Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  Praise for Engineering a Life

  “ Engineering a Life is a story not only of determination and grit but also of hope. Bedi’s indomitable spirit, positive attitude, and work ethic are a joy to read about.”

  —Foreword Reviews

  “ A remarkable memoir about a young immigrant who becomes a successful engineer in the US after years of hardship . . . Throughout his vivid account, Bedi shows amazing resolve and determination in achieving his dreams. Readers will likely applaud the author as he skillfully narrates his many trials on the road to forging a stable life in his new home. This engrossing and timely book should appeal to anyone wishing to learn more about the immigrant experience in America.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “ Engineering a Life is so many things: a touching and humorous coming-of-age story; a starkly honest and revealing chronicle of colliding cultures; a testament to faith, humanity, and The American Dream. But most of all, it’s a compelling reminder that no matter who you are or what your provenance, life is not a straight path but a labyrinthine maze—and that it isn’t the detours or even the final destination that define us, but how we meet the obstacles and challenges along the way.”

  —Grant Jarrett, award-winning author of Ways of Leaving, The House That Made Me, and The Half-Life of Remorse

  “ In Engineering a Life, Krishan Bedi describes what will be very familiar to many immigrant families in the United States today: a twisting and turning journey that was never predictable but always rewarding, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. Navigating a course that has left him straddling two cultures, he manages to find his way home with humor, pride, and a deep appreciation for both cultures. Readers will leave this book with a better understanding of both the indignities and triumphs of a life bravely reimagined in another land.”

  —Rana Lee Adawi Awdish, MD, FCCP

  “ This is the story of a man from a village in India who didn’t know how to drive a car and could barely speak or understand English but was determined to make a career in America as an industrial engineer. It’s a brutally honest voice of the hardships he overcame to attain the American dream. A detailed account of the immigrant experience, this memoir is an inspiration for those who are searching for a chance at a better life and a lesson in perseverance to become American.”

  —Anoop Ahuja Judge, award-winning author, blogger, and TV anchor

  Engineering A Life

  Copyright © 2018 Krishan Bedi

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Tempe, Arizona, USA, 85281

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-43-4 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-943006-42-7 (e-bk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017953913

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

  This memoir is fondly dedicated to Raj, my lifetime companion, and also to my wonderful sons, their loving wives, and our beautiful grandchildren.

  Preface

  In 1961, at the age of twenty, I arrived in the United States, landing at the port of New York after three weeks at sea with only $300 in my pocket. Coming from a small village of only 200 people, I had never seen anything like New York City before. I had made it here on sheer faith, staying focused on my goal of an education in the United States. I’d overcome peer pressure to stay in India, lack of funds, the feeling that I was abandoning my family, and so much more just to get here. And now that I was here, I had to make it work. There was no other option but to succeed. I didn’t know what would be waiting for me as I made my way to Tennessee, nor did I anticipate the culture shock of being not just in the United States, but in the South in the 1960s, which is where I spent my early years in the States.

  This is a story of succeeding against the odds, and of my perseverance and determination to create the life I’d always dreamed for myself as a little boy in India, where my options seemed anything but limitless. I didn’t know when I started out that my dream would take a much more convoluted path than I could ever imagine. My experience of being an Indian college student in the South at a time when many people did not know much about Indian culture brings a unique perspective to a story that also focuses on following one’s dream and never giving up despite unfavorable circumstances.

  Writing my memoir has been a wild experience, a long journey which started approximately eight years ago. After I regaled a colleague with tales from my student life in the 1960s in Tennessee, she exclaimed, “You should write a book!” She nearly died laughing at my stories, and her words planted a seed in the back of my mind that maybe one day I really would write a memoir. A couple of years later, my daughter-in-law listened in awe as I told her some of my stories from my younger days as an Indian going to college in the States and trying to get a date to blend in with the other Americans. “Your experience is very unique,” she told me. “Everything you went through back in the sixties. You should definitely write a book.”

  As I began writing down my memories, it amazed me how much I remembered in clear detail about the early years of my life. Not even my closest family members knew some of my experiences or emotions, many of which I had kept to myself because it had been a hard time. It was my way to put on a cheerful face, especially later, for the sake of my wife and sons.

  While I began writing my memoir, I knew I would encounter difficult memories as well as funny stories. At times, tears came to my eyes as I delved into my past to remember every detail, even if it was painful or embarrassing.

  My memoir will entertain and inspire as it takes you through a life of hard work and perseverance, eliciting laughs at young and foolish days, and in the end, illustrating the power of hope in difficult circumstances.

  — Krishan K. Bedi

  March 17, 2017

  Chapter 1

  “The Muslims are coming! The Muslims are coming!”

  The cry of the watchmen rang through our small village of Malaudh in Punjab, India. Gunfire sounded in the distance as shop owners hurried to close up shop, fearing the dozens of men on horseback brandishing weapons and riding our way. My father, a shop owner himself, rushed home to help my mother herd me and my siblings to the outskirts of Malaudh, where a maharaja, a wealthy landowner, had built a fortress known as a qila. Shouts filled the air as dozens of families rushed for safety. Six years old at the time, I struggled to keep up with my parents. The chaos around me struck fear in my heart, and my feet trod the dirt path quickly.

  It was the year 1947, and as Hindus, we found ourselves fearful of the anger and hatred set in motion by the partition of India. The partition drew new geographic lines, turning the northern part of India into a new nation, Pakistan, and forcing many Muslims to move north to the new country. The Hindus living in what is now called Pakistan were forced to migrate south. My family and I lived at the heart of the conflict because there were many Muslims in our state of Punjab, and they did not want to move. The partition bred violence—Muslims killing Hindus and Hindus killing Muslims.

  The fortress, surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls, covered ten acres, and contained three residential buildings, stables, a jeep, and an open area for the water buffalo to graze. My family and I felt safe with the guards pointing their guns through small holes in the
wall, allowing them to shoot if the enemy came near.

  Approximately two hundred families from Malaudh entered the qila and waited in an open area. My two older sisters and older brother formed a tight circle around me. My father, Mukandi Lal, paced back and forth, occasionally speaking in serious tones to other men standing nearby.

  Seeing the fearful look in my eyes, my mother, Maya Wanti, spoke soft encouraging words. The early afternoon heat thickened, and dust rose in little clouds at any movement of wind or person. The heat and dust were a constant part of our lives, but this new thing, this violence and fear, made everything else fall to the background. As the noise outside the fortress grew closer, my father stood straight and still, like an immovable tree. Angry shouts and the thunder of hooves echoed outside the walls. A few gunshots blasted the air as the men passed us by on their way to the next town. My mother’s soothing voice came like a powerful mantra to drown out the frightening sounds. She prayed to the gods of our Hindu faith, asking for safety and protection, for blessings to fall on us. Grandmother sat quietly. My father’s uncle, whom we called Grandfather, also spoke strong, hopeful words to us.

  The leaders of India thought it would be a peaceful migration, but after the hasty withdrawal of the British, centuries of peaceful coexistence was laid waste as Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs engaged in a bloodbath that killed two million people. Rumors reached our village describing the ghost trains carrying nothing but corpses with their heads removed from their bodies, an act executed by both sides. With the angry Muslims crossing deeper into India every passing day, no one was safe, either on the roads or in the villages.

  My family fled to the qila four times during the next few months. The Muslims could not reach us behind our high walls, and each time, we emerged from our hiding places to resume our ordinary lives.

  Ordinary life for me took place in a small house behind my father’s cloth shop. Like most homes in Malaudh, ours had a front yard where we kept our water buffalo. Every morning, I led her to a common place, and from there, a village boy steered the herd of buffalos and cows to a field to graze. Despite its small size, the village of Malaudh was the kasba, the center of commerce, for the surrounding thirty-six villages to buy their goods. Neither Malaudh nor the other villages had running water or electricity. Those too poor to afford a hand pump drew water for cooking and bathing from a central well, located in each residential street. My family owned a hand pump, but occasionally, we still used the well near our house.

  School became a regular part of my life as I progressed through primary school, middle school, and finally, high school. Every day, I walked a mile outside the village to the high school, a compound of two buildings behind an iron gate, where we learned math, science, history, geography, English, and Hindi. One hundred and fifteen boys from Malaudh and the surrounding villages attended the school. Our Hindi teacher held class beneath a large neem (Azadirachta indica) tree. Its cooling shade refreshed us from the overbearing midday sun as we drank water out of clay jars, which kept the water from the hand pump cold.

  Teachers did not hesitate to discipline with physical punishment, hitting us with sticks or slapping our faces if we misbehaved, answered incorrectly in class, or failed to complete the homework. They fabricated ways to embarrass students as well. One day I was sitting in class, pretending to listen to the physics teacher. The teacher asked a student a question. The student made a show of thinking hard. “I-I don’t remember,” he finally said.

  “This is the third time you have come unprepared to class,” the teacher said sternly. “Come to the front.”

  The student slowly stood and trudged to the front of the room.

  “Bend forward,” the teacher said.

  Frowning, the student leaned over, his arms dangling near his toes.

  “Now put your arms through your legs and touch your ears.” We all watched anxiously, yet curiously, thankful we were not in his position.

  The boy bent his knees so that he crouched awkwardly, his rear end sticking in the air. He grimaced as he stretched his arms as far as he could through his legs, finally latching on to the tips of his ear lobes. Several students snickered. The murgha (chicken) pose is one of the more humiliating punishments the teachers used. If the student lowered from the position even for an instant, the teacher would strike him with a long stick on his rear end.

  After school, I helped my father in his shop, which adjoined the back of our house. The wooden shelves held stacks of beautifully woven, vibrantly colored fabrics. My father would greet the customers and ask what they would like to drink. Then I’d bring them either lemonade or hot tea. The drinks made the customers feel close to my father, and they would not bargain too much.

  A thin woven rug covered the floor, and on top of the rug, we placed a sheet. My father sat on a round white pillow, signifying he was the owner, and the customers sat cross-legged before him. After an initial greeting, the customers would tell him what sort of cloth they were looking for (blue shirt material, perhaps), and then my father would order me to bring several bolts of cloth for the customers to examine. Once they made their choice, my father measured and cut the cloth before passing it to me to fold and wrap in paper. On weekends, I sprinkled water on the dirt road in front of the shop to keep the air free of dust. When the shop closed, I helped my father count money until 7:30 p.m.

  My father was strict, well-built, and hard-working. He managed his income wisely, spent frugally, and never wasted a rupee (Indian Currency). At times, he exhibited a demanding character. For instance, if my mother did not prepare the food to his taste, he would dump the meal on the floor and chide her. With the help of my paternal grandmother, she would prepare the meal again. I couldn’t bear to see my mother upset as she bent to pick up the food, mumbling under her breath and crying to herself.

  My mother was kind and hard-working. Every day, she rose at dawn while everyone was still sleeping so she could make our hot tea and pump water for our baths. Afterwards, she prepared food for the water buffalo. While we washed ourselves in the tepid water from the pump and drank sweetened black tea, mother cooked a breakfast of prantha, whole wheat bread layered with ghee, yogurt, and potatoes cooked in spices.

  My mother held a special place in my heart. She personified love by placing grain on the ant hills after it rained so they could eat too. Most days, she fed three of six young sisters who lived nearby. Their parents did not feed them much because they could not carry the family name as a son could. The girls came to our home, and my mother snuck them chapatis and sabzi behind a door where no one could see them. My father and brother guessed what was going on and were not happy about it, but my mother continued to help the girls anyway.

  My mother also fed a crippled man who would come to our house around 2:00 p.m. every day. He sat, squatting on the balls of his feet, and used two wooden pads to drag himself across the ground. The man said kind words to my mother and my siblings. “One day, you will be a big man,” he told me. “Cars will be all around you.”

  At that time, cars were prestigious, not common luxury at all. If someone owned a car, he was respected and considered rich. I couldn’t imagine how his prediction would come true. Later, I learned that a man gave my brother’s classmate a similar blessing. Soon after, my brother’s friend moved to New Delhi, where he became a traffic policeman. Cars were all around him, but he did not own any. I hoped his prediction would not turn out the same way for me.

  During my last year of high school, the National Board of Examination became my primary focus. There were only two years of schooling at my village high school, and the teachers spent the entire time preparing us for the exams we would take in March of our second year. These exams were our passage to better education, and if we did well, we qualified for college pre-med and pre-engineering programs. If the exam scores fell within the middle range, students qualified for degrees in liberal arts. However, if a student failed even one subject, that student had to take the exam again as many times as h
e needed.

  The National Board Exams began on March 1 and ended on March 23, 1956. My father arranged for me to stay in Mandi Ahmed-Garh, the testing center, with a family I did not know. Mandi Ahmed-Garh was considered a small city, thirteen miles away from Malaudh. At that time, I felt a mixture of excitement at being in a new place, as well as apprehension about taking the exams, hoping I’d do well and not disappoint my family by failing.

  The exam results declared three months later in June 1956. I walked into the chemist’s shop and asked to see The Tribune, an English newspaper the chemist purchased and brought to Malaudh. If we passed, our ID numbers appeared in the paper along with our total score on the exams. I skimmed the columns of numbers until I spotted mine. Thirty-five percent! Scoring below thirty-three percent meant I would need to retake the exams. Grateful to have not embarrassed my parents in such a way, I walked home with a bounce in my step, eager to share the news. My parents, ecstatic to know I’d passed, congratulated me and spread the word to their relatives and friends. They also passed out sweets to our neighbors and to the poor who lived in the surrounding area.

  Over the next three years, I attended the Vishvakarma Institute of Engineering Technology, an engineering college in Ludhiana, working toward a diploma in civil engineering. My time at the institute gave me a taste of living in a place much bigger than Malaudh, and in some ways, it seemed more sophisticated. I made a good friend named Jasbir Singh Mann. We liked to study on the floor, and when we grew tired of reading and memorizing terms, we fell asleep on the floor surrounded by books and papers. We felt that studying and sleeping on the floor showed that we were serious, hard-working students.

  In the summer of 1959, I received my Diploma in Civil Engineering, second division, not without some bribery and approach to the teachers. I treated the professors to dinner at a nice restaurant or took them to the movie theater in exchange for questions on the test. In addition, Jasbir helped me study for the final exams. At Vishvakarma, most students completed two to four years of college in physics, chemistry, or math programs. Students at this school usually didn’t qualify for admission at a more prestigious engineering university.