Husband’s third day in US.
“Slept well, finally”, he yawned.
“Good. I heated water in the microwave, for tea”, wife said.
“I like pan made tea, don’t you?”
“Yeah, may be later; can you help me with washing these dishes please.”
He hesitated, then walked over to the microwave slowly, “let me have tea first.” Continue reading
Neal had a biology exam that day, right after the lunch hour. So, he was in a rush from the very minute he walked into the cafeteria.
The place was crowded more than usual, it seemed. Looking for a place to sit, so he could gulp down the chicken burger, he scanned all the sitting area. That’s when he saw an empty spot next to her.
She was sitting alone, lost in her own world; eating and reading at the same time.
Their previous interactions were brief, nothing more than ‘hello’, ‘hi’ or ‘how are you’? He mostly saw her in the library, sitting in a corner, minding her own business, always busy with her books. Sometime she would sit alone but most of the time, her American friends surrounded her.
There were only a few Indian girls on the college campus, Henna was one of them.
“Hi Henna”, he said approaching the vacant seat.
“Hi, how are you,” she said with a slight smile. Her eyes went back to the book after a quick greeting.
He started to dig into his burger and fried. She kept reading, and eating.
“What are you reading?” he asked, trying to break the silence.
“Chumma”, she paused, “stuff”, she added without lifting her head.
All confused, he waited but a silence followed. ‘What kind of stuff that might be?’ he thought to him self – ‘chumma stuff!’ Continue reading
His house sits in one of the most upper-scale and affluent residential area of Chicago suburbs. As I walked inside the double-door entrance with marble sidings, I quickly realized that the inside of the mansion is even more impressive and pretty that outside view. There are two separate staircases leading to the upper storey; there are multiple bathrooms on the main floor; the open ceiling concept has a catwalk that overlooks the family room; the kitchen alone is bigger than decent size luxury apartment…
If you look at the size of house, you would think that some millionaire lives here. Maybe, he is a millionaire; it is hard to guess his wealth out of his humble disposition and very friendly nature.
After a brief chit-chat, I asked him about his occupation. I knew he was not working much currently, but I was very curious to find out where he got the big bucks to build that big mansion.
“One second, be right back”, he briefly went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of hot tea – steam still floating over the edges.
“It was a good job, a very good job. Only 15 minutes drive from the house,” he reflected on his past occultation, the cup of tea resting on his thigh as he leaned back in the easy-chair.
For 15 years, I found out, Ramesh had worked for an electronics company as a quality controller. He does not have any special technical education –engineering degree or anything else of the sort.
“I started on the assembly line, but I was promoted to the supervisor within years”, there is a happiness in his voice as he walks down the memory lane.
“Everybody appreciated what I did for the company. I used to get letters of recognition all the way from Japan – our upper management headquarters.”
“So, what happened?” I asked curiously.
“Outsourcing!” he did not feel any further need to explain. But then, after a brief pause, he spoke with a sad tone, his voice lowered, “they did not need us anymore, they found cheaper ways to do what we did, in other countries!”
“Oh, I see!” I did not know what else to say.
For the past 4 years Ramesh has struggled to find a decent job. Most of the jobs that need his skills are outsourced. After trying for years, he gave up on the job market, and tried to do what one of his best friends does – real estate agent. Continue reading
The dusk crawls on the suburban town of Fairfield. The evening chill of February is starting to feel on his wrinkled hands.
Arjun sits on the park bench, watching over his grand-daughter playing on the swings nearby.
“Let us go now, Pooja” he paused, “It’s time to go home”. He speaks with a broken English accent. Over the years he has adapted to the foreign tongue, the only language his grand kids understand.
“Not yet Grandpa! Can you push my swing please – one more time,” says the little girl with big black eyes, as she struggle with the slow-down of the swing.
“We have to go now, Pooja; the sun is going down.”
“It’s still light. One more push grandpa, please!”
Her delay tactics continue; she winning the every round of the bargain to go home.
After a few more swings and a long bargaining, they finally walk off the park. She skips along the sidewalk; their long silhouettes dragging behind them.
“Mom said you are making us a big kite. When can we fly it?”
“Soon. As soon as the winter is over and spring arrives.”
“Cool!”
“Look at the beautiful sunset, beta!” he points to the sun on the far western horizon as they turn the corner, their two story bungalow within the sight now.
She casually looks at the sunset. Unimpressed, she skips along. Continue reading
He bows; reaches down to touch his grandma’s feet – to show respect.
She puts her right hand on his head. Her wrinkled hands shiver, the tears moisten their eyes. They embrace and hug outside the gate of the haweli. The driver drags two suitcases, from the trunk of the car, into the house.
“How was the flight?” she asks in a weak but firm voice.
She speaks in pure Punjabi – the only language she has ever spoken in her last 80 years of a well-lived life. She has not been to big cities, unless to attend some wedding, or a funeral. Her daily world is mostly limited to the few streets of her village, or up and down the family farm.
She is glowing with the excitement of seeing her grandson again, after so many years.
“The flight was good”, he replied without thinking. He looks around to take a stock of the dramatically changed neighborhood.
“You look old. The 5 years have aged you more than a decade”
“I know, maanji” That is what he always called her. In fact that is what the whole village calls her – Maanji, the mother.
She inquired about health, and the rest of extended family abroad. He, in return, talked about trivial stuff – like how the peepul tree near the pond has grown so old, how the streets are paved now….how it is so foggy even in the middle of the day…
They eventually got inside the house. The servant pulled a cot out of the veranda, into the dim sunlight breaking through the thinning fog. The winter day of February seemed warm – as if the chill has suddenly disappeared.
“so what do you do in America”. She asked again, the same question she has asked before on the phone many time.
“ I am .umm….Engineer”, he gave the same answer he had always given.
“I know, you told me that before. But, what do you do?”
“I work with the computers”
“How big are the computers in America? The one our Jeeta has is smaller than even a television.”
“They are small, small like that foot-rest”, he pointed to the small foot-stool next to the cot.
She got silent, perhaps thinking, or may be imagining him working with a small computer
She paused, and then spoke in a subdued tone, “After spending all your life in dorms and now abroad, you could not find a better job?” Continue reading
Yes, it happened; it was bound to happen. I ran out of ideas.
I ran out of ideas to write about.
Not that my previous ideas were too special or too brilliant. Even the brilliant idea from last night – writing about a new-comer’s experiences – was very ordinary.
She is new student I recently ran into. From her experiences in America, I was hoping to get some new material for my blog.
“So how do you like in America?” I asked eagerly, hoping for a long story.
“Ah, it’s not all that bad, just about the same as I expected,” Dismissively, she said in a monotone.
“So, what is it that you don’t like it here, or dislike the most,” I rephrased the question, hoping to get something more.
“It is not much different; about the same as I expected,”
She was not helping out.
I paused. It cannot be; it is a new country, a new place all across the ocean.
“How about the language?” I pressed on.
“No, I speak English at home in Bangalore. I can speak many languages, but English is what we use the most.”
“Wow”, more disappointed than surprised, I did not know what else to say.
I was getting nothing’ no ideas, no new observations from the eyes of a new immigrant to USA.
“I liked the chicken burger”, she said with a light touch of satisfaction in her voice.
“What chicken burger?”
“The one from McDonalds, we just had, with French fries”
“Oh yeah, you like that kind of fast food?”
“I don’t like it, I love it!” she likes to say it.
“So, you don’t get it back home?” I have not been back to India for many years.
“We do; you don’t know? We have everything there, McDonalds too?” Continue reading
The Air Canada airline captain continued with his announcement:
“….. We have started our descent into Toronto Pearson airport….Please have your Customs and Immigration papers ready along with your passports….”
An Indian flight attendant, who knew by now which passengers didn’t understand English, walked over to Nehal and his wife Geeta, and translated the announcement.
He had already checked his passport and rest of their possessions. He repeated this ritual of self-insurance many times during the flight. It was his habit – to worry, to double check everything and check again.
“Look outside Geet”, he nudged his wife, probably 10th time in last 6 hours announcing the same observation, “We are flaying over the clouds.” He had always called her Geet, instead of Geeta. She did not like flying at all. Half scared and half asleep, she ignored him.
“I always knew our son will do great”, he said, trying to start a conversation, his voice filled with pride,
“What is great about dividing up the family across the oceans? We get together only when someone is getting married or when someone dies” she quipped
“Raj is probably waiting for us at the airport already,” he continued, ignoring her response.
Nehal, a middle class farmer had spent a better part of his married life raising his only son. He always wanted Raj to be ‘something big’, something that he couldn’t be – may be a doctor, or an engineer, or a captain…he could never make up his mind. His favorite time-pass was day dreaming, day dreaming about his son being a ‘big shot’.
“I hope he is in good health, he used to get so sick when he was little” Geeta said.
“He was always in good health; you just ran to the doctors even if he would sneeze.” He said with a chuckle.
“A mother’s heart…” her unfinished sentence was so complete; he knew what she meant, and how much they adored Raj as a little kid.
To this day, both of them remember all the doctors’ visits they made for Raj, when he was little, some in the middle of the nights. She used to pray all the time while waiting for the doctor; and he used to watch the doctors, imagining a grown-up version of his own little kid. Most of the time he did not understand what the doctors or nurses said to each other; it was half English mixed with half Hindi. The diagnosis in the end always used to be something minor – a common cold, a simple rash, or mosquito bites…
“Thank God, for listening to my prayers”, she would always say after a doctor’s visit with her face toward the sky, speaking to God directly.
“One day my son will speak English like that doctor, may be better” used to be a typical response from Nehal…. Continue reading
Treading the American suburbs, desi style
Like a Swiss watch, her timing is always perfect. Just before the sunset every evening, she appears from the far end of the sidewalk turning the corner.
The sound of autumn leaves rustling under her shoes announces her arrival. The shiny white Adidas shoes seem a bit too big for a woman of her height – about 5ft. 3 inches tall. Nonetheless, the clean and bright shoes always stand out, treading the sidewalk, crushing the freshly fallen leaves off the maple trees along the path.
Always looking straight without turning her head, she walks with a constant and quick pace, the gait unruffled and strides undaunted.
There are always kids playing in the front yards of the houses she pass, some riding their bikes along the same sidewalk. There is a lawnmower going here and there, everyone busy with trivial outdoor stuff. With all the activities going around her, she never look around to watch others, or to say hello, or just to acknowledge the surroundings. As if the rest of the world does not exist. She never strays from the side-walk, as if she seems owns it. She walks past everybody without a flinch, without a gesture.
She does not look aloof; she pretends not to be superior- looks like she just wants to focus on her walk. The residents -mostly white families- chat with their neighbors across the yards, casually looking at her and then at each-other.
“Hey honey, look who is coming again”, announces a young mother in her front year, cradling a baby in her arms.
“I know Tracy, shush; she can heart you!” he looked up, taking a break from raking the leaves off the driveway.
“No seriously Steve! Look, she is going to ignore us again today”
“May be she is just shy!”
“She probably doesn’t speak English,…Where you think she is from?”
“Don’t know; may be Pakistan or Turkey, or somewhere else in the Middle East.”
“You think she can belly-dance? She doe not look the type!”
“She can hear you!”
They both turned to her as she walks by, forcing a smile; but she was already gone by then.
“Where is she going in such a hurry?” Tracy said in a lowered voice, almost a whisper… Continue reading
In search of…’Khao, Pio, aish karo!’…abroad!
Let us eat and drink: for tomorrow we diet. ~Wendy Morgan
We all know the basic Indian Mantra of daily life- ‘Khao, pio, aish karo!’ : Eat, drink, enjoy life!
Many of us live by this simple but profound philosophy. Growing up, whenever in doubt, we have often taken shelter under the wide umbrella of this slogan!
Since landing in America years ago, I always wanted to find out if this desi mantra ‘Khao, pio, aish karo!’- ‘Eat, drink, enjoy life’, applies overseas as well. To verify my curiosity, I needed to find a swamy or a guru, who knew it ALL; someone with ultimate knowledge of life and its principles. That is how I stared my personal journey to look for a divine saint full of wisdom to answer this basic question. 
I always thought that such a deep and thoughtful slogan has to be backed by some Indian religion. I was almost certain that it was from some ancient guide; perhaps a part of Lord Krishna’s preaching to Arjuna during the great battle of Kurukshetra….
So I went to see a pundit at the local Hindu temple. I was not surprised to see him sitting on a small dais with a laptop next to him. After the simple greeting and some chit-chat about Google versus Bing, I popped the question:
“Khao, pio, aish karo! – is the slogan from the Hindu religion?”
He laughed at first. After realizing that I was serious, he started to search something online. I could not wait to be enlightened, but I did not want to interrupt him and his thoughts…
Finally he spoke, “Nope”
“Are you sure?” I was disappointed.
“I swear by the holy book Gita, your so called mantra is not in there”, he sounded serious.
“It has to be in there!” I insisted as the priest shook his head again.
“No, it is not” He repeated.
“So, what should I do?” I was losing my faith.
The priest got closer to me and whispered, with a smile, “Khao, pio, aish karo!”
Bewildered, I walked away. Continue reading
The line at the grocery store was quite long, but moving quickly. The whole process of check-out seemed quite animated – the clerk scanning the items, the customers sliding the credit card through the card reader, signing the digital pad, collecting the items along with receipt, and leaving. The clerk, his name-tag confirming his ethnicity of India, seemed quite efficient at his job.
At my turn, I stepped forward and followed the sequence. After the scan, I started collecting my items. I slid my American-Express through the card-reader, getting ready to leave as soon as the clerk hands me the receipt.
Then, out of nowhere, the clerk announced politely, “Sir, can I see your card and an ID?” Continue reading