From India to America – “An Engineer’s Journey” (Part I)

My name is Sandeep Kumar, and I grew up in America.

My neighbor, Vimal Patel, is one of the smartest men I know. He works in IT at eMazzanti Technologies. Often, I see him heading to work way before you or I would even think about getting up, but that’s part of what makes him so special. Dedication. Vimal, like me, is Indian, and our culture emphasizes driving excellence in the workplace. We thrive on respect for elders, family unity, honesty, and hard work.

I may not have taken advantage of every golden opportunity here, but that changed after an encounter with Vimal. On the train home one late evening, coming from a party, I ran into Vimal, who apparently had just left work. He told me a story about how he came to America, and that story changed my perspective on how I see my family, and what I should be doing to get focused.

“Why do you work so hard?” I asked Vimal.

His reply: “Sandeep, I was 5 years old, when I told my father that I wanted to be an IT Technician, and that was all she wrote. Within the next month, we were on a journey to America. I remember it like it was yesterday.” Here is what he told me:

The Journey

“Why are you moving so fast, Baba?” I asked as my father hurried me into our 1970 Datsun Cherry sedan.

“Don’t you know that we are late?” he exclaimed in a quiet whisper.

“Late…but how?” I replied.

“Because, Vimal, your mother has to do too much talking and crying before we can leave. Mummy!” Baba gasped, waving his arm. “Come. They can visit us in Bolton, England. No one’s dying here,” he said, matter-of-factly in his thick Gujarati accent. My Baba started the car while Grandpa and I stared out the back window.

“This is what you have to do, Vimal,” Grandpa said, looking down at me.

“What’s that, Grandpa?”

“Do it,” he said, “firmly!”

Baba started driving slowly. Grandma nudged Mummy, pointing her finger at the moving car as it kicked up dirt. Mummy screamed, “Ah!” She pulled off her slippers, hiked up her saree, and took to the pavement. “Jayantilal,” she called to my dad, “you WICKED man!” she panted.

“Run, baby,” he said, peering into his rearview. He slowed the car, and leaned over to open the door. Mummy held the top of the door open with her right hand, quickly sliding in left leg first, while the wind slammed the door shut.

She immediately peered back at me in a huff and said, “Vimal, this is not the way we treat our women in India!” Grandpa looked down at me and winked, stretching forward to give Baba some sort of secret handshake, but Mummy blocked it. I just shrugged down into my seat.

“Goodbye, farm,” I mumbled.

“This is the last memory I have of Gujarat, India, Sandeep,” my father said, as we listened to the harsh sound of the New York subway train rails from inside the cart. He peered out at me, and clutched his backpack in his lap.

“Did you come straight to America?” I asked.

“Oh, oh, first we went to Bolton, England,” he said. “My father’s sister lived there, and we stayed there about two years. When my father found out that my mother’s brother lived in the U.S., he had his mind set to move us to America. That was about 1979, and my mother was pregnant with Jayesh by then — the second oldest. My father was very excited to move to America. He often told me, ‘This is all for you, Vimal. An IT Technician it is.’ My mother’s brother met us at the airport when we finally left Bolton for America. He was very funny.”

“Vimal, welcome to Disneyland,” he said, swishing my hair on my head.

“This isn’t Disneyland,” I said. “This is New York, and Mummy already told me everything.”

“It’s not safe here, Mummy…? ” Uncle Arun sarcastically called as he gently bunched my mother’s face in his hands to kiss her forehead. “Must you poison the child? Is it not enough that you marry this, this chubby little man and leave a handsome man like Prakesh Beil to pine away? You women make bad choices.”

“Arun,” Baba called as he stepped past the security check. Uncle leaped in for a hug. “What are you doing?” Baba asked. “This is America; there is no shame to hug your brother-in-law here, and Manjula,” he said, turning back to Mummy, “you can call the police now, and they will come. Even if we try to make you carry your own suitcases. You can even go on strike in your own home protesting not to cook or clean. The American women are quite liberated.”

Mummy looked around and slowly took my hand. “Let’s go get our suitcases,” she said with a joyful ring in her voice. “Jayantilal, thank you in advance for carrying my bags.” Baba slapped the back of Uncle Arun’s head.

“Sandeep, my uncle is very kind,” Vimal told me. “He owns restaurants and buildings. He even let me park my car for a year in one of his White Plains homes. I don’t know what our family would have done without him. He’s the reason we are here. He and his wife sponsored us.”

Vimal continued, “When we arrived in New York, we went directly to our new home. We’ve been here ever since. My Baba’s first job was at a factory in Secaucus, New Jersey. He hadn’t planned on being there long. He had a strategy. His strategy was to make just enough money to open his own store. In 1984, my father opened a fish market on Westside Avenue. I hated the smell. By then, my mother was pregnant with Rajesh, my youngest brother. She couldn’t stand the smell either. Baba had to use the back door to clean up before he was allowed in her presence. The three of us would run to him. He’d always say, ‘Hello, my babies.’ Sometimes he’d pretend he wasn’t sure if he was in the right apartment, and we would convince him that he was. We helped him take off his shoes and clothes.”

Unfortunately, the fish market went belly up after a couple of years, Vimal added. “And my Baba went back to work at the factory. But it wasn’t long before he found another lucrative means to become his own boss. He opened a news stand in New York. He also partnered with a friend and opened a general store in Newark. Back then, we were high schoolers. That’s where I feel like I started to lose myself. I was so shy, it’s a wonder I had any friends.”

To be continued