Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  While Bob, Evie, and I ate steak, Raj picked at the cheesy cauliflower and ate a few pieces of bread. She didn’t care for the taste of the cauliflower without spices, but she managed to eat most of it. After I drank a few beers with Bob, Raj and I returned to our apartment at around ten o’clock.

  The next day, Raj watched me get ready for work. Normally, we drank our tea in bed, but I had forgotten to buy milk, so we could not make tea. During my student life, I was particular about keeping things a girl would like in my apartment, and here I had no milk for my own dear wife who was so new in this country. As I left for work, I promised Raj I would send my secretary to bring milk, juice, and bread to the apartment.

  At eight o’clock, I strolled into St. Elizabeth Hospital, only to be greeted by surprised reactions from the administrative staff. When three months had passed and I still had not returned, they’d all placed bets with Mr. Gilreath, saying, “Kris is not coming back from India. He’s decided to stay there.” Then, when they heard I would be returning to work on Monday, January 18, they bet each other that I would not come to work at 8:00 a.m. “Oh, he will show up at noon,” they said, “being a newlywed, and since it’s the first night in his apartment.”

  Mr. Gilreath told me he’d had faith in me all along and kept telling them that I would be coming back. He was keen to know all about my wedding. We sat in the conference room, eating donuts and drinking coffee, while I filled him in on the basic details. Bill Poll, the assistant administrator, joined us, as did other administrative staff members. It was not every day that someone left their hospital to go to India and marry a stranger. Before I left the conference room, Mr. Gilreath and I discussed my work and the upcoming projects he planned for me.

  Once in my office, I sat at my desk, basking in how good it felt to be back. Suddenly, I remembered Raj needed milk for her tea. Just then, my secretary came in.

  “Oh, Mr. Bedi!” she said. “It’s good to see you back! How did your trip go? How was your wedding? You must tell me all about it. What is your wife like?”

  Susan was talkative, and while I would have liked to answer her questions, I needed to make sure Raj had milk for her tea.

  “Susan,” I said, “would you please buy some milk and take it to my apartment for my wife, Raj?”

  Susan’s eyes widened. “Would I? You bet I would!”

  She jumped up from her chair and snatched her purse from a hook on the wall. I scrawled my address and apartment number on a scrap of paper as well as several other items for her to buy. Then I gave her some money, and she was out the door.

  Reaching for the phone, I called Raj. After a few rings, Raj answered hesitantly.

  “Raj, it’s me, Krishan,” I said. “I just sent my secretary to buy milk for your tea. She will be there in a few minutes.”

  After I hung up the phone, I started planning the details for my next project, thinking Susan would return in half an hour. However, an hour passed and Susan still did not return. After two hours, I really started to worry and struggled to concentrate on my work. Finally, after nearly three hours, Susan walked into the office with a smile on her face.

  I stared at her. “Susan, what happened? What took you so long?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bedi,” she exclaimed. “I was talking to your wife. She is just beautiful. I couldn’t leave! It was so interesting to listen to her. I asked her all about your wedding, and she told me everything I wanted to know. It was so interesting that I completely forgot about the time.”

  At this, Susan laughed, but I just stared at her in amazement. What did Raj think of Susan? It never occurred to me that perhaps it was not a good idea to send a young, attractive secretary to my apartment. I did not think of Susan as anything but a friendly secretary, but Raj barely knew me, and she knew nothing of my life in America. There were stories circulating in India about successful Indian men returning to India, allowing their parents to arrange a wedding merely to please them, and then bringing the new wife back to the States. Once there, the poor girl would find this stranger already had a wife, a nice American girl he’d fallen in love with. Now, this traditional Indian girl would fall by the wayside with no choice but to return to India a disgrace or find some way to stay in the States on her own and keep the news from her family.

  At around five o’clock, I came back to the apartment. Raj made a pot of hot tea, and we drank it together, sitting on the sheet in the living room. She did not mention Susan’s visit, and when I brought up the subject, she simply stated how thoughtful it was for me to send my secretary to bring her milk. She did not seem upset, and we did not speak any further about my secretary.

  One evening, we invited Bob and Evie to come over and taste the pakoras Raj had prepared. Once Bob tasted them, he became so obsessed that it was practically all he would talk about. Bob went on and on, praising Raj to no end. Raj only smiled and nodded her head as she formed the potatoes and cauliflower into small balls, coated them with a paste of chickpea flour mixed with spices, and deep fried them in cooking oil.

  Any time I invited Bob to come to our place instead of us going to his, he would ask if he could bring along a friend so he could try the pakoras. “They go great with beer,” he would tell his friends.

  For about a month and a half, Raj fixed pakoras three to four times a week. She did not object once, and after a couple of months, almost all our friends had met my wife and eaten her famous pakoras.

  In January 1971, a reporter named Connie Remlinger asked to meet my wife and me so she could write a story about us for The Kentucky Post. The next day, she sat in my office and asked me all about my wedding from start to finish. An hour later, she asked if she could take pictures of us.

  “Let me talk to my wife about it first,” I said.

  I called Raj right away. “Raj, there is a lady from the newspaper here who wants to do a story on our wedding. She would like to take a picture of us.”

  “What?” Raj exclaimed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. She just wants to take some pictures.”

  Raj sounded hesitant, but she agreed.

  “You have such long beautiful hair,” Connie said as soon as I introduced her to Raj. “Would you like to go put on a good sari? Then I will take a few pictures of you two. It won’t take long at all, I promise.”

  Raj changed into her best sari, and we followed Connie outside into the early afternoon sunlight. Connie took out her camera and began giving us directions on how to pose. After snapping a few shots, she looked at us thoughtfully and said, “You know what I’d really like to see? Kris, have you carried Raj across the threshold yet?”

  “No, what do you mean?”

  “Oh, it’s an old tradition where the husband carries his wife in his arms into the house.”

  Raj stared at the reporter in shock. Then she looked at me in disbelief. “Kris,” she said. “How are you going to carry me to the apartment on the second floor? I am too heavy!”

  “Kris is good and strong,” Connie encouraged. “He can do it.”

  As I bent to pick Raj up in my arms, she couldn’t stop laughing, her dark eyes shining as she smiled. I carried her to the building, looking toward her face and she looking toward mine with Connie several feet in front snapping picture after picture.

  The story appeared on the front page of The Kentucky Post on January 23, with the title, “Want Ad Bride Didn’t Read It.” It was a constant source of amazement to the people of Covington that I would search for my wife by placing an advertisement in the newspaper, and after going to all this trouble, the woman I chose in the end never saw the ad. A few weeks later, the St. Elizabeth Hospital publication, Stethescoop, reprinted the story with the heading, “Mr. Bedi Finds a Wife.”

  Long-awaited journey starts with Shagun of Good Luck from the family at my home in Nov. 1961

  To the right of me, my sister-in-law with her brother and my younger sister

  My mother and maternal grandmother at the railway station

  Railway station,
with my father and his friend who helped with depositing the money

  Boarding the train to Bombay, a 1,200-mile journey over 34 hours

  Boarded the ship on Nov. 26, realized truly leaving my family, tears start flowing

  Ship sailing away to take me far away from home

  Getting off the boat in 1961, reaching for my passport

  At the residence of The President of the University of Tennessee, trying to score with his daughter, 1962

  My first job at McDonalds in the summer of 1962, posing with Cherokee Indian children

  Achieving hard-earned goals with sweat, tears, and blood: my Masters degree in 1969

  My mother, pumping the water for our water buffalo in 1970. This is a task I used to do before leaving India

  Marriage ceremony in 1970: My three sisters at the shop where I folded the cloth bolts during my high school years

  Carrying my wife, Raj, across the threshold to my apartment in Covington, Kentucky in 1971

  Promoted to Assistant Administrator at Providence Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1972

  Visiting Kashmir, India in 1981, dressed as Kashmiris

  Celebration of 10th anniversary of Providence Hospital in 1981

  Enjoying the National American Institute of Industrial Engineers Convention

  Mr. Gilreath, the administrator, awarding me a plaque of Excellence Service with Providence Hospital. I then accepted the position of Executive Director at a 500-bed complex to be built in New Delhi, India

  Last goodbye kiss from Kathy, 1983

  I partnered up with OSCAR television and appeared in a TV ad after achieving number one in sales at Gwalior Annual State Mela (Fair) in 1987

  Awarding OSCAR TV to a winning athlete at the ceremony in 1988

  Two to three weeks after bringing Raj to the US, I took her to Coppin’s department store to buy American clothes. It was the beginning of February 1971, and Raj did not have many warm clothes. While Raj browsed through a rack of women’s pantsuits, I stood several feet away browsing through a selection of sweaters. Just then, two girls got off the elevator. One of them was a girl I’d met the previous year while barhopping with Bob. Never having met anyone from India, she got it into her head that I was an exotic prince from the Middle East. She showed me off to her friends, saying, “I want you to meet my husband!” It turned into a huge joke, and I went along with it.

  As the girl and her friend walked toward the women’s clothing section, she saw me right away.

  “Kris, I haven’t seen you for so long!” she said, rushing over and wrapping her arm around me. Turning to her friend, she said, “I want you to meet my husband.”

  I froze at these words, and Raj turned around to look at the girl who was still holding my arm and smiling at me.

  Feeling embarrassed, not only for myself but for this girl, I said, “I would like you to meet my wife.” I turned to Raj, and she came forward, her dark eyes passive and unreadable. She gave a slight, tight-lipped nod at the two girls, who stared at us in shock. We all were speechless. The girl’s mouth dropped open as she backed away.

  “I am so sorry,” she said to Raj. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  We all stood there for a moment, feeling awkward and not knowing what to say. Finally, after a few more words, the girl and her friend walked away.

  Raj continued looking at clothes, and the entire time, I wondered what that must have looked like to Raj. I often left Raj alone at the apartment so I could party with Bob and his friends after work. Perhaps she thought I was with my other wife.

  Raj never shared her thoughts on this subject with me. At the time, it was not the nature of our relationship to tell each other what we were thinking, and it was such an awkward situation. It was easier to pretend it never happened, and Raj did not press me for any explanation.

  On February 27, 1971, Bob and Evie hosted a wedding reception for Raj and me so we could introduce Raj to our friends. Bob was excited about planning the event, and he asked me to tell him what food and decorations to buy for the party. I made a list and began reading it to him.

  “Fifty pounds of onions,” I began.

  Bob’s jaw dropped, and Evie almost had a stroke. She dropped the pan she was cleaning and stared at me.

  “Kris, what in the world are you going to do with fifty pounds of onions?” Evie exclaimed.

  “We need 3/4 pound of onions per person,” I answered. “We are going to chop and sauté them for the curried chicken, dal, aloo gobi, and the mater paneer (peas and ricotta cheese).”

  They stared at me incredulously.

  “Okay, Kris,” Evie laughed. “Whatever you say.”

  The day of the reception, Bob, Evie, and my Indian friends decorated the party room. Quite a few of my friends came from out of town, and we made arrangements for them to stay at Bob’s place and with Ravi Chopra and his wife who also lived in our apartment complex. Several other couples chose to stay at a hotel. Sewa Singh and his girlfriend, Gail, would stay at my apartment that night.

  Shortly before 5:00 p.m., I put on an Indian record. Raj, my Indian friends, and I fetched the rest of the food, which we had taken turns making in my apartment. As my friends arrived, I greeted them and introduced Raj who looked beautiful in an orange silk sari embroidered with gold thread. She wore her waist-length hair in a braid draped over one shoulder. Evie, wearing the green sari Raj gave her, helped Bob mix cocktails for the guests. Fifty to sixty people crowded into the room, conversing as they sipped cocktails from plastic cups. I led Raj around the room to meet everyone, and she greeted them with a shy smile, accepting their congratulations with a nod of her head and a small thank you.

  After some formal introductions and a toast, Bob explained the food to the guests and told everyone to help themselves. He felt happy that he knew the names of the Indian dishes and felt great about showing off to his American friends how intimate he was with Raj and me.

  At one point, Bob and Evie stood in line behind the owner of Coppin’s department store, Mr. Franklin and his wife. Mrs. Franklin spooned at least six Bedekar peppers onto her plate. These are spicy pickled peppers that look a lot like green beans. I bought them mostly for the Indians because we liked to eat hot peppers with our spicy food.

  “Those are very hot,” Bob warned Mrs. Franklin, knowing from experience.

  Mrs. Franklin gave him a reproving look. “Oh come on, Bob,” she said. “I can handle it. These are just beans.”

  Bob and Evie finished filling their plates and went to stand with the other Americans who formed a small group at one end of the room. Mrs. Franklin, standing only a foot away from Bob, took a few bites of the curried chicken and lentils.

  “This is very good,” she remarked to Mr. Franklin.

  Then, forking a couple of Bedekar peppers, she took a big bite. Immediately, she let out a loud yelp, grabbed Bob’s mug of beer and gulped it down.

  “Oh my God, this stuff is hot!” she exclaimed between drinks.

  After the dinner, Raj served the Indian sweets she had made, while Bob and Evie brought out a cake. Most everyone brought presents, which Raj and I opened at that time. The evening was a huge success, and by ten o’clock, the last of the guests had said their farewells, leaving only Bob, Evie, and several of my Indian friends to clean up. I was happy that most of my friends had met my wife. More than anything, I wanted Raj to feel welcome in America.

  Chapter 15

  On March 8, 1971, Raj and I climbed into the back of Bob and Evie’s VW van. We were on our way to Knoxville to celebrate Sewa Singh’s birthday, and Bob did not want to waste one second in getting to the party. He pulled onto the highway, driving seventy-five miles an hour, looking out for cops along the way. Bob had put in a table so passengers could sit across from each other and play cards, and he had also installed new carpeting, which he was proud of, constantly telling us to be careful and not make a mess with dirty shoes or any food we brought in. Half a keg of Hudepohl beer sat in the corner, and Raj held a contai
ner filled with hot aloo prantas, flat bread cooked over the stove with potatoes and spices between its two layers. We would eat the prantas and drink beer while Bob drove. At that time, the laws were not as strict about drinking beer in the back of a vehicle while someone else was driving.

  An hour into the trip, I glanced at Raj and noticed a strange look on her face. Suddenly, she leaned over and threw up all over Bob’s new carpet.

  Bob whipped his head back to see what happened. “No, aw, no,” he groaned over and over. “The new carpet! Hurry, someone clean it up.”

  Evie turned around in the front passenger seat. “Raj, are you okay?” she asked.

  “Kris, clean it up,” Bob said. “Do something!”

  “There aren’t any rags back here,” I said, frantically looking around for something to wipe up the mess.

  “Look in the very back,” Bob said, almost yelling now.

  He had slowed the van down, and we all were staring at Raj. She wiped her mouth on a corner of her sari and took a few swigs from a can of soft drink Evie gave her. Glancing at Bob and me with a worried look on her face, she said, “I’m so sorry, Bob.”

  “It’s okay, Raj,” Bob said, realizing how bad she felt. “We’ll pull over at the next gas station and let you get out for a bit.”