A Passage to America (standard:travel stories, 3569 words)
Author: Juggernaut	Added: Nov 21 2010	Views/Reads: 3182/2270	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A travel story on people trying to reach America

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

everybody used metal boxes called trunk boxes for travel in those days. 
He protected the “Samsonite” from outside elements with covers made 
from custom made thick khaki-fabric. 

Almost four decades after he visited America, he still ponders over his
short stay. When I visited him recently, once again, he gave the 
details on his short stay in America. He even cried on a bus when I 
mentioned about Ithaca, the town he lived. I cheered him up by telling 
stories he told about the girls he met at the university campus in 
Ithaca. Back at his house, he showed me the styrofoam packing, still 
intact in the original boxes after several decades like artifacts. This 
time he did not protest, when I touched them. 

In the sixties, several of my professors visited America to receive
higher education. When they returned home, everything about these men 
had noticeably changed.  Their accent was Americanized and courteous 
words like “thank you” or “appreciated” were used for every thing. They 
wore shirts with button-down collar and checkered-jackets even in warm 
weather as a show off.  Some grew long hair and wore T-shirts and blue 
jeans. Students on the campus never had the courage to wear such 
clothes at that time.   The name-plate at each professor's office 
boldly displayed the degrees received at the various universities in 
America like M.S. (University of Kansas, Manhattan, Kansas), Ph.D., 
(University of Missouri, Colombia, Missouri) or M.S. (University of 
Florida, Gainesville, Florida), Ph.D. (Texas A & M University, College 
Station, Texas) etc.  I read their name-plates with envy and at the 
same time hoped that one day I might receive degrees from America to 
list on my name-plate.  It was not so much the degrees but the name of 
a specific university or the State they visited, made these professors 
very proud and made me envy of them. 

My sister and brother-in-law, a doctor, came to America in the late
sixties when waves of medical doctors were allowed to come to America 
during the Vietnam conflict.  My sister sponsored me to come to 
America. I waited 5 years to enter America with a permanent visa or 
green card. But this was 20 years ago.  Hundreds and thousand of 
Indians entered the United States by the route I took; sponsorship by a 
close relative. 

My sister also sponsored my mother, and she in turn sponsored my younger
brother.  This caused a huge family feud back home that resembled an 
Indian movie. 

My sister's mother-in-law, a seventy years old woman with heart problem
was upset that she was not sponsored like my mother was sponsored. My 
sister explained that it was her son who had to file papers for her to 
immigrate to the United States. Both my mother and my sister's 
mother-in-law lived in the same town, and were close friends. But, 
their friendship went sour over this episode. For some reasons, my 
brother-in-law was not keen on sponsoring his mother. Eventually, a big 
fight broke out between my mother and my sister's mother-in-law. Our 
relatives compared the fight to “Mahabharatha”, an ancient epic story 
of family feud. At last, my brother-in-law sponsored her mother and she 
came to the United States jubilantly with a permanent visa in hand to 
join my mother in America. 

After they spent a few weeks in America, none of the women liked their
stay. Here, the women complained that the place was too clean and 
streets were too quiet. They missed the jostling street crowds, the 
noise from autos honking for no reason, the visits to dusty markets 
with odors that emanate from rotten vegetable trash and the bargains 
with vendors to save few cents here and there. Both agreed that the 
vegetables grown in India tasted better than grown in America.  My 
mother compared the size of eggplant here in the US to pumpkin in 
India. My sister's mother-in-law compared the taste of tomatoes grown 
in the US to that of cardboard. They missed green-mangoes used to make 
fresh south Indian chutney. After they went back home to India, they 
slowly patched up their differences that aroused over “passage to 
America.”  They realized after all that the stay in America was not as 
satisfying as they imagined. Nevertheless, they constantly talked about 
their visit to America with their friends, mostly older women who 
listened with envy. 

Years later, I settled in the United States working in the recycling
business. Once, while returning from Yakima in Washington State to 
Seattle on the company business, an American who sat next to me asked,  
 “you must be from South India?” “ I can figure it out from your looks, 
and accent,” he was pretty down to earth in his conversation. 

I looked at him with pleasant surprise that somebody recognized my roots
just from my looks and the accent. 

“Were you visiting Yakima on business?” he inquired. 

“No, actually, I was returning from Sunnyside, a town few miles south of
Yakima, I was on the company business.” I was brief in my conversation. 


“I was born in South India near Madras, my parents were missionaries, I
came back to the States with my parents when I was twelve,” he said in 
a matter-of-fact way. 

“Oh yeah, you are the first American born in Madras that I have met in
USA,” I said with a friendly smile. 

“Well, I went to India several times later.  I was in aircraft parts
distribution business.” 

I realized that I was speaking with somebody with substance, I meant
materially, and otherwise. 

“You know, every politician or bureaucrat I met in India on business
requested me to sponsor their children to come to the United States,” 
he said, as if he disclosed some important information. 

While munching on the snacks, I asked, “have you sponsored any from
India?” 

“Yeah, in fact I did, several children of the Indian bureaucrats, who
gave me the business contracts in return.” 

“Good for them. At least these people did not have to jump over the
hoops to find a passage to America.” I thought. 

The flight was short between Yakima and Seattle. I said good-bye to him
and departed from the plane in Seattle. 

Indians approached “Moksha.” or salvation step by step, a tedious and
time taking process that needed lots of patience and sacrifice. They 
applied the same technique to find a passage to America.  Indians took 
every opportunity to leave India; for Singapore, Indonesia, Africa, 
Middle East, West Indies, Latin America or any other country that 
accepted them; that was the first step towards “Moksha.” The next or 
the second step was to reach England or Canada or Mexico.  The journey 
completed when the final destination: America or  “The Swarga Lokha” 
was reached, and “moksha” was fully attained. A passage to America 
became a three-step process. 

Years ago, I met a young Indian doctor in Niagara Falls on the Canadian
side.  We both took a boat ride to watch the Horseshoe Falls at a close 
range. While I was busy taking pictures of the waterfall, the doctor in 
soaking wet raincoat was busy sizing up the height one had to scale to 
get into the American side.  After the boat ride, I gathered from him 
that he completed two steps to “Moksha” (one from India to Barbados in 
the Caribbean and the second to Canada), but the third and final step 
to America appeared elusive to him. When I mentioned that I live in 
America and drove to the Canadian side to get a good look at the 
Horseshoe Falls, he was full of envy. He jokingly mentioned whether he 
could hide in my car trunk to drive pass the immigration on the 
American side of the bridge. I left him on the Canadian side assured 
that he would succeed somehow to get to America soon. He smiled 
flashing his white-teeth and said good bye to me as I drove off. 

While teaching social studies to my daughter I learnt that the word
“conquistador” meant, “to conquer”. Hundreds of years ago, many 
conquistadors from Spain came to Americas for gold. In gold rush days, 
Americans from east traveled to the west to find gold. Now, many 
Indians from India are rushing to America to sell gold jewelry. Across 
the United States, the kiosks that sell gold jewelry in shopping malls 
are either managed or owned by the Indians. It is a kind of a gold rush 
to the west or a passage to America to sell gold. In the twenty-first 
century, the East Indians were bringing gold to America while their 
brethren, the American Indians in sixteenth century lost their gold to 
the Spanish conquistadors. 

In our town shopping mall, I came across one or two kiosks that sold 14K
gold jewelry are managed by Indians. On one Sunday, while my wife and 
daughter were shopping in the mall, I struck a brief conversation with 
the manager of the one the kiosks that sold 14K gold jewelry. 

“Do you work here?” I asked. 

“I own this and several other kiosks in Indiana and Iowa, you know, I
lived in Canada for sixteen years before I came to the United States,” 
he said. 

The jeweler quickly established that he completed the three-step trip
from India to America via -Canada to attain “moksha,” a no nonsense 
achievement. 

“You know, we, the Indians like gold jewelry made with 22K gold not 10K
or 14K jewelry, he said placing the chains back into the showcase.” 

I agreed with him. For Indians, pure gold jewelry was more like an
investment rather than ornaments to wear on a daily basis. 

I sat on a bench in the mall to relax and reflected upon my first
encounter with an Indian jewelry salesman in Las Vegas years ago.  I 
strolled up and down on the strip during the daytime while most 
visitors to Vegas generally come out in the late evening for the 
entertainment. On a hot tarmac, I came across a sweaty Indian carrying 
a brief case. We both took a shelter in a building from the fiery hot 
sun like two animals of the same species resting in the shade of a tree 
in a concrete jungle. He was a salesman  who sold Native American 
jewelry made in India. I was bewildered to hear from him that some of 
the Native American jewelry was hand made in India since it was cheap 
than to make it over here in the United States. I suggested that he 
should consider making aboriginal jewelry to sell to gift shops in 
Australia, a country closer to India. 

During a trip to India to attend my cousin's wedding in early 90's, I
landed in Bombay airport. As usual the place was chaotic for the first 
few hours until most of the passengers had left the airport. Those 
waiting for the local flights were transferred to the domestic airport. 


An American couple in their early sixties traveled with me in the
courtesy van from the International airport to the domestic airport.  
The couple were civil and dignified in their appearance as if they were 
from a university town in the United States such as Ames, Portland, 
Austin or Seattle know for civility, not that Americans from other 
cities were over-bearing or outlandish. The man was baldheaded and wore 
a sweater, and the woman was wearing slacks. These folks were pleasant 
and gave handsome tip to the porter. 

They were constantly looking around as if they were expecting to be met
by someone at the airport. They both looked at me several times to make 
an eye contact. I thought they might need some help, given the chaos at 
the airport.  Eventually, they sat next to me and asked casually if I 
am in the Information Technology (IT) business.  I told them I am in 
the recycling business. They did not bothered to ask any further 
questions. But, they caught up with an Indian woman in her late 
twenties sitting not too far from me. 

Again, they posed a similar question to the Indian woman; the man asked
if she is in the IT business. I was curious and listened closely to 
their conversation. 

“Yes, I am currently working as computer specialist, just returning from
Singapore,” the woman with tired looks disclosed. 

“There are plenty opportunities for IT specialists in the United States,
you know,” the man's voice was encouraging. 

“Oh really, I once tried through an employment agency in India but never
got through,” she explained with some excitement in her voice. 

“Sure, we could get you a decent job and even a green card that allows
you to stay permanently in the US and even become a citizen.”  The 
American woman now took her turn to talk to the Indian woman.  The 
American woman almost offered instant “Moksha” without going through 
the traditional three-steps to find a passage to America to the young 
Indian woman. They both exchanged the addresses to correspond later. 

The American couple moved on with their neck stretched like ostriches in
the crowd to see whether they could find any more “IT workers” to offer 
a passage to America. 

During my air travel within the United States on business. I came across
several young Indian fellow travelers. Most of these were engaged in 
computer or Information Technology (I T) business, brought to U.S. as 
“I T workers.” All of these workers attained instant “Moksha” since 
America needed “IT workers” to fill up the vacancies in a hurry. 

I think it was at the Minneapolis airport, I first met Dattatraya, a
young man in his early thirties. We both were waiting to catch a 
delayed flight. From his mannerisms I realized that he recently entered 
U.S. as an IT worker from India. His wife, a slender, quite and shy 
person holding a toddler was sitting next him. He was looking at me in 
a friendly manner and several times tried to make an eye contact and 
eventually walked towards me, and sat next to me like a shy child, 
trying to get-over his shyness to receive a candy from a stranger. 

To break the ice I asked, “what part of India are you from?” 

“From South and our first visit to America,” he expressed certain amount
of warmth and closeness despite the fact he never met me before. 

“Are you living in the U.S. for a while,” he said. 

“Yeah, for some time now,” I said. 

“ Are you in IT business?” he asked. 

“No.” 

“Are you a doctor?” 

“No, I am an engineer.” 

He realized that I was not in a mood for a chat.  Luckily, the flight
was ready to take off and we all got into the plane. 

I met Dattatraya or Dan as he called himself later, in our town shopping
mall with his wife and child. This time, they both were bold and 
self-confident in their conversation, particularly his wife. 

“Do you know how we could get the green card to stay here indefinitely,”
she asked, while her husband looked sideways as if he was not 
interested in the subject or he assigned the responsibility of getting 
the information to his wife. 

“It was long time ago I came here, perhaps the best thing is to get in
touch with an immigration lawyer to get good advice, you know,” I said. 


Dan now took his turn to ask questions of his own. “If we conceive a
child here, could we get to stay here permanently as parents of an 
American born child.” 

I was sorry to get caught up in this situation to answer these questions
about immigration to these folks whom I hardly knew expect I met them 
briefly in the airport a few weeks ago. At the same time, I wanted to 
be friendly and not to be rude. While I was thinking, the man's wife 
asked me how she could bring her sister here in a hurry before the 
immigration rules changed. 

“That was it, I thought,” before I said anything, my twelve year old
daughter came running to me to hurry up to get into the movie theater. 
This saved me from Dan and his anxious wife for the time being. 

Indians were always good with numbers and computing. A great Indian
mathematician “Aryabhatta” in 500 AD was believed to be responsible for 
inventing alphabetical counting system and the number sign “0” for 
Zero.  It was not surprising that many storefront computer training 
schools were churning out hundreds of thousands of trained “IT workers” 
from India to find their way into other countries for jobs. 

Not that I did not want to help Dan and his wife in their pursuit to get
green card, I was not the right person to advise them on the matters of 
immigration. Since our town had a computer manufacturing company, 
dozens of Indian “IT workers” landed temporarily as migrating birds do. 
 At social gatherings, the IT workers with visa application approved 
commanded more respect than those whose applications were still 
pending. The permanent US visa approval status became a status symbol 
among the IT workers. 

Thousands of IT workers like Dattatraya found a passage to America in
21st century without going through the traditional three- steps to 
achieve “moksha” like their predecessors went through because of a 
great need for IT workers in the United States. 

During my air travels and lengthy wait at the airports, every time I
came across Indian IT workers with their families, the song “Exodus, 
Movement of the People” by Bob Marley, the famous reggae singer from 
Jamaica comes to my mind again and again. My thoughts invariably would 
go back to my boyhood days when my brother Srinivas and I made up the 
tune “The Michigan Lady.” 


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