An assignment to Papatoetoe always excites me. It feels like a visit to a part of Model Town in Jalandhar when you visit your ancestral home in Punjab. Model Town, Jalandhar—a place where the aroma of fresh puris can make you ditch your pasta plans at Chatter Box, where glittering shoes line fancy shop windows, and vibrant dupattas fill grand showrooms.
As you reminisce about the old days in Jalandhar Model Town, riding a Suzuki Scooter with your sisters, you look around and realise that everything in Papatoetoe is the same—except it’s not. Every shopkeeper is watchful. Every mother clutches her child’s hand, even when they’re not on the road. Few people carry bags, and most prefer to walk in groups. Rarely do you see anyone walking alone after sunset, just as one Punjabi uncle warned me last winter.
“It’s not because you’re a girl, beta, but it’s late. Nobody goes out alone in Papatoetoe that late,” he cautioned.
I laughed. “Haha. Uncle, mai Delhi se hu (Uncle, I'm from Delhi). I know what unsafe is.”
But looking back, I realise I was wrong. I’m not in Delhi. Why should I accept that it’s okay for a place in Auckland to feel unsafe?
Kolmar Road in Papatoetoe—the very place where 50-year-old Gurdeep Singh was attacked in June 2024 with a hammer on his head in his jewellery shop while the robbers attempted to steal—reminds you that this is serious. It’s a serious place with serious questions.
Retailers in Papatoetoe have been vocal in opposing Justice Minister Paul Goldsmith’s announcement regarding self-defence rights. In the announcement made last week, the government said it will empower retail store owners with more rights to self defence and clearly spell out what staff can and cannot do in case of an attack.
As I step onto the street, I instinctively look for Pooja Jewellers. But I can’t find it.
Once a bustling and open shop, its signboard now carries a deserted, defeated look. I linger in front of the closed shop, unwilling to accept its absence—until I realise the very storefront I’ve been ignoring for over a minute is the remodelled Pooja Jewellers.
More security. More grills. Two gates.
“Press the button. Push when you hear the buzzer,” reads a sign on what appears to be a shut shop.
I press it, unsure if the shop is even open. The buzzer sounds, and I spot a staff member gesturing for me to push the gate.
I enter, and the door behind me locks.
I stand in what feels like a witness box.
Except, this witness box is different – in the front is another grilled look. I start looking for another buzzer to push.
Trapped between grilled ‘jail doors,’ I wonder—do prisoners feel like this all the time?
“Push the second door and come in,” a staff member instructs, smiling as she opens it.
I step inside, relieved to leave the ‘jail’—the buffer zone whose purpose I barely understand at this point.
And there stands Gurdeep Singh. Happy and well. A stark contrast from the last time I saw him—on CCTV footage, lying on the ground, clutching his head as his daughter rushed to his aid.
“We’ve put in iron grills this time. Iron is stronger than steel,” he says, after I introduced myself.
Something tells me he sensed my unease at walking through what felt like a jail, and he felt the need to explain.
At least five customers browse the shop, all seemingly unfazed by the new security measures. They know why this was necessary. They accept it.
The space feels smaller. Two-thirds of it is occupied by the entrance’s security buffer.
Holding two bags and a tripod, I find myself wishing for a seat while speaking with Gurdeep over the jewellery counter. But I don’t push. I understand his reservations.
Only after an hour—once the crowd in the shop thins—does Gurdeep invite me further inside for chai.
As we discuss retailers rejecting the government’s proposal, my eyes keep darting to a staff member stationed behind a window, watching the street with unwavering focus.
There’s only so much you can do to defend yourself in the moment of an attack. But there’s no limit to how much security you can install to prevent one. Even if it means turning a jewellery shop into a fortress.
At this point, trust is a luxury the Singh family cannot afford.
As I prepare to leave to talk to other retailers about the government’s move, I ask if I can leave my laptop bag behind. It seems like the safest option. By now, I’ve become one of them.
Making my way through the retail stores of Papatoetoe, I enter Sparkles Jewellers.
Gurmit Singh’s shop entrance is no different. In fact, it’s even more fortified.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Gurmit, adorned in rings and gold jewellery, asks while offering me chai.
I haven’t.
From the very entrance, the entire shop is lined with jail-like grills. Every item—from the smallest ring to the grandest haar (necklace)—is displayed behind golden-painted bars. Golden, to soften the shock, I believe.
Photo: Sparkles Jewellers, Papatoetoe/ Urjita Bhardwaj
It’s only because Gurdeep accompanies me that I’m allowed into Sparkle Jewellers, with a camera and tripod.
But my eyes aren’t drawn to the jewellery—only to the gleaming, golden bars.
Gurmit is finally convinced to speak with me. As he steps out from behind the counter, he locks the gate behind him. Checks twice. Then joins me.
“Gurdeep Ji’s case shook all of us. I check the lock so many times, even when I’m inside the shop. It’s become a habit,” he admits.
We discuss why he believes the government’s announcement does nothing to protect retailers, according to Gurmit.
On my way back, I also speak with restaurant owners who oppose the announcement, saying they won’t put their staff at risk.
As I leave, carrying my camera and tripod over my shoulder to meet Gurdeep again, I press the buzzer. I’m used to the drill by now. Through the window, I smile and wave at the staff—they know me by now.
“Hey, hey! Click my picture!”
A voice behind me from the street sends a chill down my spine. A thousand warnings about never making eye contact with strangers in this area rush through my head. My grip tightens on the camera—I can afford to lose the tripod, but not the camera.
I don’t look back.
Inside, the staff member who was smiling at me just seconds ago hesitates, her hand hovering over the buzzer.
Our eyes lock in uncertainty.
This time, it’s my belongings versus hers.