\u00a0\u00a0 “You may call me Unni,” said UV, as he drove the car. “It’s Unnikrishnan Varadarajan.”<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0 Unni is from south India: a southie<\/em>, in our colloquial Bengali parlance. A senior graduate student in the engineering department, he was only one of the few who owned a car. So the department secretary requested him to give me the ride. “You must be craving for some rice and daal<\/em>,” Unni mentioned as we reached his apartment. I smiled. Being a kind host that he was, he cooked dinner for me before he went to pick me up. And his cooking was very well indeed. “Treat\u00a0 me with some macher jhol<\/em>,” Unni tried his Bengali language skill on me. I assured him that I will. “You are welcome to stay in my place tonight,” said Unni. “But the foreign student house has already rented a room at Treadway hall for you.”<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 “Thanks for your invitation,” I told him. “But I should better be in my room today.”<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 He drove me to Treadway Hall, a multistoried apartment complex, where the newly arrived foreign students were temporarily housed on Brookside Ave. Brick built and tall, the monolithic building stood in a vast sea of white snow. For the first few years in America, I wondered why they did not paint the brick buildings in this country, till I accepted it as a form of architectural design. Several tall pine trees, laden thick with snow, stood silently nearby. Once in a while, in the slightest wind, lumps of snow fell down from the branches and the wind blew the dusty dry powder around. A narrow concrete path from the side walk led you to the double glass door in front of the building. The manager cleaned the snow on the path everyday. A black plastic doormat was placed in front of the door; to dust off the snow and frozen mud stuck under the shoe. I had my ambassador shoe, the best and priciest I could buy from Kolkata for my winter use. But my feet felt frozen when I went outside; the thin socks that I had were no match for the sub zero Midwest winter. My eyes would hurt by the glistening snow in the sun and a white chill pervaded the freezing nights. I accepted these as the normal part of American life and silently endured.\u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 I was put in a basement room at Treadway hall. That was the only room available at that time, I was told. As you enter the front door of the building, the stairway was on the right. Going down to the basement, I would smell a peculiar stale odor. I later connected the smell with the detergent used in the laundry machines housed there. The basement floor was bare concrete, unlike carpets in other floors above. And the concrete was painted\u00a0light moss green. The walls there had cream colored paints, flakes of which came loose from some areas. Walking along the narrow corridor, you could see small frosted glass windows above your eye level on the right wall; faint light through which filtered from outside. To make the corridor bright, dim electric bulbs were lit all the time. Near the end of the corridor, on the left, is a common bathroom. And\u00a0 past that, there was an open space in the end, with several colored plastic chairs scattered around a dining table; a sink with hot and cold water faucet stood against the wall. An electric stove with four heating coils was on one side of the sink and a mustard yellow refrigerator was on the other. Several circular fluorescent lights\u00a0on the low ceiling were always on. The spartan and untidy look of the area bore the sign of its careless student inhabitants. On each end of this kitchenette were several rooms. I had to share one room with another student. Inside the room and next to the door stood a steam heater radiator, an appliance I was not familiar with. And a small closet was along the wall. Empty otherwise but some folded news paper on the floor, the closet had several hangers; presumably left by the previous renters. We had two beds at the two ends; and a small bedside desk with drawer, in between. Every now and then, and specially in the night, the steam heater radiator would produce a muffled hurtling sound followed by a hissing noise. Initially it was so unfamiliar that it would wake me up in the night. I got habituated to the sound and the surrounding soon though.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 The nearby rooms were occupied by several Taiwanese students, who, it appeared to me, were more used to the area. Their casual use of the kitchen signaled that they had been there for some time. To me, at that time, the Chinese students appeared as exotic as the Americans were; in fact anyone but the East Asians, was. I bet, I looked just as unfamiliar in their eyes as well. The bathroom was difficult to get adjusted to. All our lives we used Asian style toilets, completely private with air tight doors. Here the walls of the toilet rooms were open at the bottom on three sides; even the front door did not close tightly, privacy became such a sore issue that I was looking for that time of day when others would not be around. The American toilet was new. We had a bath stall, but no hanger to hang our clothes. I started longing for a private apartment.\u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 My day started early. I wanted to finish my degree in as short a time as I could; a common pitfall for many freshly arrived foreign students. And in the school, I took as many class units as possible; driving me nuts in the way. Something I wish now that I had not done. The school was about half a mile from Treadway Hall; not that far distance wise but the cold and snow at 7:30am in bleak cloudy winter mornings made the walk a chore. Trucks with snow blowers used to move the snow; and only few other students would walk for their 8 o\u2019clock morning class. Barren maples and poplars with dried limbs stood quietly along the road; and the pines were laden with fluffy white snow, bending their needles down. Gray-white smoke belched out silently from some chimney tops and a few dog owners would be out with their pets; their body covered in heavy winter clothes and their breath visible by the misty fog it created. \u00a0\u201cGood morning,\u201d someone would greet me.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThank you,\u201d I would reply; forgetting that I needed to respond in like instead of thanking. I could see that the ladies smiled behind me. They realized that I was fresh in this country.\u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 A Bengali couple, whom I came to know, drove me and a few others to a K-mart. The husband, whom we called dada<\/em>, a common Bengali word we use to call a senior male friend, was an engineer. He immigrated to this country much earlier, went to India to get married and then brought his wife, our Boudi<\/em>. They were American citizens. And that, in our estimation, was an extra level of achievement in their cap. They had their own house and had a big Ford sedan.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhere is Pinky?\u201d a friend asked dada in Bengali.<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cShe is sick,\u201d his wife replied with a smile, turning her head backward from her front passenger sit. Boudi<\/em> was fair, with a pretty face and middle aged; she had a gleaming ear ring that twinkled as she moved her head. Pinky was their pet poodle. The couple did not have any children; and boudi<\/em> stayed home alone with her dog. She was an excellent cook and made foods for us.\u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 I bought a parka, a blanket, pair of bed covers, pillows and thick socks; I bought skillets, toaster, cutlery and plates. Our friends used their past experience to help us buy baby oil, chap sticks, skin lotion, soap and shampoo. We also bought notebooks, pens and pencils. I was amazed by the vastness of the store, by the sheer number of items stacked on the long and high shelves; surprised that we could go around with carts to select and pick our own choices; something not available back home.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBuy anything you like,\u201d dada<\/em> suggested. \u201cYou know, you can return it later if you don\u2019t like.\u201d He marveled at the lax return policy of retail stores in this country.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAnd no one will even ask you a question!\u201d boudi<\/em> added with a grin.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s the best part,\u201d dada said.<\/p>\n \u00a0I felt happy and amazed. The packaging was glossy and the materials looked beautiful. I took time counting new currency and coins at the counter. A friendly young lady helped us with a smile. My new encounter with imperialistic world went smoothly. Pushing my cart out of the store, I mentally multiplied the total bill with eight, the exchange rate between Indian rupee and an American dollar. The price felt absurdly exorbitant and it did not go well with my money conscious mind! But I kept quiet.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 From K-mart, we went to Big Lion, a grocery store in the same shopping mall. And I bought bread and butter, milk and rice, oil and potato; and a host of other items I would need to start cooking by myself.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGet settled,\u201d dada said after they unloaded our bags to our room. \u201cWe shall take you to see a movie one of these days.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThank you dada,\u201d I told him. \u201cThank you boudi.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou are welcome,\u201d dada replied. \u201cCall us if you need anything\u201d. They returned to their car and left the parking lot. The red light from the car\u2019s tail light reflected on the white snow as the car took a right turn on the road and vanished. It was dark. And the street lamps created illuminated circles on the side walk. I walked back to my basement room; I could see some outside light peeping through the tiny window panes, partially covered with snow. I was tired and sleepy. Something, they called a jet lag, just won\u2019t leave me. Somehow, putting the perishables in the shared refrigerator, I left others in the bag in the room and laid flat on the bed. I fell asleep.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u00a0\u00a0 “You may call me Unni,” said UV, as he drove the car. “It’s Unnikrishnan Varadarajan.” \u00a0\u00a0 Unni is from south India: a southie, in our colloquial Bengali parlance. A senior graduate student in the engineering department, he was only … Continue reading