in the heat and as I spied a bus trundling down the main road, I decided what the hell and opted for the bus.
But as the bus edged closer to me, I noticed it was an Express bus and as such would not stop at my stop. On a whim I stuck out my hand to see what would happen and the bus did indeed stop. Surprised I climbed aboard to hear the jovial giggling of the bus driver announce “I know I’m not supposed to stop here, but I stop where I want to”. The driver followed this with a totally bizarre laugh which caught my attention more for how out of place it was than anything else.
There were a smattering of other passengers on the bus and they all seemed to be egging on the driver who then announced that rather than head straight into town, had decided to detour to the cultural precinct. It was not a major detour but was quite unprecedented in my bus travelling days in Brisbane. The other passengers on the bus giggled away and kept egging on the driver.
“What the hell is going on” kept wandering through my head. Then I felt a pair of eyes bearing down on me. I looked to my right to see a large, dark woman probably in her 40s, staring intently at me. I smiled. She did not. Just then I felt a shudder behind me. I looked around and saw an older lady, perhaps in her 60s violently shaking the seat in front of her. Okay, this was getting really weird. She glared at me, challengingly. I increased the volume on my iPod.
I had thought or hoped the bus driver was joking when he announced we would be touring the cultural precinct of Brisbane. He was not. The bus turned the corner onto the bridge to take us on to the other side of the river. The guy seated closest to the driver asked if this was part of the normal route. He was told no. They both giggled.
I tried to smell for gas fumes in the bus to see if this explained the behaviour of those I was encountering. But I could detect no such smell.
I looked to the back of the bus and saw an indiscript bunch of people except for a teenager who was rocking out to his own music and smiling in an altered kind of way.
When the bus pulled into the cultural centre, I decided enough was enough and disembarked. It meant a small walk into town but it was just too much weirdness for me. I noticed a few other passengers from the back of the bus took the same action. Truly, I am still scratching my head about that one.
I figured the bus trip was a one off incident but that same afternoon, I had three separate, random people approach me in the main shopping area and tell me how good my hair looked. I have very closely shaved hair which is rarely worthy of comment.
I ordered a coffee and the guy serving me noticed the bottle of water in my hands was near empty. He offered to fill it up for me. It was a really nice gesture which I accepted, but again, weird.
I then watched an elderly man order what was clearly his first taste of Indian food as he was totally flummoxed when ordering and settled on “just something which isn’t too spicy”. About half an hour later I saw the same man trying to order an ice cream. He seemed overwhelmed by the choices on offer and opened his wallet where he slowly stroked a yellowing and ageing photo of an old woman. He mouthed something to the face in his wallet and this seemed to fortify him enough to enable him to proceed with his ice cream order. I decided the photo was of his wife who I assume was dead. I could be completely wrong but this man seemed so intent on trying new things; I dunno, there was just something about his manner, a sadness which was striking.
It was a strange afternoon all round. I don’t understand it, in the same way I fail to understand much of what has happened to me in the last year. But I am glad that the weirdness was generally good and largely amusing. And I am glad I can still be surprised by life.