I thought, If that is how she behaves, then why are we engaged?
Mrs. Olsen did not know what else to tell me except that Maelie had been emotional and depressed before she left for Jacksonville alone. I returned to my apartment, feeling ashamed and not wanting to share this episode with my friends. They all knew I was supposed to go to Florida with Maelie, so I did not call anyone that day.
That same afternoon, Mrs. Olsen called and asked me to come to her apartment. “Maelie has reached Jacksonville,” she informed me, cheerfully. “She is sorry she left without you. She was not thinking straight and would like you to come down to Florida.”
Perhaps I looked astounded because Mrs. Olsen said, “I know, I know, Kris. I realize your feelings right now, but it would be so good for both of you if you flew to Jacksonville, and you both can drive back together. How does that sound?”
I was completely shocked that Mrs. Olsen and Maelie expected me to fly to Florida after what just happened. Mrs. Olsen wanted me to go more than anything. “Kris, Maelie loves you very much. She has high regard for you. It was not your fault. Maelie just gets depressed sometimes, and her behavior can be erratic.”
Not wanting to hurt either Maelie or Mrs. Olsen’s feelings, I flew down to Jacksonville the next day. Maelie picked me up at the airport, and we drove to her sister’s house. Galina and Charlton welcomed me into their home and showed me to a room where I could set my suitcase.
When Maelie and I were alone for a moment, she apologized for leaving my apartment so abruptly and for going to Florida without me. “It was not you, Kris. You did not do anything wrong,” she said. “It was just me. That is all I want to say right now. But oh! I am so happy you have come. Thank you!” She smiled her sweetest smile, kissed her finger, and pointed it at me.
Later that evening, after Galina and Charlton treated us to a delicious home-cooked dinner, they shared their good wishes for Maelie and me, saying how they hoped we would make a good couple. I simply sat on the couch for a long, uncomfortable moment, not saying anything. However, Maelie seemed happy to hear it. She grinned and looped her fingers through mine.
When the weekend was over, I was ready to get back to Franklin. On the drive back, I found that I didn’t know what to say. Maelie was not a big talker either, resulting in a long, mostly quiet trip. Besides, I worried that if I said one wrong word, she’d ditch me at a gas station a hundred miles from Tennessee. I had no idea what was going on in her head.
Ten hours later, we pulled into the Executive House parking lot. Mrs. Olsen greeted us with her usual cheer, noting Maelie’s hand in mine and that we seemed to be a little closer. The news of our engagement spread quickly among Maelie’s relatives and my friends. When Maelie started talking about the wedding date and wedding preparations, I decided it was time to break the news to my parents. I wrote them a letter, saying I met a nice American girl named Maelie, detailing the sort of things parents in India would like to hear about a girl’s background and social status—she has a sister, her mother is a nice lady, she does not have a father, and she works at a bank. In this way, I prepared them for the possibility of a wedding.
My parents responded quickly, surprising me with their neutral feelings. They had always hoped I would follow my country’s tradition and marry a nice Indian girl with their consent, but now they accepted my decision because I had succeeded in receiving my degree after almost eight years of hard work. They knew that many Indians who study in America often marry American girls, and now their fear was coming true. At the same time, they wrote, “Whatever you are happy with, it is okay with us. We want to see you both. When are you coming back?” I still did not know, but I hoped it would be soon.
In the meantime, I began teaching an Industrial Safety course at Columbia State Community College fifty miles away. I had come to the US to learn, and now here I was teaching Americans. It didn’t matter that I knew nothing about industrial safety.
The fall semester began the third week of September. Once a week, I drove fifty miles to Columbia State Community College as soon as I got off work at the hospital, so I could make it in time for class at 6:00. The class lasted two and a half hours, and eight students attended. The course helped take my mind off Maelie and her strange, inappropriate behavior. Each week, I read the chapters and made notes so I could act as though I were the expert in front of the students, learning and teaching at the same time. The job brought in an extra $150 per month, a nice amount to go toward rent or to cushion my savings account.
Meanwhile, Maelie continued bringing small items to my apartment. We were not romantic with each other, and I didn’t dare kiss her again. Perhaps she loved me, but I couldn’t find any such feelings for her. I didn’t know what to do, so I busied myself with work and my teaching job. However, it seemed like everything was coming to a boiling point, and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it.
Then came Diwali in mid-November—the Festival of Lights. The joy and radiance of Diwali was magical, and it was my favorite time of year. My friend Randhir Chopra—called Randy—invited me to celebrate Diwali with him and his wife, Dulari, in Knoxville. Not sure if I had told him yet, I informed him about my engagement to Maelie
“What?” he said. Then after a brief pause, he added, “Okay, bring her as well.”
I was excited to see Randy and his wife. Randy had been my friend during my early years in Knoxville, and we didn’t get to see each other often, but when we did, it was like a homecoming.
I invited Maelie to come with me, and on the day of the festival, we left for Knoxville in Maelie’s car, which was newer than mine. We arrived at Randy’s house after 6:00 p.m., and I introduced Maelie, leaving out the part that she was my fiancé, but it seemed I made a mistake by not saying it.
She shook Randy’s hand, saying, “We are engaged,” and shooting me a sideways glance.
“A drink or hot tea?” Randy asked me, oblivious to the tension.
“This is drink time,” I said. “Tea time is over at 5:00 p.m.”
Randy and I drank scotch while Maelie sipped a cup of water. Then, Randy told me about the Dean’s Hill Country Club not far from his house.
“It is a very prestigious club, Kris, and it is not easy to join,” he told me. “The membership fee is $3,000. I made a reservation for us to eat there tonight.”
Randy and I couldn’t wait to celebrate with a glass of whiskey. Once seated at a table in the club, we ordered Randy’s favorite scotch, Ballantine’s Eighteen-Year-Old, considered a little better than Chivas Regal. I drank quickly, gulping down each glass and looking forward to more, hoping to drink away my situation—the fact that I was engaged, and it had happened without my proposal. After drinking three shots of straight Ballantine’s, I felt in high spirits, having let go of all the tension of the past months. Maelie sat next to me, her back straight and her lips pursed as she eyed me nervously.
I didn’t eat much, just kept wanting more scotch, and each time I finished one glass, I looked toward the waiter to ask for more. The alcohol ran down my throat and set my stomach on fire, numbing away my feelings. I’m engaged. I set the empty glass on the table harder than I meant to. How did I get into this mess? I never asked her to marry me, and I never gave her a ring. I watched the amber liquid fill my glass again as the waiter poured with a steady hand. My hand seemed not so steady. Randy and Dulari exchanged looks. Maelie’s eyes darkened, and her face turned red to match her hair, then nearly as pale as the white table cloth. She fidgeted with her silverware, and her fingers tapped on the table. She did not talk, only moved her food around on the plate, leaving most of it untouched.
After dinner, we returned to Randy’s house. I don’t remember much of what happened that night, but I am told that Randy directed me to one room and Dulari took Maelie to another. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to go to the bathroom. By mistake, I opened the closet door and tried to urinate there. Randy came out and directed me to the bathroom, which caused a great comm
otion since I was still half asleep and partially drunk.
The next morning, I woke up at around 9:00 a.m. with a pounding headache. We all waited for Maelie to come out of her room, but after more than an hour, she did not appear. Finally, we went in and saw the room empty and the bed made.
We could not believe it.
“Hey Kris, what is this?” Randy said. “Your fiancé left you here.”
Dulari, new to the culture and customs of America, was surprised and teased me, “Hey Kris, your girlfriend has run away from you. What did you do?”
Completely embarrassed by Maelie’s behavior, I couldn’t even speak. The rest of the day, Randy, Dulari, and I enjoyed ourselves, and I began to feel better about the situation. Hopefully this is over, I thought.
After spending all of Saturday and Sunday morning with the Chopras, I took a bus to Nashville, feeling upset, relieved, and confused all at once. Monday evening, Mrs. Olsen apologized, saying Maelie had rushed back in a frenzy. She was not used to seeing me drink and told her mother I was a completely different person when I was not at the Executive House.
“It was not Kris,” she kept saying. “That was not the Kris I know.”
I could not tell Mrs. Olsen the real reason I drank glass after glass so quickly. Maelie was in her room, lying in bed, so I did not see her. Frankly, I did not want to see her. But Mrs. Olsen looked on the verge of tears, and I tried to console her.
“Mrs. Olsen, it is okay this has happened,” I said in a calm voice.
Then, Mrs. Olsen started crying, and I comforted her as best I could.
“It is fine,” I said. “It is okay with me. Perhaps this is best for both of us.”
Mrs. Olsen only cried harder and apologized again.
“I wish Maelie very well,” I said, finally.
I returned to my apartment and stared at the bare walls. Maelie had taken all of her belongings from my apartment before I returned, and she never exchanged any words with me, either to apologize or to tell me the engagement was off. Regardless of the way the situation ended, I felt a sudden freedom. For some inexplicable reason, I could never say no to Mrs. Olsen. She was a picture of kindness and generosity toward me. Now I did not need to worry about hurting her feelings. Feeling like a new person, I put the kettle on the stove and made myself a cup of tea.
Chapter 11
In January 1970, I started thinking about when I would return to India. As much as I wanted to see my family again, I realized I had become comfortable in America. What if going back to India, marrying there, and settling down did not work out so well? Not wanting to turn my back on my new American lifestyle, I thought it would be a good idea to bring my wife to the US once I married, so she could experience the culture. After she became familiar with it, we could both go back to India.
In order for that to work, I needed a permanent visa to return to the US. As I also needed my employer to sponsor me, I approached Mr. Clark and told him I would like to apply for a permanent visa; otherwise, I would have to leave in six months. Mr. Clark agreed to help, and after filling out the required documents, I wrote to my parents and told them that as soon as I received my permanent visa, I would come to see them. The excitement started building. After eight years, I expected to find many changes. In my absence, my brother’s wife had given birth to five sons and one daughter, and my elder sister had two daughters and one son, all under the age of nine. I couldn’t wait to see my nieces and nephews for the first time and to start searching for my own wife.
Toward the end of January, I received a letter from my parents. “Good news,” they wrote. “There is going to be a telephone installed in Malaudh at the post office.”
Most houses did not own a telephone because not only must you apply to the government with a deposit of one thousand rupees ($175 in the 1960s), but it might take a year or two to get the phone and a connection. Usually, the phone service was set up through a telephone exchange for the entire city, and until that point, it had been possible only in big cities.
My Indian friends warned me it was complicated to make a phone call to India, but I decided to surprise my parents anyway. First, I subscribed to AT&T—the only phone service at the time—for international calling, which required an extra monthly fee. Next I booked a call with the international operator in New Jersey. Since the time difference between India and the US is about eleven hours, I booked the call for the evening, so I could reach my family during daytime hours.
Indeed, as my friends warned, telephoning my parents in India seemed to be nearly as difficult as earning a master’s degree. Just as at one point I thought I would never finish college, I now thought I might never speak to my parents on the telephone.
For three nights I tried, but the operator continually failed to make a connection. Frustrated, I spoke to the supervisor who explained that the New Jersey operator must call the New Delhi main telephone exchange. Then the New Delhi operator would call the exchange in Ludhiana city. From Ludhiana, the call would go to Mandi Ahmed Garh’s telephone exchange. Finally, the operator at Mandi Ahmed Garh would call the post office in Malaudh. The second night, every time the New Jersey supervisor placed the call, the New Delhi operators either would not pick up the phone or they would say, “Wait a minute,” and never come back to the phone. And no wonder. It was a lot of work to call the Ludhiana exchange and wait for the Mandi Ahmed Garh exchange, then wait for the Malaudh post office to pick up the phone, and finally, to wait for my parents to come to the post office. The operators in New Delhi wanted no part of it.
On the third night, I spoke to the manager of the New Jersey operators. “I have been in the US for almost eight years and have not talked to my parents even once,” I explained. “Our hometown village has just installed a phone, and I need to talk to them so that I can hear their voices and so they can hear mine.”
Sympathetic to my story, the manager could only say, “I am truly sorry, Mr. Bedi, but we are helpless if the New Delhi operator does not pick up the phone.”
For three more nights I tried to reach Malaudh. Each night, I emphasized my story to the New Jersey operator, who would relay my story to the New Delhi operator. Still no luck. Later, the operator told me that sometimes the New Delhi operator goes to sleep or is on break so they just don’t pick up the phone. That could be the story in Ludhiana as well as Mandi Ahmed Garh.
On the seventh night, as my patience was running thin and I pleaded my case yet again, all the while praising the operators for trying so hard, we finally made it through all the exchanges. The phone rang at the Malaudh post office, and the operator at the Mandi Ahmed Garh exchange said, “Hello, there is a call from America for Shree Mukandi Lal Bedi.” The man who answered the phone knew Mr. Mukandi Lal’s son was studying in the US, and he ran to my father’s shop to tell him that his son was on the phone—“Please hurry and come!”
When my father heard this, he immediately sent a message to my mother that I was on the phone at the post office. “Come in a hurry,” he urged. My parents ran to the post office. At the same time, our neighbors next to the shop also ran, passing the news along that there was a phone call from America. Around twenty-five people gathered at the post office to hear my voice. I could hear my father saying “Hello, hello,” and I answered, saying, “Hello, hello. Pari pana,” meaning “touching your feet,” a gesture of respect in Indian culture used when greeting an elderly person on the phone. That was all I could say and all I could hear due to the poor connection and the voice delay. Still my heart jumped with excitement when I heard my father’s voice. The connection was not clear, and I strained to hear him through the phone’s static.
“Krishan, our neighbor’s son, Bhushan, wants to talk to you,” my father said. The battery to the post office telephone was going low, and when he handed the phone to Bhushan, all I could hear was “Hello, hello,” before the connection became fuzzy and I could only hear static and faint noises in the background. I slumped back in my chair, frustrated that I could no
t talk to my mother. It was 3:00 a.m.
Meanwhile, the man at the post office suggested to my parents that if they were willing to travel to Mandi Ahmed Garh, the connection would be clearer, and they would be able to hear me better. The operator from Mandi Ahmed Garh was still on the line and could hear what was going on. He relayed the message to Ludhiana’s operator, who told New Delhi’s operator, who repeated it to the operator in New Jersey. “Will you wait for your parents to travel to Mandi Ahmed Garh?” the New Jersey operator asked me.
“Yes, I will wait.”
Even though Mandi Ahmed Garh is only fourteen miles away from Malaudh, I knew it would take my parents about forty minutes to reach the town by bus. Later, I learned that someone offered to take them on his scooter.
An hour later, the New Jersey operator called. “Let’s try the connection now,” she said.
Putting me on hold, she repeated the long process of getting through to the New Delhi, Ludhiana, and Mandi Ahmed Garh operators. Finally, they reached Mandi Ahmed Garh. When the line connected, I could hear many voices clamoring in the background. Besides my parents, there must have been ten to fifteen people from Malaudh crowding around the phone, anxious to hear my voice.
“Hello,” “Hello,” my father and I said at the same time. Because of the five second voice delay, we continued to talk over each other. Even still, I was happy that I could hear my father, and then finally, my mother. We didn’t say much, just kept repeating hello and simple greetings. “Pari pana,” I said to her, and my mother showered blessings on me.
“You stay happy and healthy, and may God give you lots of money.” Then my mother said in a heavy voice, “Krishan, when are you coming back? It has been eight years that I have not seen you.”
She started crying, and hearing her, I felt the tears in my own heart. “Soon,” I replied. “In a few months, once I get my visa.”
“Your three minutes are up,” the operator interrupted. “Do you want an extension?”
Engineering a Life Page 14