Leaving India

by Minal Hajratwala

  But for Bhupendra, who had grown up in India, the dream of going home remained alive. Within their circle of friends, when the talk turned to India, Bhupendra could often be heard expressing clear ideas of what his homeland needed, of what he would do there just as soon as he reached home. "If I were prime minister...," he would begin, launching into his ideas about education, politics, development.

  So as 1969 began, in anticipation of graduation, Bhupendra had to decide where to apply for jobs. Each foreign graduate faced the same difficult decision: go home, or try to stay in America?

  In Calcutta I met a man of my parents' generation who had studied in the United States, then gone home to take his place among India's elite. "I didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a second-class citizen," he explained.

  In San Francisco, a writer friend who had immigrated from India in the early 1960s explained her choice to become an American. In the years of Kennedy and civil rights and the expansion of freedom, "this was such a welcoming country," she said. "You could be free here."

  For Bhupendra, the question was logistical. His father, struggling to handle the large Narseys enterprise after Uncle Magan's death, was not prepared to capitalize a new pharmaceuticals division. Bhupendra thought he would work, gain expertise and prestige, and then strike out on a business enterprise of his own, either in Fiji or back in India.

  He also wanted to teach; after nine years in universities, academia was more his home than anywhere else, and the campus environment appealed to him. He sent his curriculum vitae to universities and companies all over America, as well as a few other places in the Western world.

  But the U.S. academic job market was tight, plagued by a sudden glut of PhDs. Bhupendra's initial efforts bore little fruit. This time, though, he had a strong advocate in his adviser-angel.

  Professor Blaug told Bhupendra that the way to get a job was to present his research at the annual pharmacy convention, where industry recruiters and academics gathered to talk shop. The 1970 convention was to be held in Washington, D.C. Professor Blaug tutored Bhupendra through writing an abstract proposal and then, when it was accepted, rehearsed the talk with him: correcting his English pronunciation, advising him to stand up straight, alerting him when his eye contact faltered. He also schooled Bhupendra in the fine art of networking:—Tell everyone you meet, whether they ask or not, that you are looking for a job. And carry a stack of résumés to give out.

  So Bhupendra and Bhanu flew to the nation's capital. She toured the city alone during the day, and they met for the convention's social events every evening. His talk went well. Afterward, in the hallway, Bhupendra ran into Dr. Mehta, the professor from Boulder who had told him to iron his shirt. As instructed, Bhupendra told Dr. Mehta that he was looking for a job and offered him a résumé.

  —I just met someone, Dr. Mehta said.—Wait right here, don't move!

  For more than half an hour Bhupendra stood in the hallway, the conventioneers flowing around him. He dared not move. At last Dr. Mehta came back, and said he had arranged an interview for Bhupendra.

  —Tell him you'll do anything, Dr. Mehta instructed.—I told him you'd sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms, whatever!

  The position, as it turned out, was far from janitorial: it was for a director of research at a San Francisco pharmaceutical company. But when the recruiter, who was the company president, looked at Bhupendra's résumé, he grimaced.

  —Your name is very long, he said.—Can we call you Bob?

  Bhupendra thought about the fact that, with only weeks before graduation, he had not a single job offer in hand. Yet he found himself shaking his head.

  —When I learned English, he said,—"refrigerator" was a very hard word. But I learned it. You have only one word to learn, not a whole language. I think you can learn to say "Bhupendra."

  Astonished, the man laughed. And he invited Bhupendra to bring his wife to a company-sponsored cocktail party in his suite later that evening.

  Bhupendra was still dreaming of being a professor. But he agreed to fly—first class—to an interview for the position in San Francisco as director of research. A few universities also expressed interest, so he planned a round of interview trips to Omaha, Houston, and Madison.

  His parents, too, were airborne. Ratanji and Kaashi were on their ill-fated round-the-world vacation, timed so that they would arrive in Iowa for Bhupendra's graduation ceremony. But while Bhupendra was interviewing in San Francisco, Bhanu received a telephone call at work informing her of Ratanji's massive heart attack in the Tokyo airport. His body was being flown to Fiji.

  Rain pounded the asphalt as Bhanu made her first long solo drive, thirty miles north on State Highway 27, to the Cedar Rapids airport; Bhupendra had caught the first flight home. Since they had been saving most of Bhanu's earnings, they had enough for two round-trip tickets to Fiji. But as noncitizens, before they could leave the country, they had to obtain a "sailing permit" from the Internal Revenue Service, certifying that they owed no taxes. They also had to obtain reentry permits from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Bhupendra canceled his remaining job interviews, and they set about visiting the bureaucrats.

  There were hassles. The IRS agent overcharged them and insisted he was correct, so they had to pay a few hundred dollars, for which Bhupendra would later successfully file an appeal. Then the IRS would accept only cash; they went to the campus bank, showed their Chicago bank statements, and somehow persuaded the manager to allow them to transfer and withdraw hundreds of dollars for the tax and the plane tickets to Fiji.

  As they packed their bags at last, Bhupendra received a call from the San Francisco firm. They wanted to hire him, at the impressive salary of twelve thousand dollars a year.

  "Well...," Bhupendra said. He was searching for the proper English phrase for accepting the offer without sounding desperate. Having pulled out of his university interviews, he very much needed the job. Industry had not been his first choice, but this was a case of—what was the American saying?—a bird in the hand being worth three in the bush.

  "All right then, fifteen thousand," said the boss. The man had mistaken his hesitation for a negotiating tactic.

  "OK, yes, thank you," Bhupendra stammered. Here was another lesson in American etiquette and strategy, one that he and Bhanu would later laugh at. Amid the grief and stress of the moment, though, the job offer was merely a relief.

  After landing in Fiji, they went straight to the Narsey home. Ratanji's body was laid out in the front room. Kaashi, in white widow's garb, sat at the head. All of the siblings, including Bhupendra's sisters from London and Toronto, were arrayed around the coffin.

  Kaashi addressed Chiman, her eldest son, who was now the head of the household.

  —Take money from our account for the girls' airfare, she said, motioning toward her daughters, then added,—But Bhupendra is here at his own expense.

  Bhupendra was shocked. He had just spent three thousand dollars in taxes and airfare, and given up the chance to teach at a university, in order to reach Fiji in time for his father's funeral. Was his mother angry that he had brought his wife? He had not expected to be reimbursed, but neither had he expected to have the fact emphasized so publicly.

  He bit back his grief and rage. Bhupendra and Bhanu joined the circle, and sat. For the next thirteen days, they mourned.

  The hordes of experts who studied the brain drain in the 1960s and '70s wanted to know most of all how, when, and why the brilliant young minds of the Third World decided not to go home. Many reports and surveys attempted, futilely, to zero in on the precise moment of decision-making. I believe a migrant encounters this crossroads not once but again and again, as if in a recurring dream.

  Had my parents been welcomed home warmly, assured of a place in the Narsey empire, perhaps they could have chosen this moment of grief and openness to take the path back to Fiji, close to both of their widowed mothers. As it was, though, they returned to Iowa sobered.

  They did
not yet know where they would live the rest of their lives, but for now, San Francisco seemed as good a choice as any. In Bhanu's farewell card from the International Wives Club of the University of Iowa, signed by forty-three women whose names show their origins all over the world, one friend wrote, "Best of luck—drop me a line when your husband makes Prime Minister!"

  When Bhupendra officially changed his status from student to permanent resident, he fit the typical profile of a skilled immigrant at the time. He was among the 2,900 Indian scientists and engineers who obtained green cards in 1970, the largest cohort of skilled technical "brains" from any country in a single year since 1950. He was twenty-eight years old, like nearly half of the scientists and engineers entering the United States in the late 1960s. Like him, most skilled immigrants were Asian, male, and students. Seven out of ten had physically entered the United States before the landmark Immigration Act of 1965; they had no way of knowing what changes were in the works on Capitol Hill. They just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  In places like Boulder and Iowa City, international students on campus still formed tiny cosmopolitan enclaves set into mostly white, provincial surroundings. But my parents' new destination was different, and so were the times. In the first half of the decade, before the landmark 1965 act, just as Bhupendra was arriving as a student, a mere 3,355 Indians had immigrated to the United States. In the second half, as Bhanu was achieving green-card status, nearly 28,000 Indians had done the same. This eightfold increase in immigration was greater than that of any other national group. And by 1970, one in four "aliens" registered in the United States was living in California. There, Bhupendra and Bhanu hoped to find Asian grocery stores, festivals, and real community.

  In San Francisco, Uncle Ratilal took them apartment hunting. He was very light-skinned, an asset in approaching the doors with FOR RENT signs. On his advice, Bhanu, who owned pants and dresses by now, wore a sari every day of the search; that way, as Uncle Ratilal did not have to explain, people could tell that she was Indian rather than some less desirable race. Still, when the landlord or manager spotted the dark young couple hovering hopefully in the background, the apartment would have just been rented; they had simply forgotten to take the sign down, they explained.

  After several days of this discouraging pattern, they at last found a one-bedroom apartment in the city's western district, the Sunset, just a few blocks from the beach. They settled in, and Bhanu found work; luckily, California was not one of the eight states that said physical therapists had to be (or intend to become) U.S. citizens. Pharmacists did, but Bhupendra's research position did not fall under the state licensing rules for those who dispensed pills to the public. Bhanu learned the downtown bus routes to the physical therapy clinic, while Bhupendra drove to his laboratory farther south on the Peninsula. They traded in the tiny Fiat for a luxurious, light blue Ford LTD. On weekends they might bundle up to visit the fog-stroked Ocean Beach, wander the gardens of Golden Gate Park, or check out random, free entertainment such as the annual dog show, where they marveled at the luxurious lives of the primped and pampered American pets. Bhupendra took lessons in oil painting. Bhanu went grocery shopping in Chinatown, overjoyed to find real vegetables and fresh spices. They were ready, they decided, to start a family. Within a few months, she was pregnant.

  The day I was born, my father sent three telegrams: one to the Narseys store in Fiji, one to his sister in Toronto, and one to his sister in London. By luck or fate, he also received a telegram: a job offer from a university in the far south of the earth.

  It was fortuitous timing in more ways than one. Bhupendra had just been told that his position was likely to be eliminated, since his company was being swallowed by a larger firm. With the Vietnam War in its sixth year, the United States was a frightening place for draft-age men. And the new academic position was in New Zealand, just a hop away from Fiji, where both of my grandmothers still lived. Having experienced the trauma of trying to travel to his father's funeral from a great distance, Bhupendra and Bhanu felt it would be better if they lived closer to their aging mothers. Besides, Bhupendra had always wanted to teach.

  So they arranged for their car to go ahead by ship, sold or gave away most of their furnishings, and embarked on another round of official visits: To the tax office once again to pay what they owed to the United States and obtain the permit that would allow them to leave. To the Indian consulate, for permission for Bhupendra to use his passport to travel to yet another set of ports. To the New Zealand consulate, for a six-month renewable visa, with "wife and daughter" included on Bhupendra's passport.

  Finally, they drove all over San Francisco, capturing images of a picturesque city they did not expect to see again. My father took most of them, through a lens of unabashed romance. In the albums of the early years of their marriage, these last vistas join endless photographs of my mother in a sari, her hair pulled back tight and black, cheekbones high and pale: with hibiscus blossoms in the city's botanical garden, or leaning into the wind at the Golden Gate Bridge, or, earlier, against a giant California redwood with me in her womb.

  Once more, they crossed the Pacific.

  Dunedin, at the southern tip of New Zealand facing the Antarctic Circle, was a university town of 82,300 with neat houses built on gentle green hills, remnants of an ancient volcanic crater. Bhanu and Bhupendra shopped for, and purchased, their first home together: a one-story house with two bedrooms at the end of a cul-de-sac, backing onto a golf course, for eleven thousand dollars. Their new nation had more sheep than people, and the vast majority of both were white.

  New Zealand and its influential neighbor, Australia, were not yet interested in reaping the rewards of the brain drain. By long policy and practice, New Zealand had virtually no minorities and thus (as Bhupendra liked to say) no minority problem. The indigenous Maori were, like Aboriginal populations all over the Western world, so reduced and impoverished as to be nearly invisible in the towns. Since World War II, newcomers from Britain and elsewhere in Europe had been welcome without restrictions (many were even given free or "assisted" passage); for everyone else, permanent entry was at the discretion of a cabinet minister. The university applied for an exemption on Bhupendra's behalf, and he thought it quite an honor when he received a personally signed letter from the Department of Labor, Immigration Division: "Dear Sir, I am pleased to tell you that your application ... has been favourably considered..." He would be migrating this time not as an unannounced student riding a public bus over the mountains, but as practically a local dignitary.

  The promise held. In that lambswool landscape, our family's ethnicity was an exoticism too rare to be a threat; there was none of, say, Chicago's racial hostility. New Zealanders expressed a friendly curiosity that was returned by the young migrants as they learned the subtleties of yet another land. When their next-door neighbors invited them for "tea," they were surprised to find themselves enjoying not a hot drink but the evening meal. When Bhanu became pregnant again and asked to wear her saris to work—they were expandable, so she wouldn't need to buy maternity clothes—her supervisor agreed, on the condition that she wear a different one every day so that everyone could enjoy a variety of the beautiful fabrics. Bhanu would tell the story for years, of the offer and her reply and the way she sneaked in a repeat or two, without her supervisor noticing.

  Within six months, though, they knew the transcontinental move had been a mistake—in financial terms, at least. Bhupendra's salary was a third of what it had been in San Francisco, but he had assumed expenses in New Zealand would be commensurate. It was a shock to find that rent, utilities, food, clothing, and everything else that made up daily life was as expensive as it had been in the United States. Even with Bhanu's physiotherapy salary, they were barely making ends meet, and unable to save any money at all. So once again, Bhupendra sent out résumés, trying to find a way back to the United States.

  But after a year he had had no luck. Their status as permanent residents
expired, requiring a visit back to the United States to preserve it, which they could not afford.

  Luckily Bhupendra had always been good at coming up with a Plan B. Every seven years, professors at the university were due a sabbatical, all expenses paid. He and Bhanu agreed that they would make the best of life in New Zealand, and if after six more years they still wanted to leave, they could use the sabbatical year to try to make a go of life in America again.

  Meanwhile Dunedin was peaceful and calm and, if nothing else, a decent place to raise children.

  Six days after my second birthday, my brother, Nayan, was born, a healthy eight pounds, six ounces. One girl and one boy: Bhupendra and Bhanu felt their family was complete. Bhupendra's position as an international scholar, a senior lecturer at the university, gave him the kind of small-town prestige that was familiar and comfortable for a Narsey son. The Evening Star published his photograph with an above-the-fold headline about a conference in the pharmacy department, and when he walked downtown with one or both of his children, waitresses and shopgirls recognized him as that nice Indian professor with the cute brown babies. His interest in the arts became a grace note to his life, receding into guitar lessons and membership in the Otago Art Society, where he had a couple of small exhibitions.

  Bhanu worked full-time as a physiotherapist and kept a busy domestic life, learning to replicate the tastes of home without a single Indian grocery store or restaurant. Instead of making green mango pickles, she marinated the native gooseberries, tart and sour, in an approximation of home's pickling spices. For the leafy greens of the tropics, she substituted plain spinach. In place of cilantro, she grew a patch of parsley in the backyard. The local newspaper found her, too: SPICE IS THE VARIETY OF INDIAN LIFE, read the headline. The article began: