That night at the frat house, I brought up the subject. “Chopra, you need to slow down with Zelia. Larisa says she doesn’t feel comfortable with you.”
Chopra nodded. “Okay, I’ll try.”
But Zelia still didn’t like how much older he was. Larisa and Zelia had just finished high school, and Chopra was nearly thirty, about five years older than I was, and he also looked a lot older and more mature than I did. Zelia decided to stop seeing Chopra, but Larisa and I continued spending time together.
Since Chopra and I lived at the frat house, I could not see Larisa in the evening during weekdays, nor could I bring her to my place so I could fix her curried chicken. This was a problem. Chopra and I looked for a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, and we found a nice place on the second floor of a building near the bus depot. It had a good kitchen and an entrance lobby with a couch, but there was only one bedroom. We decided one person would sleep in the bedroom, the other would sleep on the couch, and we would switch places every week.
It was a good arrangement because Larisa and I could see each other more often. She started showing a lot of love and affection and would say that she loved me very much. When she came by in the evenings, we would drink tea and cook dinner. I didn’t have a TV, so we spent most of our evenings listening to the radio and talking.
In the later part of August 1966, I received a letter from UT offering me a teaching assistantship. This meant UT would cover my tuition fees and pay me close to $1000 for the academic year. I was overjoyed, thinking I had come to the US to learn, and now I would be teaching a course here. Larisa was happy for me, but at the same time, she felt sad. What would we do about our relationship?
In a way, we felt like the couple in Fiddler on the Roof, a play Larisa and I watched together. Larisa and I broke many traditions with our relationship. I knew my parents would want to arrange my marriage, and Larisa’s parents would be angry if they found out she was not dating a Jew, but instead was going steady with a Hindu. In Fiddler on the Roof, Perchik breaks tradition by crossing the barrier between the men and women to dance with Tevye’s daughter, Hodel. Later on, he breaks another tradition by asking Hodel to marry him. The father is appalled that they would ignore tradition and make their own match.
Hoping these problems would resolve themselves in the future, Larisa and I decided to continue our relationship. We would stay together and write to each other during the school year.
Larisa gave me a necklace with a centerpiece made of silver and her words engraved on one side, cleverly using the math symbols for more than and less than. “I love you > yesterday, < tomorrow.” On the other side, she had her name engraved. Before leaving for Knoxville in September, I spent as much time with Larisa as I could. She spoke often of her plans to attend the University of Chicago to major in art that year. “I will write to you every day,” she promised. “And here is my class ring to wear as a promise that we will not see anybody else.”
When it came time to leave, I felt a physical pain I never experienced before. I missed Larisa so much, but I needed to focus on school. I arrived in Knoxville two days before the quarter started.
While looking for an apartment, I met Sewa Singh, a student who had just come from Punjab to work toward a PhD in UT’s Agriculture Department. He lived in a house on the street farthest from campus with two other guys. He said I could stay in the room on the second floor. Sewa Singh lived on the first floor next to an Iranian student working on his bachelor’s in civil engineering.
With four students sharing the kitchen, someone was always waiting to use the stove in the evening, and once there was a commotion in the kitchen over missing sugar. “Someone used my sugar!” the Iranian guy yelled. “Who used my sugar?” This went on for a few minutes, and Sewa and I only laughed. Why would someone use his sugar? The Iranian was upset, but we all kept our groceries separate, so we didn’t see how someone could have gotten into his sugar.
That fall, I registered for three grad courses: Materials Handling in the Industrial Engineering Department and two math courses. On top of that, I would be teaching a course in math. I posted my school schedule and office hours so students would know when they could see me for help.
At the beginning of the fall quarter of 1966, I wrote to my father, saying, “Baiji, you would be very happy to know I am teaching at UT. Your son who came to US as a student to earn a degree is now teaching at the university.”
My father wrote back to say how happy he was for me. He shared the news with everybody, and my maternal uncle, a qualified teacher who was running a business at the time, wrote to me in Urdu. “I am proud of you,” he wrote. “A few people go out diving into an ocean. Some come back empty-handed and some come back with seaweed and shells. But some come up with diamonds in their hands. You, Krishan, have dived into the ocean and come up with diamonds.” My uncle’s words inspired me to continue trying my hardest at school.
As the semester passed, Sewa Singh and I became good friends. More than six feet tall and weighing close to two hundred pounds with a big chest and small waist, he was quite a ladies’ man. He always wore a turban, a stylishly trimmed beard and mustache, and a big smile. All the girls were attracted to him, but since he didn’t have a car, he needed me to pick up the girls and drop them off for him. Since I had lived in the US for five years, Sewa looked up to me as a mentor, someone to teach him about the American way of life. Not only that, our cultures were similar—both of us were from small Punjabi villages, and we both liked to party. When there was no party to be found, we started our own. Many nights, one could find us sitting on the street corner outside our house, drinking beer.
Every day at the house, Sewa lifted dumbbells for half an hour. He taught me how to lift weights too, but I would never be as strong as he was. On one of his first days in Knoxville, Sewa Singh was walking down the street carrying a leather briefcase when a group of guys started making fun of him. He looked different with his turban and beard, and most of them, from small Tennessee towns, had never seen anyone like him before.
“Hey, Santa Claus,” the guys taunted. “Why you look like Santa Claus?”
Sewa kept walking, but the guys continued following him down the street.
“Didn’t know there was an Indian Santa Claus,” someone said.
Sewa asked them to leave him alone several times, but they wouldn’t. Instead, they walked in front of him, blocking his way and teasing him about his appearance. Fed up with them, Sewa took his briefcase in both hands and swung it, knocking one of the guys down.
“Whoa, this guy is strong,” the others said, backing away.
Sewa continued on his way undisturbed.
A year went by before Sewa finally shaved his beard, cut his long hair, and stopped wearing his turban. I was living with a group of American guys by then, and when Sewa came over for the first time after changing his appearance, all my house-mates complimented him, saying, “Oh, you look so handsome.” My friend certainly looked younger and more boyish. After that, Sewa became even more popular with the girls.
Somehow I did not think graduate course work would be more difficult than undergraduate studies, but it was. The math courses were abstract and required a deep understanding of theory and subject matter. I hoped, due to my status as a teaching assistant, my professors would not give me a grade below a C. Although I tried to stick to my study schedule as much as I could, sometimes Sewa Singh wanted to talk or go out. Of course, I would chat with him or we’d go to a friend’s place.
Also, while I tried to adjust to the new routine, one thing stayed on my mind: Larisa. I constantly thought about her and the time we spent together. She wrote daily, and I read and reread her letters at every spare moment. Although I had learned to study hard at Knoxville College, I could not concentrate on my studies at UT. My mind was not in Knoxville. It was in Chicago with Larisa.
That fall I received a C in Materials Handling, and in my two math courses I received Ds. I felt the professors expecte
d me to earn higher grades, but at that point, there was not much I could do. As soon as the semester ended, I drove to Chicago to see Larisa. By the time I left Knoxville at nine p.m., I forgot about my grades. I drove the entire four hundred miles in one night, arriving in Chicago at 5:00 a.m. and stayed with my old friend Jasbir Singh Mann in his hotel room. When Jasbir traveled to Chicago in the summer of 1965 to find a job, he decided to stay there. His experience of the US was not pleasant, and his undergraduate studies at UT were tough. No matter how hard I tried to persuade him to go back to his studies in Knoxville, there was nothing I could say to change his mind.
The next day, I met up with Larisa, and we walked around Chicago. Larisa loved art, and we often went to the Art Institute of Chicago and The Field museum in a different part of the city. We studied the paintings in the different rooms while we talked about life, our plans and hopes, and our experiences in college. Larisa, possessing an eye for beauty, enjoyed creating with a paintbrush and canvas. She wished she could show me some of her work, but if we wanted our relationship to continue, it was not possible for me to go to her house.
Not long into my stay at Jasbir’s hotel room, I convinced him to get away from the hotel life. First, the room was too small, and I could not bring Larisa back so I could cook for her. Second, it simply was not a good environment for Jasbir. He worked during the day, and in the evening, he spent most of his time drinking at the bar before going back to the room to sleep. It was the same routine day in and day out. With Larisa’s help, I found him a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks away from downtown Chicago. It would be cheaper and hopefully save him money so he could continue his studies. As we bought groceries and a set of pots and pans, Jasbir kept saying, “Bedi, it’s costing us so much money to buy all these pots and pans. How are we saving money?”
“The initial cost of fifty to seventy dollars will save you money in the long run,” I replied. “Instead of eating out at restaurants every day, you can cook your own food.”
Jasbir just laughed. “You’re always thinking about how to save money,” he said.
One day, Larisa met Jasbir. She found him interesting, and they discussed their different views of lifestyle and culture in the US.
“I hate it when someone replies ‘I don’t care’ to a question,” Jasbir explained. “What do they mean? I say, ‘Would you like to have a beer?’ And they say, ‘I don’t care.’ Well, do you or don’t you? It is so frustrating!”
Overall, Jasbir thought life here moved too fast. “People have no time to chit-chat,” he said, frustrated that he could not make any new, sincere friends. On a lighter note, he knew poetry and enjoyed singing classical Punjabi songs. He spoke fondly of Punjab.
Two weeks went by fast. Knowing I would have to leave soon, Larisa and I became closer. “I love you,” she said one afternoon as we walked along Lakeshore Drive. She had started saying this to me often. I didn’t know what to think. I liked her a lot, but with school to focus on, our relationship couldn’t get more serious until I finished my engineering degree. Besides, her parents would not approve of our relationship. If it went on any longer, they would surely find out. They might even disown Larisa if she didn’t break ties with me. While Larisa enjoyed spending time with me, she was worried about the future as well. Neither of us saw a happy ending for our relationship. However, neither of us was ready to completely stop seeing each other. All these things weighed on my mind as I drove back to Knoxville at the end of the holiday break. I wasn’t sure what to do.
“Here’s your room.” My new friend Jim ushered me into the large bedroom where one of Jim’s housemates stood up from his desk in the corner and shook my hand, flashing me a friendly smile.
“Nice to meet you Kris,” he said. “Sorry we don’t have an extra room, but I don’t mind sharing.”
I had met Jim while standing in line for registration for the winter quarter of 1967, and in addition to noticing his unique New Jersey accent, I learned he was an undergrad majoring in math. He lived with three other guys from New Jersey, and I got the sense that he was a studious person, someone I would be wise to associate with if I wanted to do well in my classes at UT. Sewa Singh, although a great friend and roommate, liked to socialize often, and I could never say no to a good party either. I knew that moving in with Jim and his friends would be a good decision.
While I was excited to stay with American students and observe their study habits, Jim was excited for a math teaching assistant to live in his rented house. He was sure I’d be able to help him. I didn’t mention I’d received Ds in my math courses and was repeating them for better grades.
Jim was a serious student. With his parents divorced, he lived with his mother when he came home from school. He wanted to finish his degree so he could find a good job and provide for himself and his mother. Paul Kehir, an anthropology major, was a friendly guy with a girlfriend named Arlene, who worked as a nurse back in New Jersey.
Ray Eisenberg and Dan Bryant lived upstairs. Ray reminded me of Larisa, because he was Jewish. Dan was the son of song-writers Felice and Boudleaux Bryant. His parents worked as a team to write popular songs for famous singers such as the Everly Brothers, Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly. They wrote “Wake up Little Suzie” and “Bye Bye Love” for the Everly Brothers. Later on in the 70s, they even wrote hits for Simon and Garfunkel, The Grateful Dead, and Bob Dylan.
Living with the New Jersey guys, I learned more slang to add to my vocabulary. For instance, if Dan came home with exciting news about a girl, Jim would say, “Hey, do you have a dime?”
Dan would answer, “Yeah, why?”
Jim would say, “Go call someone who cares.”
At first I didn’t know what they meant about the dime until they explained it cost a dime to make a call from the phone booth. Now, whenever I came home with exciting news about getting a good grade or talking to a cute girl or anything else, they would flatten me with, “Do you have a dime?” No need to say more.
Whenever we sat around drinking beer, the conversation usually turned to girls. I thought it was funny that when a relationship didn’t continue with one of the guys, he would say, “Eh, she bit the dust.” I used the phrase every chance I could.
“Kris is learning,” my roommates said with a laugh.
On the last day before spring break, as soon as I finished taking my exams and posted the grades for my assistant teaching class, I hopped into my Ford Galaxy and drove to Chicago to be with Larisa. At 4:00 a.m., I arrived at Jasbir Mann’s apartment, where I slept restlessly, hardly able to wait until 9:00 a.m., when I would see her.
Larisa and I spent our days together, and occasional evenings when she didn’t have to go to synagogue or when her family didn’t expect her at home. Most of the time, we drove to Lakeshore Drive and walked along the sandy beach. A few times we visited Old Town, a center for hippy counterculture on Clark and North Avenue. During the day and on weekends, many street vendors sold peace signs, psychedelic print tee-shirts, and bead necklaces. Artists filled the sidewalks with their paintings for sale. Larisa, an artsy, eclectic type, enjoyed the color and creativity that surrounded us at Old Town.
During our walks through Old Town, we discussed our relationship. Should we continue seeing each other? If we did and we got married, what would be the religion of our children? I was a Hindu and did not believe in conversion. Larisa, an Orthodox Jewish girl and the daughter of a rabbi, wondered how we would raise our children because conversion was not an option for her either.
We also discussed other cultural differences. Mine was a strict lifestyle with tremendous social and societal pressure and no divorce, whereas in the US, it was easy to get a divorce, and there was much more emphasis on independence. We had each been brought up very differently. My parents expected to arrange my wedding. They would choose a girl for me based on her educational background, her parents’ social status, and whether she was from the same caste as I was.
After thinking through the practicalities of ge
tting married, we decided it would be too difficult. There would be problems with her parents from the beginning, and on top of that, I had not yet received my master’s degree, nor did I have a professional job to afford a decent lifestyle. Also, how would my parents feel when Larisa and I visited them in India? In the end, we decided to go our separate ways. Although I wanted to keep it more than anything, I returned her ring which I always wore around my neck. If we were really going to end our relationship, it was best to let it go.
Larisa cried nonstop the morning I left. It was difficult to see her crying so hard, and the whole way home I felt like crying too. My sadness only grew stronger the closer I came to UT’s campus. Did I do the right thing?
Once back at school, I thought about what I should do to complete an industrial engineering degree. My grades had improved in math, but I was still getting Cs in the engineering courses. Was it possible the Engineering Department would not let me into the graduate program?
I discussed my concerns with the department head, Emeritus Professor Emerson, who was also my industrial engineering advisor. The “Emeritus” in front of his name was a title of respect for a hardworking professor with many accomplishments for the university and tenure of more than twenty years at UT. He had expanded the Industrial Engineering Department, and everyone knew him to be an extremely kind and understanding gentleman. He somehow understood a person’s needs in all situations. Emeritus Professor Emerson saw my difficult struggle to maintain good grades, as well as my dedication to my dream. Eager to help, he offered me the chance to work toward my master’s in industrial engineering.
One day, the phone rang at the house. “It’s for you,” Paul Kehir said, handing me the phone.
“This is Larisa’s mother,” a woman’s voice said angrily. “You should stay away from my daughter if you know what’s good for you. I know all about you. You are playing with fire. I am going to have you deported for dating my daughter. Stay away from her!”
Engineering a Life Page 9