With our
departure date finalized, we now catch up with visits that, for no reason, had
not materialized thus far.
First it was
to a senior couple’s place, the Balans. With the customary exchange of
pleasantries and updating, the two ladies conveniently faded into the kitchen
for their own exclusive chat, which sometimes acquired a hush-hush tone. The
conversation between Balan and me covered health insurance, life in US versus
India, California weather, before meandering to his entry into US.
Balan was
employed as an engineer in Jabalpur in a private company, staying in a hostel.
His roommates heard that US had liberalized visas for engineers, and vied to
avail the opportunity. When sounded to his parents, their sole stipulation was
that he should first get married. So did he, in 1970, and his office gave him a
warm send-off. That night he had an inner call that he had another soul to
support. Next morning he rushed to office, withdrew his resignation, continued
there till 1977, when thoughts of America rekindled him. He got the visa, sent
wife home, and headed westward.
He had
relatives in US, but wanted to be on his own. On landing at the world’s busiest
and largest JFK airport, surrounded by complicated flyovers and intersections,
vehicles plying at lightning speed, and just $100 in pocket, his fortitude
disowned him. Aghast and open-mouthed, he just didn’t know which way to go. He
telephoned his sister-in-law’s brother, who arrived at the scene and rescued
him.
For two
months Balan posted his resume to all and sundry. Luck evaded him. Frustrated,
he resolved to do any menial job that came his way when an interview-call
landed. Who was chairing the selection board? A surprise. Yes, it was his
colleague in Jabalpur who did smuggle out to US in the 1970 exodus. Balan got
the job.
Now he
needed a car. An Oldsmobile owner was just about to pay $50 to the authorities
to crush his car at the yard. Balan bought it from him for $ 50 on condition
that he would drive it to Balan’s place. Meanwhile he had managed a Driver’s
licence. The very next day he
drove the car to Office through highway. Changing lanes at will, as with his
two-wheeler in India, just didn’t go well here, and led to an accident. The new
car behind, with a group of young girls, got heavily dented. They yelled at
him, but fortunately did not make a police case – maybe they didn’t have
driving licence.
Later, he
bought a brand new Datsun. Strangely, no sooner did Datsun arrive home than the
Oldsmobile collapsed. The best resuscitation efforts failed to bring life
back. He laid it to rest at the
nearest junkyard.
The doorbell
rang to interrupt the deliberations. Our daughter in law stepped in to pick us
back. Aided by her we spent the next twenty minutes comparing notes on our
respective grandsons when she reminded us we drove home before rush hour
traffic intensified.
* * * * * *
The next in
the cards is a visit tomorrow to my sister and brother-in-law, to celebrate the
latter’s entry to his 80th year of robust health. I reckon the
monologue to revolve around Advaita,
Visishtadvaita and Dvaita, or Shri Parthaswarathy’s book, Vedanta: A Treatise, that he has just
revised. Either could prove a tall order for a post-lunch session.
Did someone
ask me the other day: “I say how do you spend time in US?”
V.V.
Sundaram
11
April 2012
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