Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  The chef arrived three days before the hotel’s official opening. I should have felt nervous for, as the story went, the Whitesells could never keep a short-order cook for a whole summer. No one could stand the chef’s hostile behavior and the long hours in a hot kitchen, so my job usually had two to three turnovers during the three-month period.

  With the chef in charge, the kitchen environment changed drastically. Now the staff ran around trying to please him and avoid getting yelled at. Two of the guys had worked with the chef before. “He will try to keep his recipes and cooking methods a secret,” they warned. “You will never learn anything from him.”

  True to their word, the chef did not talk to me. He did not show me how he prepared the food, and he refused to answer any of my questions. A day before guests started arriving, the chef ordered me to fill a tall pot with water and set it at low heat on the stove.

  “Chef, what are we going to do with this?” I asked.

  He ignored me and proceeded to chop an onion, two carrots, and a stalk of celery, which he threw into the pot. Throughout the day, he continued throwing leftover scraps of vegetables and meat fat into the pot of simmering water. Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked again. “Chef, what are we going to cook with this?”

  He still would not answer.

  After I asked several more times throughout the day, the chef grew exasperated and snapped, “It is a stock pot to cook soup and gravy. The pot will sit on the stove over low heat all day.” He pointed his finger at me. “You will fill the pot with water every day and adjust the heat. No more questions!”

  The next day, the chef announced we would be cooking lobster meat and freezing it for lobster Newberg and lobster bisque. The shipment of live lobsters arrived in a big truck, and as the chef’s assistant dumped the live lobsters into a tub of water, I stared at the green-shelled creatures with snapping claws. To my dismay, the chef’s assistant dropped the lobsters one by one into a large pot of boiling water.

  “Kris, you help too,” the chef demanded.

  Hesitantly, I picked up a large lobster and dropped it into the churning hot water. Taking a deep breath, I dropped another and watched it move its claws helplessly as it slowly became lifeless. Something inside me cringed. Oh God, I prayed silently, this is my job, and they are asking me to kill lobsters, but I just can’t. It’s against my religion. My conscience is not allowing it.

  When I told the chef I could not put lobsters into the boiling water anymore, he looked at me like I was crazy and stormed off to tell Mrs. Whitesell that I was not following his orders. She came to the kitchen and spoke to me.

  “I’m willing to do anything you or the chef wants me to do,” I explained. “But I cannot put a live lobster into the boiling water to kill it. It is against my religion.”

  Mrs. Whitesell spoke to her husband, and then said, “Kris, you don’t have to do it. I’ll talk to the chef.”

  The chef was angry, but there was nothing he could do. I thanked God the situation ended in my favor.

  On the opening date, 130 guests arrived, filling 80 of the rooms of the Dorsey Hotel. At this time, more staff came—a coffee boy, a hostess, several waitresses, a busboy, and extra kitchen help. The chef took a liking to Charlene, a black girl who helped in the kitchen pantry. He flirted with her when she cleaned and brought raw food items to the kitchen. She flirted back, but only because she wanted to keep her job. Another guy in the kitchen liked Charlene too. They went on dates, and they always smiled at each other and laughed while they did chores. The chef watched them with jealous eyes and grew more irritated at the rest of us in the kitchen, snapping his orders and picking on the smallest details that weren’t to his liking.

  Every day, I listened carefully and asked many questions, so I could help prepare the meals exactly to the chef’s preferences. Maybe my constant questioning wore him down. Or maybe he detected sincerity in my efforts to follow his instructions. After a couple of weeks, when it became apparent I had no intention of quitting my job, he became friendlier and would explain his cooking methods in more detail.

  After the first month at the Dorsey Hotel, the Whitesells raised my pay from $250 to $275. They were happy with my work and glad I did not plan to leave the hotel before the end of the summer. For the first time since they started the business, a cook had stayed the entire three months. At the end of the season, they gave me a $100 bonus and invited me to their home in Broomall, Pennsylvania to relax before school started. I thoroughly enjoyed the reward for working long hours in the hot kitchen seven days a week.

  Once I returned to Knoxville, I walked from the bus stop straight to the Cheemas’ house to pick up my Oldsmobile (purchased a few months earlier after selling my DeSoto), and my belongings, which they said they would keep for the summer. When I neared their house, my car was nowhere in sight, and their car was not in the driveway. After knocking on the door, I peered through the dark window, shocked to see an empty living room. More than a little confused and worried, I went to the registration office in Knoxville College’s main building. The Cheemas had left a note with the dean, saying I could find my belongings at the residence of Mrs. McGennis, the business and typing instructor.

  After getting directions, I walked quickly to her house.

  “The University of Delaware offered Dr. Cheema a job,” Mrs. McGennis explained as she set my belongings on the kitchen table. “He and his wife moved there in July.”

  I thanked Mrs. McGennis and loaded my boxes into the trunk of my car, which was parked in the driveway. The news of the Cheemas’ abrupt departure upset me greatly. I had counted on them for advice and comfort. Part of me asked, Now what will I do? Who will help me through my difficulties? To console myself, I said, God helps those who help themselves. Whatever happens, I must continue.

  As fall semester 1963 began, I realized Bs and Cs were not good enough. If I wanted to do well and take my education seriously, I needed to make As and Bs. I started associating with the students who made those grades, telling myself, If they can do it, I can do it too.

  I spent extra time with the teachers, asking them questions after class to make sure I understood the subject matter. To stay organized, I created a weekly schedule for classes, homework, extra studying, and social activities. The schedule helped me keep track of assignments so I could finish them in a timely manner and have time to spend with my friends at UT. The changes in my routine affected my grades in a positive way, encouraging me to continue pursuing my bachelor’s degree. Over and over I told myself I had not come to America to cook and clean. I’d come to get a civil engineering degree so I could become an SDO in India.

  Before the end of spring semester in 1964, I wrote to the White-sells to see if they would offer me the cooking job again. They responded that they would not only offer me the job but would raise my salary to $350 per month with room and board included. When summer came, I packed my suitcase and boarded the bus to Wildwood, New Jersey.

  A friend I had known in Punjab, Jasbir Singh Mann, was in Knoxville at the time. We had studied together at the Vishvakarma Institute of Technology and stayed in touch after I left India. He also decided to attend the University of Tennessee two years after I did. He surprised me one day, showing up at my dorm room at Knoxville College. It was a wonderful, yet awkward, reunion because I’d never told him that I was not going to UT anymore, and I was slightly embarrassed about it. Jasbir had looked all over for me until one of my friends from UT told him where I was.

  Jasbir was having a hard time at UT as well, and he confided in me that he didn’t want to spend the summer in Knoxville. He came to Wildwood a few weeks after I did. I asked the Whitesells if they could give him a job, and they offered him a busboy position as well as a room to sleep in upstairs with the dining room staff.

  Right from the start, I prepared breakfast easily and learned new methods to cook eggs to go with bacon, sausage, or ham. Confident in my cooking skills, I needed Mrs. Whitesell in the kitchen very little. I
n fact, I was so confident that my salary seemed low, especially considering I worked seven days a week and long hours each day. I learned that cooks in other restaurants made $640 a month working only five days a week with two days off to enjoy themselves or work another job. I wouldn’t be getting free room and board the way I did at the hotel, but the money was still significantly more. I began looking around Wildwood for available cooking positions.

  In a short time, a restaurant offered me a job, and while I wanted to take it, my loyalty to the Whitesells made me hesitate. They treated me like a family member and gave me all the comforts at their home in Pennsylvania. When they heard I might be leaving, the Whitesells offered another fifty dollars per month, saying they would love for me to stay.

  Looking at my calculations again, I figured I would still be working seven days a week with no days off, and I really wanted the extra two days, so I could work another job. Sadly, I told the Whitesells I would be leaving the Dorsey Hotel.

  The next day, I rented a room near the restaurant and began working forty to forty-eight hours a week at a diner, covering the breakfast and lunch hours from 6:00 a.m. until 2:30 p.m. It was a fast-paced environment, and I learned how to break an egg in each hand at the same time. For parties of eight to ten, all orders needed to be finished and served at the same time.

  During the weekdays, I was the only cook, but sometimes Lee, the manager, helped out if I was in a jam. Lee’s wife, Linda, helped manage the place. At one time, she had worked as a waitress in the restaurant until they fell in love and got married. Sometimes, she still waitressed if the place was really busy and we needed help.

  Jimmy, a guy who went to college in Philadelphia, helped during the weekend breakfast hours, since it was always extra crowded. He was considered a fast short-order cook, and he liked to brag about himself. Jimmy also liked to tease me while we worked. He gave me a hard time about being from India, and he always talked about how much the US was doing for foreign countries, giving them aid, and how the US was giving more aid to India than any country. For a few weekends, I tolerated the way Jimmy taunted me and treated me like a lesser person, but one day, while I chopped onions and Jimmy stirred the coleslaw, I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I slammed the knife on the counter and said, “Jimmy, nobody does anything for nothing. The US may have some vested interest or something to gain in the future, otherwise, the US would not be giving financial aid to India. If they are, they are not giving it to me! I’m in the US, and I am working equally as hard as you are, so don’t tell me about this financial aid anymore!”

  For a moment, Jimmy stopped stirring the coleslaw and just looked at me in amusement. “Okay, Kris,” he said. “Okay.” He resumed his work, but from that point on, his taunting only grew worse.

  “Do not say this thing anymore,” I cautioned him one day.

  Jimmy laughed. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Without thinking, I picked up the stainless steel dish rack and threw it at him as hard as I could. Jimmy was about eight feet away and quickly dodged the flying dish rack. It bounced with a loud clang and hit Linda, who was standing nearby.

  Immediately, a great commotion filled the kitchen. Linda screamed, “Kris, how dare you?”

  Lee ran in, grabbed both my wrists, and shook me hard. “What are you doing?” he yelled.

  I tried to control my anger. The waitresses stopped to watch the scene, Linda stared at me, and Lee released my wrists, looking at me with a hard, serious expression.

  “Lee, I’m sorry the rack hit Linda,” I said, “but I cautioned Jimmy not to tease me in a condescending manner anymore, and he did not stop, so I had to do what I did. I am very sorry.”

  Lee did not know what to do. I was a hard worker and a good short-order cook. Jimmy was an especially fast worker and had worked at the restaurant for a long time with no problems. Lee finally told me to wait in his office while he talked to his dad, the owner of the restaurant.

  When Lee came back, he said, “Kris, in the future, don’t do something like this. If Jimmy is still teasing you in any regard, come tell us, and we will take care of it.” Lee talked to Jimmy separately as well. That weekend, the atmosphere was tense, but the work kept us busy, and Jimmy and I did not speak to each other at all.

  In the meantime, I began working at a commercial laundry in the evenings and on my two days off. For eight hours, I folded towels and sometimes helped another employee feed sheets through the flatwork ironer. When the Dorsey Hotel closed a few weeks before the end of summer, my friend Jasbir Singh Mann joined me at the commercial laundry. It seemed his time as a busboy had gone well, although several times he expressed discontent with that type of work. One day, while I was folding towels, Jasbir got into an argument with two black guys who worked in a different area. I heard shouts, and looked over to see the black guys towering over Jasbir, their muscles flexing beneath their shirts. Oh no, I thought. This can’t be good. Jasbir has never been in a fight in his life, and those guys are twice his size. Jasbir didn’t seem to notice the disadvantage. He continued talking loudly in an angry voice. Suddenly, one of the guys grabbed him, threw him on the floor, and began punching him.

  Just then, the manager rushed out of his office, a furious expression on his face. He separated them and yelled, “You’re all fired! Get out!” The black guys cursed and spit at Jasbir, yelling offensive remarks at him. He looked ready to yell back, but this time he held his tongue. A moment later, he left the building and sat on the sidewalk, waiting for me to finish work. When I went outside, he began to weep bitter tears, a result of feelings he had been holding onto for months. I did not know what to say, but I knew how he felt.

  I sat next to him on the sidewalk and listened while he angrily poured out how insignificant he felt and how he tried to understand life in the States, but he just couldn’t. Jasbir came from a well-to-do family in India, much wealthier than mine. He and his brothers possessed plenty of farm land, and they even owned farming machinery, which was rare on most Indian farms during those days. Now he was in the US, working menial jobs and feeling completely out of place.

  The black guys were not used to foreigners. They tried to put Jasbir down, perhaps taking out their own frustrations on Jasbir, who was not familiar with all the swearing and slang the blacks used. He misunderstood something they said and took offense at it. While I usually went with the flow, even when I didn’t know what was going on or what people meant by their words, Jasbir was easily insulted. In India, he had spent money lavishly on his friends, and he was at the top of the social ladder. Everywhere he went, people looked up to him and respected him. Here in America, he was nearly broke, and no one cared who he was. When the black guys put him down and made fun of him, he couldn’t take it anymore and defended himself vigorously.

  Jasbir returned to Knoxville a week early. I offered to come with him, but he shook his head. “No, you should stay and make as much money as you can,” he said. “You have two more weeks before classes start.”

  I felt sad. I wanted to help Jasbir, but I didn’t know how. Just like me, he would need to figure out the American culture and try to fit in the best way he could.

  Chapter 6

  At the end of the fall semester of 1964, the president of Knoxville College invited me to a reception for honor roll students. The previous semester, I received As, Bs, and one C due to the extra time I spent studying. At the reception, I ate snacks along with the other honorees and listened to a message from the president. Afterward, my professors shook my hand and congratulated me. “Keep it up, Mr. Bedi,” they said. Their words encouraged me to stay focused on earning good grades so my instructors would perceive me as a good academic. With my next set of classes, I didn’t realize how difficult that would be.

  In Music Appreciation, I didn’t have the ear to hear the differences in keys. We listened to Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, but no matter how hard I strained my ears, they all sounded the same to me. Square dancing, a requirement for
physical education, was nearly as difficult. Introduction to the English Bible was challenging because there were so many stories, and it was difficult to keep them all straight as well as remember all of the names. In all three courses, I barely managed to earn a C.

  In the spring semester of 1965, as I studied alone in my room, I felt sad that the other students were out having a good time. I struggled through my classes, studying harder than ever, and it seemed the others received good grades without even trying. I am going to get a one hundred percent, I told myself before each exam. However, I was so nervous before each test that I would cry out to God, Look where I am. I’m stuck here for now. I don’t know what I’m doing. Please help me. I don’t want to fail my classes like I did at UT. My prayer finished, I would dry my tears, put on a cheerful face, and go to class for the exam.

  One day, while I sat in my dorm room, I remembered the mantra the astrologer in India told me to recite 1.1 lakh (110,000) times if I wanted to travel to the US with no more problems. I started repeating the mantra 101 times a day while I sat at my desk with my books and papers piled around me. The words lifted my thoughts from my troubles and focused my mind on God.

  Also, to cheer myself up and remind myself to stay positive, I wrote a few sayings at the bottom of my study-work schedule above my desk:

  Life is full of happiness, enjoy it.

  Life is full of adventure, discover it.

  Life is full of challenges, face it.

  One evening, I came back to my room and saw another phrase scribbled at the bottom: Life is full of shit, eat it. To this day, I do not know who put it there.

  As winter turned to spring, I began receiving 94s and 95s on math exams, and at the end of the semester, my final grade in my math class was a B. At the time, an A started at 95 percent and a B was 85 to 94 percent. Now that I could understand the formulas in math and do well on the exams, I enjoyed solving the problems and spent extra time working on additional exercises.