Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  Despite how stressed my classes made me, as was my nature, I still made time for friends and social activities. However, my hard work paid off. At the end of the school year, the president invited me to attend the reception for honor roll students once again. It was a great honor to shake hands with the president of Knoxville College and the dean of admissions. It felt great to show my professors I was a good student. I learned that once the instructors have this perception, the honored student consistently receives better grades in the following semesters. It could mean the difference between a B+ and an A- or a C+ and a B-.

  In the summer of 1965, I took a bus to Chicago to land a highly sought-after job as a waiter on an Amtrak train traveling from Chicago to cities such as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle. The job required standing on your feet eight to twelve hours a day while carrying trays or pushing carts, but $2.25 an hour plus tips was good money compared to the minimum wage of $1.25.

  A new friend, Rajeshwar Chopra, accompanied me to Chicago, hoping to find a job working in a factory. We’d met while I was visiting friends at UT and had been good friends ever since. Pursuing his bachelor’s in electrical engineering, he was struggling with his studies as well.

  Chopra and I moved into the Michigan Hotel on 22nd Street, on the south side of Chicago and close to the Amtrak station, planning to stay only a week or two while we looked for a cheaper place. The next day, I completed the physical exam and passed the blood test required in order to qualify for the job.

  Three days passed with no call from my supervisor with news of a train assignment. In the meantime, Chopra had already found a factory job paying close to $3.50 an hour. Tired of waiting, I walked several blocks to downtown Chicago to look for something else. A seven-story building with a huge sign for “Stouffer’s” looked promising. I went inside to speak to the supervisor and told him about my experience as a short-order cook. Stouffer’s turned out to be a hotel, and the manager said there were no cooking positions open, but I could start right away as a janitor from 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.

  The first few days, the supervisor trained me to use the vacuum cleaner and a large machine used to scrub and wax floors. The vacuum cleaner was simple enough, and I figured the other machine would be easy too. I turned on the switch and pulled a lever on the handle, which controlled the machine’s speed. The next thing I knew, the machine had bolted out of my hands, zoomed to the left, and zigzagged down the hallway, bouncing off the walls. Hearing the loud commotion, my supervisor ran into the hall. I was sure he would fire me, but instead, he assured me it was fine. I just needed to get used to it.

  One night, I got off the L train after working until 11:30 p.m. As I walked under the railroad pass on my way back to the Michigan Hotel, I hoped that I wouldn’t get mugged. My friends in Knoxville told me robberies were common in Chicago. “If you are stopped and are going to be robbed,” they advised, “pretend you do not know any English. Take out your wallet and say, ‘Take money. No harm. Please leave.’”

  Just as I walked under the railroad pass, three or four black guys appeared out of the darkness and walked toward me. They were laughing, and one of them said, “Hey man, whatchya got? Hey, you Mo Fo.”

  Without hesitating, I took out my wallet and held it out to them. “Money. You take. Me no English. New, Chicago.”

  One of the guys took my wallet and laughed, saying, “This guy, no English.” They continued making jokes, mimicking my speech, and saying other things I didn’t understand. Then they gave back the wallet and told me to go. Relieved they hadn’t taken my money or harmed me, I hurried to the hotel, where I tossed and turned the whole night. I could not stop thinking about what could have happened, and I did not want to find myself in that situation again.

  The next day, I told Chopra about the incident. He agreed that we needed to find a new place to live. At the suggestion of an Indian student I’d met from The Illinois Institute of Technology, Chopra and I found a fraternity house that was more than half empty for the summer. The students living there let us stay for a dollar a night per person. Thirty dollars a month in Chicago with kitchen facilities and furnished rooms was a good deal. The students showed us to our sleeping quarters, a large room where everyone in the house slept on cots lined in rows on either side. They gave us bedding and towels, and we settled in right away.

  One late night, two weeks into my job at Stouffer’s, the supervisor approached me as I cleaned the hallway and asked me to clean the area near the locker room. I steered the scrubber toward the locker room and began cleaning the floor. The supervisor followed me and said, “Perhaps you should clean this room too.” He pointed to a bedroom on the other side of the hallway. “Okay,” I said, pushing the scrubber into the room, wondering why he was following me.

  “You have been working very hard. You must be tired,” he said. “Why don’t you just lie down on this bed?”

  Why was he saying this? I wondered. In all my time working in the US, no one told me to lie down on the job. I felt strange, and I didn’t know what to do because he was my supervisor. Was he serious?

  Seeing the questioning look on my face, he said, “I am your manager, and I can fire you.”

  It seemed I had no choice but to lie down. To my surprise, he lay next to me and put his arm on my chest. Immediately, I realized this was not right. Pushing him away, I rolled off the bed and walked away as fast as I could.

  “Kris, what is the matter?” he said, following me out of the room. “I was just telling you to rest a few minutes. I am your manager, and I can fire you!”

  I continued walking and did not look back. I never went back to Stouffer’s to complain or do anything about what happened. Instead, I kept it to myself, not even sharing the story with Chopra, because I didn’t know what he or anyone else would make of it.

  To replace the Stouffer’s job, I started working as a cook on the weekends at the Germania Club. Without any German cooking experience, I tried my best. The first day, I received a compliment from a customer, saying the lamb chops were delicious and done just right. But the second day, when the head chef asked me to get the Weiner Schnitzel from the walk-in refrigerator, I had no idea what it was. I couldn’t find it and asked him to show me. He explained, and then, when I asked him to help me cook the dish, it became apparent that I knew nothing about German cooking. He had no choice but to let me go.

  Fortunately, Chopra and I found jobs at the MaJournier Brothers factory on Pulaski Avenue in order to make money during the day. The manager put us on a thirty-day probation period, after which they would decide to keep us or not. We learned to read product blueprints, and we assembled the parts, using dye and raw materials they provided us. The supervisors liked us because we were punctual, and after finishing up one job, we would always ask the foreman what to do next.

  At the end of thirty days, we received a good review from the immediate supervisor and our coworkers. As official employees, we were required to join the union for a seventy-five dollar fee, even though we could work for only two more months before going back to Knoxville. At the monthly meeting, the union members celebrated our initiation with beer, and they cheered for the two new members at their factory. Seventy-five dollars was a lot of money, but the job paid around four dollars an hour, so in the end, the initial fee was worth the much larger amount on our paychecks.

  While I was working tiring physical jobs, I remembered my friend Jasbir, and I knew I could easily become just as discouraged if I allowed it. When I questioned my ability to continue working so hard, I would sing a song to myself in Hindi that I’d learned growing up in India:

  I have an old lifetime companion / who knows to cooperate very well and stays with me day and night / and that is my right hand.

  I felt as long as I was healthy and able to work, I would be able to make money. These lyrics kept me going during the hard physical work.

  Toward the end of July, I landed another cooking job. The husband and wife who owned the restaurant were
impressed with my experience in Wildwood.

  They hired me for the weekends, from 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. After showing me around, he demonstrated how to prepare the food, separating the lettuce leaves and slicing the tomatoes, onions, and ham before the customers arrived.

  “You should always be prepared before the enemy attacks,” he said. “The lunch rush hour gets hectic, and the last thing you want is to run out of food.”

  In the beginning, Gus helped during rush hour, but he saw I learned quickly and let me work on my own.

  Every night after the supper rush hour when his wife left, Gus and his friends drank whiskey and played Blackjack in a small room at the back of the restaurant—his “office.” Once in a while, he called me back and gave me a shot of whiskey. “Just enjoy it,” he’d say, flashing a grin.

  I became quite comfortable with my job and my boss, so comfortable that one evening I prepared curried chicken with spices found in the kitchen. When Gus came behind the counter, he saw the pot of chicken simmering with curry, garlic, and onions on the stove.

  “What’s going on, Kris?” he asked.

  “I’m cooking Indian curried chicken,” I answered. “I’d like you to taste it.”

  Gus seemed stunned. He was quiet for a few minutes, watching me stir the sauce and add a few more spices to the chicken. Finally, he said, “Sure, I’d like a taste. But from now on, try not to cook it here.” He grabbed a fork and took a bite. “This is great, Kris,” he said. “So much flavor.”

  Jokingly, I said, “Hey, we could put this on the menu.”

  Gus laughed and answered, “I don’t think so. My wife would throw us both out.”

  One late night, I decided my Ford Galaxy, which I had bought earlier that summer, needed a good washing. Gus looked for me everywhere and found me out back, scrubbing down my car and hosing it off.

  “Kris, there are orders stacking up in here,” he exclaimed.

  “It was slack time, so I thought I would have a moment to wash my car,” I explained.

  “All right, Kris. Just don’t do it again, or the other employees might get mad.”

  I went inside and returned to work. With summer almost over, I worked as much as I could before school started. However, I eagerly anticipated going back to school, so I could eventually get a job in the field I came to America for. Unfortunately, a degree in civil engineering looked as far away as my home country, India.

  Chapter 7

  The previous spring, a classmate at Knoxville College mentioned he was taking industrial engineering courses at the University of Tennessee to prepare for his second bachelor’s degree. I hoped I could do the same. Much had changed since I first came to America in 1961, and civil engineering no longer seemed relevant to my life. I decided to work toward an industrial engineering degree instead.

  As soon as I returned to Knoxville for fall semester of 1965, I met with Professor Emerson, head of the Industrial Engineering Department at UT, to see if I could sign up for co-op classes. Professor Emerson reviewed the courses I had completed so far at Knoxville College as I sat anxiously in his office. I hoped he would accept me into the program, but I was not sure if my grades were good enough.

  After a few moments, Professor Emerson cleared his throat and looked up at me.

  “I see a marked improvement in your mathematics courses,” he said, “as well as your other courses. It seems you are adjusting very well to life in the US, and from your transcripts, I can see you take your education seriously.”

  I held my breath, waiting for the final decision.

  Professor Emerson smiled encouragingly. “I have had a consistently good experience with Indian students who have completed master’s degrees in my department,” he said. “I would be happy to take you on as a co-op student until you are able to attend UT full time.”

  My heart leaped with excitement.

  “Thank you, thank you so much, Professor Emerson,” I said, standing up and shaking his hand vigorously. “This means a lot to me. I will not disappoint you.”

  My focus was unwavering as I juggled several co-op classes at UT while completing the remainder of the requirements at Knoxville College for a mathematics degree. At the beginning, fifteen students had signed up for the math program, but now only five were graduating with a degree in the subject, as many students switched majors due to the rigorous coursework.

  The excitement at Knoxville College was contagious as the students prepared for graduation in May of 1966. When the day of the ceremony finally arrived, it felt surreal. I had worked toward this moment for so long, and now I was preparing to walk on stage to receive my degree. Despite the general cheerfulness of the students, I felt a sadness I couldn’t quite place. As cars arrived from all over the state and country, and parents and relatives stood on the lawns and walkways, smiling, taking pictures, and hugging the graduates, I realized I was missing my own parents. Weaving my way through the groups of families laughing and talking, I felt lonely. No one from my family would be there to hug me, drape marigold garlands around my neck, and throw me a big feast afterwards. At the same time, I was glad my family was not there. After all, what was so great about a mathematics degree from a community college? My eyes were still fixed on my true goal—to earn an engineering degree at UT. That would be the happiest moment of my life.

  In June of 1966, Chopra and I spent another summer in Chicago. Once again, I worked at Gus’s restaurant, and Chopra also got a job there as a cashier. We also found jobs across the Illinois border working in a steel factory in Gary, Indiana. The job involved carrying heavy steel blocks. It took two people to carry the beam, one at each end. The factory required us to buy expensive steel-toed boots to protect our feet. The pay was worth it, but after a couple of weeks, being of smaller stature, Chopra and I were struggling to carry the steel all day and grew tired easily. We quit the steel factory and found technical jobs in the second week of July with A. B. Dick & Company, a manufacturer of copy machines and office supplies.

  Whenever Chopra and I weren’t working, we walked around downtown Chicago or drove to the beach on Lakeshore Drive. One day in mid-August, we were standing in line at an ice cream shop. Two girls stood behind us and began laughing and giggling when Chopra and I spoke in Hindi. Chopra and I glanced at each other in amusement. Both girls were attractive. One was shorter and stocky with an innocent face and a big, brilliant smile. The other girl was thinner and wore glasses. After paying for our ice cream, we went outside and tried to decide which way to walk. A few moments later, the girls came outside. The shorter one smiled at me but was too shy to say anything. As they walked away, she smiled at me over her shoulder.

  “Hey Chopra, let’s try to talk to them,” I said.

  We walked after them, and the girls giggled and walked faster. Just as we came close enough, I said, “Hi, we would like to talk to you.”

  “About what?” the shorter girl with the big smile asked.

  “Would you like to go out on a date with us?”

  “Yes, but we don’t know you,” the girl said.

  “Well, I’m Kris, and he’s Raj,” I said, shortening Chopra’s first name.

  “I’m Larisa, and she’s Zelia,” the girl said.

  “We are students at the University of Tennessee.”

  The girls laughed to no end. I didn’t know what was so funny, but Larisa gave me her number on a piece of paper and said I could call her. Still laughing, they walked away.

  For our first date, Larisa and I met downtown at the ice cream shop. We walked around for a while, and then I drove my car to Lakeshore Drive, where we walked along the lake. Afterward, we sat in the car and talked. We went on a second date after that, and on our third date, as we were walking along Lakeshore Drive, Larisa said, “Zelia would like to go out with Raj, too, if that is okay with him.”

  That night I told Chopra what Larisa had said.

  “She wants to go out with me? That’s great!” Chopra said.

  Soon after, we started
going on double dates. At first, Zelia seemed excited to go on dates with Chopra. After each date, I took Zelia home first, dropping her off a block from her house, and then dropping Larisa two blocks away from her home. She did not want her mother or her neighbors to see she was dating a foreigner. On Fridays, she had to return home before sunset, and from that point up until sunset on Saturday, I could not talk to her on the phone or see her at all.

  “Why can’t I see you?” I asked.

  “It’s the Sabbath,” she told me.

  “What is that?” It sounded strange to me.

  “I am Jewish,” she said. “And my father is a rabbi.”

  “What is a rabbi?”

  “It’s like a priest,” she said. “And we go to synagogue.”

  “What’s synagogue?”

  “It’s like a church. We go to synagogue on Friday instead of Sunday, and we must keep the Sabbath on weekends. We can’t watch television or pick up the phone. We also must eat before sunset on those days.”

  On one of our dates, she further explained the Jewish faith and what they believed in. “There are three types of Jews. One group is Orthodox. They believe in the old way described in the Holy books of the Torah. The second group is Conservative, believing in a modified version of the Torah. The third is Reform, believing in the Torah, but they do not follow traditions such as not picking up the phone after sunset.”

  “Which group are you?” I asked.

  “I am from an Orthodox Jewish family. Zelia is also Jewish. Her parents would also be angry if they knew she is dating a Hindu.”

  Lucky for Zelia’s parents, her relationship with Chopra would not become an issue. One day, Larisa told me, “Zelia is not happy with Raj. He is too aggressive with her.”