TANDOORI TEXAN TALES
by
Raj Dore
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Raj Dore on Smashwords
Tandoori Texan Tales of Raj Dore
Copyright © 2010 by Raj Dore
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 1-4107-6999-2 (e-book) ISBN: 1-4107-6998-4 (Paperback)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2003094864 1stBooks - rev. 10/24/03
THE CELEBRITY
CHAPTER 1
It all started with American Airlines Flight 523 at the Dallas/Fort worth International Airport. Seema, my wife dropped me off at the Terminal A by the curbside at 3:30PM on that Sunday afternoon, and drove off before it was going to be Munni’s feed time.
I was on my weekly jaunt to Raleigh, North Carolina. I had one leg here and one leg there. I was working on a project to provide Software Consultancy to Carolina Power & Utility Company, while my home was still in Dallas.
I was called a Contract Consultant. Large corporations would often hire people like me to help them out with sudden surge of work. While they needed extra hands to get over such humps, they loathed hiring permanent employees.
Permanent employees would need extra cost to part with, when it was time to bid them good bye. Stockholders would also be quite pleased that the total payroll was kept low. This was of course a fallacy. The cost came back to them by way of revolving door when the same personnel were called in as hourly contractors, like me. For me working as an independent contractor brought a higher income while I took the risk of not finding work between two contracts.
I had to rent an apartment in Raleigh for the duration of this 6-month project that had now extended to over a year. I would fly home every Friday night and get back to the Project, on Sunday night. On some weekends Seema and Munni would fly down to Raleigh as well. They could not do that all the time due to Seema’s job in Dallas or her sheer unwillingness.
The skycap politely informed me that curbside check-in for baggage was put on hold that evening due to a security alert. ‘Security Alert’, oh my God how many times have I had to put up with that phrase? Would life ever get back to its normalcy of 2 years ago? Those Al-Qaida guys had surely got the whole country topsy-turvy.
As I kept mumbling to myself, I swished my Visa into the Cart-smart and pulled out a handcart. I loaded my luggage on to it and slowly started pushing it toward the escalator. As usual there was a long line of frustrated passengers trying to get through the Security Check. After standing in the rear for a few minutes I felt even more exasperated at the slowness of the movement in front of me. Only way I found some solace was by looking over my shoulders and
seeing how long the line had grown behind me. Life itself is like that, is it not? If only you look at people more unfortunate than you are, you feel yourself not so unlucky after all.
The whole process did finally come grindingly to an end. After checking the stuff in and going through the turnstiles, I found that I still had a good 45 minutes for the Flight.
I was glad I had the membership to the American Airlines’ Admirals Club. This is a small little niche where you can rise above the dust and din of travelling crowds. You realize its importance if you are constantly living out of your suitcase and running along miles and miles of airport conveyor belts, for making a living. For a mere $350 per year you can buy an entry to this home between your homes.
There are always those charming hostesses with smiling faces that politely first ask you to show your membership card. Having established your identity, they take you into their wings. There are spacious areas for relaxing, reading, watching TV or just do nothing. If you are a business traveler like me, you can even hook up your laptop and catch up with your reports due next morning. There are soft lights, music and a bar for someone needing uplifting of spirits, literally.
At about 5 minutes before the Boarding time, I gathered my hand baggage and got through the gangway into the waiting aircraft. There was again a long line of people on the aisle trying to shove their hand luggage on to the bin overhead and squeezing their way into the appropriate seats. Then there were those moms trying to manage a few unruly brats in one hand and some baggage on the other.
My seat, as I had requested while making the booking, was fortunately on the aisle side of one of the front rows. I settled down quickly and strapped myself.
Once the Flight Crew cleared the aisles after serving what passes off as evening snacks, I felt like stretching myself a little. Since the toilets on the rear were too far, I thought I would use the ones in the front. I passed through the First Class cabin. After refreshing myself, I languidly started walking back. Then what transpired changed rest of my life.
The First Class was very sparsely occupied, just two or three people in all those 20 odd seats. I spotted one face that struck my solar plexus like a ton of bricks. She was wearing Salvar-kameez and had covered a good portion of her head with the Dupatta. She pretended to be engrossed in a book, quite oblivious of the surroundings. The setting sun shone through the window on her side. She was wearing very large sunglasses that covered almost one-third of her face. Very obviously, she valued her privacy very dearly and did not want to be recognized. Even then, it struck me that she seemed very familiar, as if I might have met her some where, some time. But I just could not place a label on that face. I kept walking and came back to my seat.
The sun had set after a while. The lights had been dimmed. Only some soft lights at the aisle were kept on. Some passengers had turned on their reading lights. I stood up and walked toward the First Class cabin once again, wanting to take another look at this mysterious passenger. The reading light illuminated her face partially; it was still buried in the book. Only then slowly, it all came back to me.
She was Archana Roy. Yes, oh my God! It was indeed she. I had watched her on the movie screen so many times.
My first reaction was to want to walk up to her and ask if it was really she. If I had still been in my college days, I might have done it. I have done it with several celebrities while in the University. If nothing else, at least ask for an autograph and show proudly to my friends. My collection of autographs included stars from several walks of life, Cricketers, Statesmen, visiting celebrity Speakers at the College functions and yes, Movie Stars.
But now things were so different, after having entered real workaday world. It seemed so silly for somebody to do that at my station in life. You are less inclined to take the risk of your pride being hurt. Besides, it was so obvious to me that she was quite insistent on not being recognized. I gave up that whole idea.
I continued cranking on my laptop keyboard. This report was due at 10:00AM next morning. If I were not ready with it for the presentation at the Staff Meeting, Don Welsner, the Project Managar would chew me alive. Release of funds for the whole Project depended upon our convincing the Departmental Heads of our capabilities at meeting the goals. Getting involved in hobnobbing with movie stars wanting to remain anonymous was way down on my list of priorities.
Usually I schedule these periodic trips home at least a month ahead of time. But my trip previous week had to be rescheduled for this week, at the last minute. Don had insisted that I stay back and get the Payroll System’s conversion fully tested before I left. It had been impossible for me to get a direct flight from Dallas to Raleigh. The best I could do was this flight, hopping via Little Rock, Arkansas and Atlanta, Georgia.
The Little Rock Airport is a relatively small wayside airport with much fewer facilities. The stopover was for some 45 minutes. Some of us got down to walk around in the airport. I gathered my briefcase, shoulder bag and the laptop. Then I came out of the plane slowly walking down the gangway.
As I was browsing at the gift shop, I looked through the corner of my eyes. She had also got down and was browsing at another corner of the shop. The lounge was inside the Secure Area and I wanted to remain within that. I did not find anything interesting at the shop. I settled down at a lounge chair and resumed working on the report.
However I saw that she had wandered out of the secure area, possibly to look around other shops outside.
Some ten minutes before boarding time, I once again put all of my stuff together to get back into the flight. As I passed along the boarding gate, I heard some altercation near the Security Check area. Curious as to what could it be, I looked around to find that the Security Guard was having some heated arguments with her. There was obviously some problem as she was trying to get back through the Security Check.
I might have kept walking, minding my own business. As luck would have it, I came toward the scene of disturbance and volunteered to intervene. The Security people were keen that she be strip searched and thoroughly examined as they considered her a security risk. She on the other hand was quite insistent that she should not be put to any such humiliation.
As it happens in most such instances, there were also probably plenty of communication gaps. She conversing in her convent educated British accent and they trying to convey their thoughts in heavy Southern flair. As there were plenty of people waiting behind her to get in, the scene of altercation was moved into another location while the rest of the passengers were allowed to keep moving.
The other location happened to be the office of Sergeant Steve McKlusky, as it was announced on the brass plate outside its door. There was a glass panel that secluded the office from rest of the lounge, making it possible for outsiders to see but not hear, what was going on within. Sergeant McKlusky was the Chief Security Officer of the Airport. He was not in the chamber at that time. There were Officers Pete Williams and Maria Hernandez. The former was an African American while the latter, a Hispanic young lady. They were trying to interrogate her in all possible ways and she was being defiant. I knocked on the door, slowly opened it and literally stuck my neck into that confrontation.
I smiled and looked at Officer Williams and said “Officer, there seems to be some problem here. Could you use some help?”
He readily smiled back and said, “Thanks very much for asking Sir. Yes, we sure can use some help. Please step in.”
They explained to me that they were under a very high alert of Security threat that day and were totally unwilling to take any chances whatsoever. I wondered if they focused their suspicion on her due to her attire and looks, but decided not to exacerbate the situation by kicking in more controversy.
I spoke out, “Officers, I quite realize you are doing your duty and doing it very well. As a matter of fact, we as passengers feel so much more confident of travelling because of good Officers like you. She already went through one Security Check while boarding at Dallas, is it not? Please let me tell you further that, I am Dr. Rohit Sharma holding a Ph.D., in Computer Engineering from the Cockerell-Hill University of Dallas, Texas. I am a U.S. Citizen currently flying to Raleigh North Carolina on an assignment to provide software design to the Carolina Power & Light on their Nuclear Security System. Please allow me assure you that this young lady is no potential or real Terrorist. You could safely let her go.”
Officer Maria Hernandez spoke first. “Thank you Sir. However, you have not established what is her relationship with you and how could you be so sure of her”.
“Could both of you please step into the ante-room with me? I would like to show you something in private. Please close the door behind you”, I replied.
I opened my briefcase and pulled out the latest edition of “News India Times”, a sister publication of “The Times of India”, coming out of New York City. I flipped to the 9th page. On the one side it had a large picture of Archana Roy being crowned Miss Universe from a couple of years ago. On the another side there was her picture receiving the Urvashi (The Most Outstanding Actress of the Year) Award from the President of India. There was a write up on her as well.
I showed it to them and told them, “You guys are making a big mistake. I strongly suggest you drop the whole case and quietly back off. Otherwise there is going to be plenty of ugly publicity for everybody, especially you. If you wish, you may call Sergeant McKlusky at home and ask. If it would help, I am willing to call Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina and let his staff talk to you. I doubt whether that is the route you all wish to take.”
There was a stunned silence for a couple of minutes. I closed the briefcase and walked out of the room, back into the lounge. I saw her coming out of the room as well.
American Airlines Flight 523 had taken off in the meantime without us. There was another flight via Minneapolis reaching Raleigh at 2AM. Even that was full and I was going to be 15th on the waiting list, not a good chance, by any means.
My first concern was my 10 O’clock meeting next morning 900 miles away. If I did not show up with that report, Don Wilsner would cut me into pieces and eat raw with his salad for lunch. I called him from the nearest telephone kiosk. Thank God, I was able to get through.
His little daughter picked up the phone and told me that her dad was watching his Alma Mater, UNC playing Nebraska in the Final Six of NCAA Basketball. I asked her how UNC was faring so far. Not too good, she said. That means Don was going to be in a sullen mood. When he finally came on the line, I asked him if anyway the meeting could be postponed by 24 hours. After some grumbling and groaning, he said he would check with his boss and call me back. In another half an hour my cell phone rang. Yes that was going to be okay.
CHAPTER 2
I did not want to take any more chances with flights. Only way I could be sure of reaching, even 24 hours later was to rent a car and drive all the way. I was at the Avis counter waiting anxiously for them to check out availability of some decent Wheels.
I saw her walking toward me. She smiled. Extending her hand, she said, “Thank you so very much. You saved me from a very ugly embarrassment”. I asked her not to mention it at all. Then I asked her, what her further plans were? Whither was she heading next?
She was stuck from reaching her destination as well. What was worse, she did not have even the wherewithal that I had grabbed out of the deserting aircraft. As it turned out, her wallet with money and credit cards were all left on board the flight that was 35,000 feet above mother Earth. All she had got down with, was her handbag with her passport, travel papers and some small money stuck in one of its pockets.
I wanted to help and asked further. Did she know anybody here or elsewhere that she could call? Would she wish to use my calling card?
As it turned out, she had an aunt in New Jersey. When she called them, they had gone for the weekend and had not returned yet. She left a message on their answering machine. She had nowhere else to go as she loathed asking anybody else especially the business contacts. I told her of my plans and offered her a ride, if she wished to hitch hike with me. She seemed to have little better alternative.
After checking my Driver License and Credit Card, Avis made me sign the rental papers. What we got was a green Toyota Camry, 4-door sedan. I threw my few belongings in the back seat. I strapped myself in the driver seat and opened the door on the other side for her to get in. By about 7:30PM Central Time, we were on our way. I tried keeping cool with my companion and concentrated on driving.
She broke the ice and came clean. She said, “I know very well that you know who I am. But there is very little I know about you, excepting what you told those Security Cops. Why not we stop pretending and become friends?”
I told her, “Yes I do know who you are. As a matter of fact, you may even count me amongst your countless fans. But you see I am a regular middle class Professional. My Universe and yours can hardly ever intersect. The last thing I want is a celebrity movie star turning my simple life topsy-turvy. Let us just downgrade our relationship from friendship to acquaintance. Once we reach Raleigh, I will see to it that you can get to wherever you wish to go safely. If you wish you might repay me whenever you can. That is all there is to it, between you and me. Our paths will never cross again, I am quite sure.”
“Never say never. Besides, please don’t be too harsh on yourself or me. Just hang loose and treat me like any other girl next door. As for repaying, I may never be able to repay for what you did for me today”, she said.
“Okay let us compromise. We will not put a label on our relationship. Let us be whatever comes naturally to us. As for repayment, I will take a rain check”.
We passed a huge billboard inviting us to Hope, Arkansas, the birthplace of Ex-President Bill Clinton just 5 miles away. But we were hardly in the mood to go gallivanting on sightseeing missions and collecting souvenirs. We had a very long drive ahead of us.
I was on U.S. Highway 40 speeding toward the Northeast at a good 70-mph. On an average I can clock about a mile a minute. I break after every one hour for a little stretching and freshening up at Little Boys’ Room. I am never comfortable driving all through the night. So I stop overnight to get a comfortable night’s sleep. Next morning, I always fill the gas tank of my car and myself with a hearty breakfast, before heading further. Who knows when is the next place where we would get either?
As you cross the bridge over the Mississippi River, on US40, you not only cross state-boundaries from Arkansas into Tennessee, but also go right into the city of Memphis. You can also see the difference in the standards of maintaining highways between the two states.
Memphis would be the last major city for quite some distance of our journey. Since neither my companion nor me had much by way of personal belongings, I thought it would make sense to halt at a Department Store before they close for the day and buy ourselves some articles of clothing, toiletries and other bare necessities.
As we were driving out of Memphis, it had become quite dark. She just tilted her seat backwards and closed her eyes. There were just those green lights of various dials on the dashboard. There was not much traffic on the highway; just an 18-wheeler every once in a while that I had to overtake. To break the eerie silence, I turned on the radio. I caught a station of University of Memphis, playing some great jazz.
Suddenly the music stopped and a voice announced late breaking news. “This is AP Network News. American Airlines Flight 523 bound from Dallas/Fort Worth to Raleigh, North Carolina has lost contact with the control tower, after taking off from Little Rock, Arkansas. We are still monitoring the news and will keep you updated.” We were startled at first. But denial took over our attitude. We told ourselves, everything must be alright. It must be one of those incidents that end up being a ‘technical’ problem with radar or communication. As we were driving away from Memphis, there was no good station that we could catch, to get updated on that disturbing news.
This route is very familiar to me. I have plied on it several times in the past year. There is this little town 300 miles from Little Rock, at the outskirts of Nashville, where there is a ranch of Country Singer Loretta Lynn, of “Coal Miner’s Daughter” fame. They hold Country & Western music concerts there, every so often. It has a quaint little restaurant. The waitresses with sizable bosoms, wearing dark flowered frocks, with embroidered aprons, attend to you with gleeful smiles. The tablecloths in red and white checks are nicely starched. There are little baskets of fresh baked buns wrapped in spotlessly white napkins. You can get a hearty dinner buffet of fried-chicken, roast beef, gravy, mashed potato, beans and what have you, for $10.99. After the dinner you may browse in the gift shop looking at Loretta Lynn’s artifacts whether or not you buy any souvenirs.
There is a cluster of 2 or 3 motels at reasonable prices, around this ranch. There is one owned by Gujrati émigrés from East Africa. This time again I was going to halt overnight in this little town, like in previous instances. I find these little towns in the interior of the country extremely fascinating. That is where you get the flavor of real America from the sons and daughters of the soil, not at Hiltons and Sheratons of large Megalopolis.
By the time we pulled into the motel after our dinner, it was close to 10:30 at night. I let her stay in the car while I went to register, lest she be recognized. It was the same old Mrs. Suman Patel who greeted me with ‘Aujo, kemcho’, routine. We got two adjacent rooms inter-connected by a door.
As I was taking off my heavy shoes, I clicked on the remote to turn on the TV. It was by now all over the place. American Airlines Flight 523 had gone up in flames, an apparent act of hijacking and terrorism.
I heard a gentle knock on the intermediate door. She had seen the news on her TV as well. She was flushed pink and visibly shaken. She was in tears. She pleaded if she could come in, as she was scared and shocked beyond belief. I let her come in. We were both still in the same clothes we had been in all day.
We sat on the bed resting our backs on the pillow and headboard. We were watching the breaking news, clasping our hands with horror in our eyes. I could feel that she wanted to clasp me and hold me close. But I was just too confused and emotionally broken myself to make any kind of physical response to her overtures.
I somberly told her, “You have already repaid me more than what you ever owed me”.
If ever there was a hairbreadth escape of my life, this was it. Instead of minding my own business and boarding that flight, I had decided to intervene in her imbroglio. That just saved my life.
It was getting close to midnight. I broke the silence and told her that we should now retire for the night and try to get some sleep. I slowly released my hand from her clasp. We had a long day ahead. It was imperative that we be on the highway by 7:00 AM, duly breakfasted and with a full tank of gas. Coffee & doughnuts would be served free, at the motel lobby starting 6:00 am. She asked if she could leave the intermediate door open. I readily agreed. As she went into her room she turned and told me over her shoulder to give her a wake-up call at 5:30, if she was not already awake.
I picked up the phone and called home. At home before going to bed, we normally turn off the telephone ring and let all the calls go to the answering machine. I was sure Seema would have done the same now. Before she got the morning news, I wanted her to know that I was not on the plane that blew up. I left the message. Then went into my bathroom to wash up and change. I came back, slipped into my sheets and turned off the bedside light.
I could see that her bathroom door was also half-ajar. I could see her full image reflected on the large mirror at the sink. She was probably unaware of that or she might have purposely wanted it that way.
She took her Dupatta and hung it on the peg at the opposite wall. Then she slowly removed the hooks on the back of her Kameez one by one and slowly slid it over her head. Turned around and hung that also on the peg. She was wearing a flesh colored lacy bra. It covered her breasts only partially at the bottom with the two cups connected by a strip of lace. The upper fringe of the cups grazed through her chocolate brown nipples, showing a deep cleavage. She put her two hands behind her back and unhooked the bra. The straps came sliding over her shoulders and hands all the way out. Her two beautiful breasts wriggled out of the cups
completely. They still had slight wrinkles from being harnessed, and the nipples were mildly upright. She then unfastened her Salwar and pulled it down her ankles. She had slender flat abdomen with cute little navel. Below that she was wearing a thin gauzy panty barely covering a well-manicured tuft of hair between the thighs. She had well-rounded hips. The cheeks were almost totally exposed as the seat of the panty had slid down into the valley in between. Her ivory complexion and smooth skin made her look like Neptune under moonlight.
She pulled out a brush from her handbag, stroked her dark brown hair a few times. She took out an elastic band and bound her hair into a ponytail. Then she splashed her face with cold running water. Rubbed some soap all over to remove the makeup. She rinsed her face finally and covered it with fresh laundered hand towel from the rack. Her clean spotless natural skin without any makeup shone looking even prettier.
Then she pulled out a brown paper package from the handbag and removed a T-shirt. She pulled it over her head and let it fall all the way down to her ankles. It was a top-to toe large T-shirt with “Welcome to Arkansas” written on the back with a picture of a sunrise behind Ozark Mountains in the front. Obviously this was the piece of article that had started the whole rigmarole that evening. Or should I say it was the cause of our survival today. I heard her switch off the light and get into her bed.
Oh Man! What a day! The day started off like any other day. By the end of it, I had not only survived death but also got to share very intimate moments with one of the most beautiful women in the world. The day was one of extremes in emotion. It had its Nadir and Zenith, so to say; never a dull moment, for sure. I tried very hard to catch some sleep.
We started off as planned. By 7:00 AM I was speeding away on US-40 toward North Carolina. It was a cool morning and the sun felt quite nice. We opened the hood on top and let fresh morning air blow over our faces and hair. She took out her large sunglasses and covered her beautiful blue eyes. I also had mine on. It was a good 600 more miles to my apartment in Raleigh. I wanted to reach there before sunset.
We had crossed into the Eastern Time zone. While being between any two towns, one can hardly catch any radio station with good enough reception, FM or AM. That is why I carry some cassettes along, when on a long journey. But this time it was different. This was no trip that was forecast. I got tired of flipping from one bad station to another. I finally turned the radio off. There were some minutes of no sounds, only reverie.
She broke the silence and said, “I heard you call your home and leave a message. Is Seema your wife?”
I said, “Yes”.
“Any children?” she asked.
“One 2-year old Munni. Aparna for real name”, I said. And then blurted out, “She is the one that is still holding us together. For how long more, I wouldn’t know”.
“Where are you from in India?” she continued after remaining silent for a few moments.
Obviously she did not want to appear like she was prying into my rocky matrimony. Instead of going down that alley of conversation, she had changed the direction quite adroitly. I liked that.
CHAPTER 3
Our family had been living in Jabalpur for generations. We had our family farm there. My dad had gone to St. Stephens College in Delhi and graduated with a Master’s degree in Economics. He had plans of going to London School of Economics further. Instead, with some helping hand from my grandfather, who was in the ICS, he got into a Dutch multi-national Oil corporation as a Management Trainee. After being with them for nearly 30 years, he retired as a Director, with the usual gold watch to commemorate it. He was still on their Board when he passed away 4 years ago.
Since my dad’s was a transferable job including overseas assignments, my parents decided to put me into Doon School when I was 8. I used to spend my holidays with them or my grandparents or both, whichever was easier at that time. After passing my High School, I also attended St. Stephens College in Delhi, following my dad’s and big brother’s footsteps. But I graduated with a degree in Physics, Mathematics and Chemistry. Then I got a degree in Electrical Engineering from Roorki Engineering College.
My only sibling, an older brother Mukesh, graduated from St. Stephens with a Master’s in History. Then he followed my grandfather’s footsteps and got into the IAS, when that still had a lot of glitter and charm. He was always the more traditional, steady and responsible of us two. His was a well-charted textbook style path of life. He also got married to a very charming girl Nirmala with traditional family values. It was a marriage arranged by the families. They have a son Nirmal and a daughter Sunanda, still in schools. He spent a couple of years in Geneva, Switzerland on a short stint with the United Nations before being posted as a Secretary to one of the major ministries at the Central Government.
After the passing away of dad, my mom was staying with them in Delhi. Despite all her foreign travels, she never liked living in the U.S., with us. She had come here a few times on short visits, but found the life here suffocating. Then there was all that humiliation one had to go through with the U.S. Consulate in obtaining the Visa. I tried visiting her at least once in a couple of years.
While still awaiting my results of the final exam at Roorki, I had started applying for post-graduate studies in the U.S., like most of my friends and colleagues. That took some time to fructify.
On graduating from the Engineering College, I did get picked up by a British company for a job in Calcutta. Even as my papers for going to the U.S. were being processed, I had already started seeing cracks in my career with this company. One day I had serious disagreement with my MaNagar who complained about me to the Director. I was called into his chamber and asked to tender official apology. On my refusal to do so, I was promptly given notice of dismissal. I walked out of that place with my chin high up. I was full of youthful pride and idealism.
Life at CHU, as Cockerell-Hill University in Dallas, Texas is called, started quite well. My dad had provided me with enough wherewithal to carry on the first Semester. Later I managed to get a teaching assistantship. There was also subsidized student housing on the campus. I shared a two bedroom apartment with Srinivas, a Chemistry Major. Altogether I just scraped by with some money left for fun as well.
‘Fun’ for most part meant some of us Indian boys getting together in the apartment of one of us, watching Indian movies on the video and drown plenty of beer. We would also share in preparing the food. Either we would bring something or pitch in preparing a curry or sambaar.
There were also TVs and VCRs individually with each of us. If you had those and could rent X-rated videos you must belong to the better off elite. If not, you had to make do with ‘Penthouse’ and ‘Playboy’, which gave more excitement than a new arrival from India could easily handle. That was as far as love life went for most guys.
The campus was quite segregated and stratified, in terms of color, ethnicity and cultural background; even though it was not ‘Politically Correct’ to officially acknowledge that. There was of course the stratification of Faculty and different layers of academic standings.
At the top echelon, belonged boys and girls of Texan Oil Barons who drove about in Mercedes Benz and BMWs. They were there to show some degree of literacy before taking over their dad’s business and riches. They partied and frolicked amongst themselves. The Texan girls are some of the most gorgeous looking in the world. That made it even more frustrating for the outsiders with whom they would mix as much as oil with water.
Then there were puddles of people from different backgrounds like Red China, Korea and the Middle-east, that would mingle within themselves. They also came from different economic strata from their own countries.
Kareem Al-Saeed was the son of a Kuwaiti Sheikh. He got an allowance of $40,000.00 per year from his dad. He lived in a well-furnished apartment and sported very expensive clothes and haircut. It was a common tale that he would bring home girls and have romantic evenings. He loved sipping some nice brew in front of his fireplace with soft music playing in the background. Even in the middle of Texas summer when the mercury would be hovering at 100+, he would turn on the fireplace with air-conditioning turned to full blast. But even with this kind of money Kareem could hardly make any headway with the local girls. Texan Oil would not mix with Kuwaiti Oil either. It took more than that. As a result he had to drive out in his convertible to Harry Hines Boulevard at dusk and look alongside the curb for a good hourly bargain.
On the other end of the scale was Cai from Red China who was the Teaching Assistant for Dr. Hegde of Chemistry Department. Cai had to maintain an “A” average to stay on the Financial Aid. Dr. Hegde originally from Mangalore, South Kanara in India, was a tenured professor. That meant in the name of ‘Academic Freedom’, he could not be shaken from his position of power by anything less than a Congressional Impeachment. He had made it through to this position with a lot of hardship. And now it was his turn. It was a common knowledge that he made Cai wash dishes, do grocery and laundry for his wife, as a part of academic exercises. Cai was a person of very modest means but with a very good-looking wife. She was known to do sewing and stitching for other students to make some extra buck. You could also make her go some ‘extra length’ for a few extra bucks, if you wanted.
Then there was this Dr. Margaret Stich, Professor of the Computer Science Department. She might have as well called herself Margaret Thatcher. Just like Dr. Hegde, she had a lot of pent up anger with this World. She had made it through this far in a Man’s World suffering plenty of humiliation and injustice. She was willing to take on any male thing that moves with cudgels soaked in blood. If you were a male and one of her wards, you had to take a number and stand outside her door. Whenever she opened the door and let you in, you had to prove yourself innocent before she finished chewing that bit of apple she had just bitten. Or else, the next bite would be of your scalp. It was told, for a hobby and recreation, over the weekends she fixes an M1tank parked in her backyard. She wanted to prove to all those Male Chauvinist Pigs at Pentagon that she could do a better job of fighting the Soviets than 5-star Generals. Soviet Union dissolved itself on hearing this.
There were the Fraternities and Sororities, into which the non-American, especially Indian students rarely participated because they firmly held that this kind of Western social life was immoral. They were here just to study and keep their cultural torch aloft all the time.
Amongst the South-Asian students, including India, Pakistan, Bangladesh & Sri Lanka, the gender ratio was something like 2 girls to 100 boys. Statistically there was a good probability that 1.95 of the 2 girls were already married. The remaining 0.05 would be the typical Gujju Behnji type. Of course these two categories are not mutually exclusive; plenty of them belonged to both.
Even amongst the boys, there were different types. Plenty came from little towns like Kumbakonam, who would do their ‘Sandhyavandanam’ and proudly go about with a spot of Vibhuti on their forehead. For them date was some dry fruit you could eat with a glass of milk. There were just a few guys that had experienced some kind of dame chasing and socializing in Bombay or Delhi.
Indians definitely had an edge over students from some other countries like China, Japan, Korea and even South America, due to their familiarity with the English language. It was quite heart rending how those other boys and girls had to work 10 times harder to keep their grades and stay on the course.
It was common knowledge that Gigi was not one of those typical Texas girls. She was from Florida and would condescend talking to specimens of other ilk. She was in our Project Team. I took some courage and made the first move of asking her telephone number. I was just testing the waters if there were any long-term prospects for a social life. I was able to make it through the first hurdle. But invariably any time I called her either the line was busy or the call went through to an answering machine. Next time I met her, what the heck, I jumped right ahead and asked her out, using the first trick on the book.
“Have you ever tasted Indian cuisine? I know this fine Indian Restaurant. I wonder if you would want to discuss this assignment there this Saturday evening. It’s due Monday, you know?”
Plomp came the response, “I would really love to do that, Roe-hitt. But this Saturday I am going out with my boyfriend Leff”. A couple of nights later I was working late at the Computer Lab and there she was smooching some guy, definitely not Leff.
They all had this trump card up their sleeves. If they did not like the looks of you, they would pull this ‘boyfriend’ routine and say ‘we can always be good friends’. In other words, ‘Keep those candies and flowers coming. But I am not going to bed with you in this lifetime. I am waiting for Robert Redford in a red sports car’.
On that Holiday Season, Srinivas and I decided to call another girl Melissa who seemed to be quite nice and friendly. We planned a cozy evening at our place. We were going to cook some nice Indian meal. Have some drinks and music etc. Who knows who would be found wearing the Pajama Top next morning?
Since we were two of us, we told Melissa to come with a friend. Much to our excitement, she readily agreed. When that grand evening finally came, at the appointed time there was the doorbell. When I opened the door, there she was, Melissa giving a great smile with another guy.
They drank our expensive bottle of Chardonnay, ate our food, spilled curry on the carpet, filled the ashtray to overflowing and went away at 9:30PM to another discotheque by themselves leaving us behind. Our apartment looked like a war zone. We two had to clean up all day next day.
There were also some of those girls who had a well-determined menu card. You could buy yourself a kiss for a normal homework assignment. For serious help with Projects you could negotiate some heavy petting. For anything more than that, you had to do something really important like getting a Hot Ticket for a Bon Jovi concert.
Keeping a ‘B’ average in 2 semesters was compulsory. Otherwise you would be given the boot. The faculty was quite aware of how grades could be bought and sold amongst boys and girls. They would devise different means to put a check. There would be ‘Surprise Quiz’, ‘Open Book’ and ‘Closed Book’ exams and Projects. Students would always try to beat the system one way or another. After all, Faculties consist of humans as well. It is these same students who later become Faculty. Don’t they?
All in all the system here was better than what I was used to in India. There we used to kill ourselves in the last few months before the Final Exams. Two or four years’ worth of work was being tested in a matter of 3 hours; which was a very unfair way to judge, prize or penalize plenty of hard work. It was more a test of memorizing capabilities than knowledge. That way many a good life has been ruined or undeserving rewarded.
I finished my Master’s in Computer Engineering in less than 2 years of arriving here. We had our Commencement Ceremony with throwing of hoods up in the air and all the jubilation. It was a sweet and sour moment. There was a sense of accomplishment and concern.
Soon after that, Reality started seeping. My student visa was going to expire in about 6 months. I still did not have a job. The job market for my skills was quite bad. Market was flushed with people like me. There was that periodic downturn in the Economy. Even corporations like IBM were laying off personnel and announcing hiring freeze. When a giant like IBM cuts back, it has a ripple effect all over the job market.
There were people with the much-prized Green Card or U.S. Citizenship staying home expecting the phone to ring. What chance did I have, with just a Student Visa? Quite religiously, I was mailing my resume to at least half a dozen destinations every day. Majority of them did not bother even to respond. Some would send a curt and crisp letter very neatly printed saying that my resume would be kept in their data-base for another 6 months, should any suitable opening arise. That summer morning I walked up to Mrs. Barbara Allyson. She was the secretary of our Dean and Chairman of Computer Engineering Department, Dr. David Kennington.
I was wearing a red and blue T-shirt with CHU’s mascot donkey on the back and a large embroidered ‘CHU’ on the front. My jeans could have used some soap and water very badly. My ‘Neike’ sneakers were of a comfortable size 9 and half. The baseball cap, with another CHU symbol, had its hood jetting out on the side over my ear. Who ever said I had to have a shave every day?
If I showed up like this for a banquet at the Buckingham Palace, the doorman would have thought I was something that cat brought in on a rainy day and called the trash-collector.
Beaming a big smile, I told her, “Barbara, that string of pearls on that beautiful blue dress makes you look gorgeous”.
“Cut it out Rohit. What do you want? What is it this time?” she asked, wasting no time on small talk trivialities.
“How does David’s schedule look like this week, Barbara?” I asked, still with that smile broadly pasted on my face.
“I could squeeze you in this afternoon around 4:30. But for no more than 10 minutes. What is it about now?”
“My life in the Academia seems to be coming to a grinding halt. Along with that endangerment of self-survival is looming large. I am kind of wondering, if I should not be thinking of going on for a Doctorate program”.
“Doctorate programs are for people seeking Knowledge and Truth, not Sustenance. Do you know the motto of CHU? ‘Veritas Liberitat Voss’, that is Latin for ‘Truth Shall Liberate You’”.
“Is that so Barbara? I thought it meant, ‘Truthful Fellow gets liberated from his job by his Boss’. The real reason I told you, is strictly between you and me.”
Having said, that I slowly walked back to my room. My roommate Srinivas had not yet returned. I opened my mailbox. There were the usual junk mail and plenty of bills, credit card statements and the ubiquitous rejection letters to my resumes. Then there was an envelope with my mom’s handwriting on top.
There was the usual sentimental stuff of advising me to eat well and take care of health. There was also a picture of a demure young lady called Seema Dhillon, second child of Wing Commander Rajesh Dhillon of Indian Air Force. She was 21 and an under-graduate student at Lady Shriram College in Delhi. They were interested in a marriage proposal. Seema’s older sister Sangeeta was married to a heart surgeon, Dr. Arun Varma, in Seattle, Washington. They were willing to sponsor for a Green Card as well. I shoved that envelope with its contents into my pocket and tried to tidy up my appearance.
I had that interview with Dr. Kennington at 4:30. He had been my advisor through the Master’s program. We had developed a good respect for each other. He was not one of those that would make me wash dishes for his wife.
He said, there were a few research projects on which he could use me. He would run the idea by the Committee. Once the funding is finalized, I could come on board. This also meant my Student Visa could be extended until I finished my Ph.D. That was some reprieve on my life.
That night there was a phone call from Dr. Arun Varma. He does not waste any time. Does he? He and wife Sangeetha were passing by Dallas, the following weekend, on their way to Florida on a trip. They would want to come by and meet me. The purpose was obvious. They wanted to check me out and send a confidential report to their folks in Delhi.
I was angry first at this FBI like background checking business, then at the oncoming onslaught without my asking. Even as I was mulling over the whole thing, that night there was also a call from my mom. She insisted that I play host to them and make a good impression.
CHAPTER 4
Wing Commander Rajesh Dhillon had another couple of years for retirement. He had joined the Air Force at the age of 21 fresh from college. His career was going up very rapidly. His being a nephew of Air Marshall Manik Dhillon did not hurt either. He was carefully nurtured and kept away from any combat duty in most of the conflicts.
He was on the committee of experts to evaluate military hardware purchases. He represented the Air Force on the committee to give expert opinion on air-defense systems. In that course he had to make several trips to European capitals including Moscow, visiting vendors in those countries. The purchases involved a few billion dollars worth of contracts spanning a decade.
In the beginning Wing Commander Dhillon did have plenty of moral compunction. There was an instance when he was shaken from it and made to reshape his life’s philosophy.
He was at a wayside cafe in Champs Elysee and his colleague on the committee General Uthappa of the Army broached the subject. A Swedish arms dealer who had submitted a bid had contacted him.
Purchases were always made by inviting bids. The bids are all sealed and opened in closed chamber in the presence of the bidders. No changes or negotiations are allowed after that. However, some seasoned dealers can always find ways around it, if only some committee members could be made to give a helping hand.
Some clauses of the bid and technical specifications could be left vague or unmentioned. The committee was well within its rights to ask for clarification. That is just when one bidder can manipulate his bid and outmaneuver his competitor very legally. On the part of the Committee, their conscience was quite clear, since they were not hurting their organization in any way as neither the quality of goods nor the price was in any way compromised.
General Uttappa was due to retire in less than a year. He had 3 daughters to marry off and his eldest son still not graduated from the Engineering College. His nest egg was very modest and not much by way of patrimony either.
He sought Wing Commander Dhillon’s friendly understanding and cooperation. He needed that extra vital vote on the committee. They could make a cool $ 50,000.00 each safely to be deposited in a confidential account in Liechtenstein. No questions asked and no fingerprints left.
Wing Commander Dhillon was first taken aback. Then he cooled off and asked his colleague for time to think it over. After returning to Delhi, he also mentioned it to his wife Ranjana. Neither could get sleep that night. They were tossing and turning wrestling with the whole plan. It seemed so harmless. It was all a part of the game. Only ones that do not use such opportunities in life were total fools. After all anywhere you look, every one was doing it, are they not? Just do it once, catch a big fish and then give up to retire peacefully.
At the committee meeting that afternoon, General Uttappa made the proposal that further clarifications be sought from the Swedish bidder. Out of the remaining four members, one raised his pencil and went along.
Two other members voted against. They wanted the Swedish bid rejected and the contract awarded to the most complete bid with the best price.
All were looking at Wing Commander Dhillon. There were moments of silence. Slowly but surely, he also raised his sharpened pencil up and voted in favor of the motion by General Uttappa.
There is always a first time for everything. This was the first time for Rajesh Dhillon as well. Next time he went through this with much less afterthought. And soon this became a normal routine. He had become a part of the team. To make it look good, every so often they would award a contract or two to somebody else.
He got a posting as Air Attaché at the Embassy in Washington DC. That was the time when Sangeetha’s marriage was arranged. Seema was still in school. Rajesh Dhillon sill had a few more years in the Air Force. He wanted to complete his full term to get all the benefits of retirement. There was also a good chance of his becoming Air Vice-Marshal before finally bidding good bye to the Air Force.
He was glad he was able to find a good son-in-law in Arun Varma, especially with his being well established in the U.S.A. He could now entrust his account in Liechtenstein to safe hands without in any way implicating himself. The wedding itself was a grand affair. Families and friends from all sides attended. Seema was 15 and had just started developing breasts. After the wedding reception was over, late in the evening, guests were being taken back home. The car was quite full. Seema squeezed herself into the rear seat, somebody clicked the door lock and slammed it shut.
She soon figured out that she was sitting on the lap of her maternal cousin Sanjay, then 17. He had come from Mussourie especially for the wedding. They had been playing, teasing each other and dancing together all evening.
She settled down gazing at the lights and shops that were passing by. The car swerved sharp, she tried to hold her balance by holding Sanjay’s arm. Then there came this big jolt on a pothole when she would have hit the roof, had he not put his hand around her waist and held her firm close to his thighs. They both felt cozy and nice like that. Then there was a long stretch of drive when there was very little light. Others were busy giggling, laughing and exchanging jokes about the happening of the evening. Slowly Sanjay’s hands brushed against Seema’s upper blouse. She ignored it thinking that it was just an accident. After a while, it was a more deliberate and slow movement. The palm gently rested over her breast. She felt a very strange tingling sensation all over her body, as she had never felt before. Blood was gushing through her temples and she sat just shrinking momentarily. She was confused and did not know how to react. First she wanted to yell out or push his hand away. But then she kept quiet and motionless, as she was embarrassed. Then it felt good. She slowly rested her head on his chest and cuddled. His other hand was gently cupping her other breast by now. He was softly brushing his face on the nape of her neck. She liked that as well.
Soon the car pulled over at Seema’s house. She got out and stood waving at the car as it moved away to drop other people at their respective destinations. That night Seema went to bed thinking about him. Next morning Sanjay returned to his school in Mussourie.
What started as an innocent dalliance that night after Sangeetha’s wedding, slowly and steadily blossomed into a more serious involvement. Sanjay and Seema kept closely in touch, metaphorically and somewhat physically as well. Sanjay’s dad was the older brother of Ranjana Dhillon. This relationship could no way lead to anywhere like altar and wedding bells. That might have been possible if they had been Muslims or belonging to some other sects. It had to end sooner or later. Both Sanjay and Seema were well aware of that. But theirs was not a concern that took a very long-term view of things. It just felt good for now.
Within a few months of their encounter at the Wedding, Sanjay moved to Delhi to pursue further studies. There was no question of either of them going on dates. They would go to movies and parties, sometimes in groups and sometimes by themselves. In public they had to behave in a very decent but friendly manner, nothing more. She persuaded her mom to let her learn driving from him. Buddha Jayanti Park is a large garden without too much traffic. It seemed like a natural choice for them to go there on driving lessons. While he would let her drive and show her how to steer, quite naturally his elbow would brush against her inflated blouse. She did not seem to mind that at all.
He became bolder and bolder then on, on their succeeding lessons, as weeks and months rolled by.
He once stopped the car under a tree. It had become dark. Seeing no one in sight, he embraced her and ran his lips all over her face, neck and finally resting on her blouse. She asked him to kiss her on the nipples over the blouse. He did. Then he put his hands over her neck, slowly slipped it into her bra from above and gently slid it over her bare breast. He gently pulled the breast out of the blouse and softly ran his lips over the very tender nipple. She was in ecstasy. He pushed his other hand under her skirt and started stroking his palm over her soft silky thighs. As she remained enthralled in his kiss with eyes closed, he kept moving that hand further above until he encountered her netted panty firmly enclosing her crotch. He tried to push his fingers through the elastic over one upper thigh. At this point she shook herself away from him and asked him to stop it. He did not force himself.
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