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
www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com
11 April 2012
