I have an old lifetime companion / who knows to cooperate very well and stays with me day and night / and that is my right hand.
I felt as long as I was healthy and able to work, I would be able to make money. These lyrics kept me going during the hard physical work.
Toward the end of July, I landed another cooking job. The husband and wife who owned the restaurant were impressed with my experience in Wildwood.
They hired me for the weekends, from 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. After showing me around, he demonstrated how to prepare the food, separating the lettuce leaves and slicing the tomatoes, onions, and ham before the customers arrived.
“You should always be prepared before the enemy attacks,” he said. “The lunch rush hour gets hectic, and the last thing you want is to run out of food.”
In the beginning, Gus helped during rush hour, but he saw I learned quickly and let me work on my own.
Every night after the supper rush hour when his wife left, Gus and his friends drank whiskey and played Blackjack in a small room at the back of the restaurant—his “office.” Once in a while, he called me back and gave me a shot of whiskey. “Just enjoy it,” he’d say, flashing a grin.
I became quite comfortable with my job and my boss, so comfortable that one evening I prepared curried chicken with spices found in the kitchen. When Gus came behind the counter, he saw the pot of chicken simmering with curry, garlic, and onions on the stove.
“What’s going on, Kris?” he asked.
“I’m cooking Indian curried chicken,” I answered. “I’d like you to taste it.”
Gus seemed stunned. He was quiet for a few minutes, watching me stir the sauce and add a few more spices to the chicken. Finally, he said, “Sure, I’d like a taste. But from now on, try not to cook it here.” He grabbed a fork and took a bite. “This is great, Kris,” he said. “So much flavor.”
Jokingly, I said, “Hey, we could put this on the menu.”
Gus laughed and answered, “I don’t think so. My wife would throw us both out.”
One late night, I decided my Ford Galaxy, which I had bought earlier that summer, needed a good washing. Gus looked for me everywhere and found me out back, scrubbing down my car and hosing it off.
“Kris, there are orders stacking up in here,” he exclaimed.
“It was slack time, so I thought I would have a moment to wash my car,” I explained.
“All right, Kris. Just don’t do it again, or the other employees might get mad.”
I went inside and returned to work. With summer almost over, I worked as much as I could before school started. However, I eagerly anticipated going back to school, so I could eventually get a job in the field I came to America for. Unfortunately, a degree in civil engineering looked as far away as my home country, India.
Chapter 7
The previous spring, a classmate at Knoxville College mentioned he was taking industrial engineering courses at the University of Tennessee to prepare for his second bachelor’s degree. I hoped I could do the same. Much had changed since I first came to America in 1961, and civil engineering no longer seemed relevant to my life. I decided to work toward an industrial engineering degree instead.
As soon as I returned to Knoxville for fall semester of 1965, I met with Professor Emerson, head of the Industrial Engineering Department at UT, to see if I could sign up for co-op classes. Professor Emerson reviewed the courses I had completed so far at Knoxville College as I sat anxiously in his office. I hoped he would accept me into the program, but I was not sure if my grades were good enough.
After a few moments, Professor Emerson cleared his throat and looked up at me.
“I see a marked improvement in your mathematics courses,” he said, “as well as your other courses. It seems you are adjusting very well to life in the US, and from your transcripts, I can see you take your education seriously.”
I held my breath, waiting for the final decision.
Professor Emerson smiled encouragingly. “I have had a consistently good experience with Indian students who have completed master’s degrees in my department,” he said. “I would be happy to take you on as a co-op student until you are able to attend UT full time.”
My heart leaped with excitement.
“Thank you, thank you so much, Professor Emerson,” I said, standing up and shaking his hand vigorously. “This means a lot to me. I will not disappoint you.”
My focus was unwavering as I juggled several co-op classes at UT while completing the remainder of the requirements at Knoxville College for a mathematics degree. At the beginning, fifteen students had signed up for the math program, but now only five were graduating with a degree in the subject, as many students switched majors due to the rigorous coursework.
The excitement at Knoxville College was contagious as the students prepared for graduation in May of 1966. When the day of the ceremony finally arrived, it felt surreal. I had worked toward this moment for so long, and now I was preparing to walk on stage to receive my degree. Despite the general cheerfulness of the students, I felt a sadness I couldn’t quite place. As cars arrived from all over the state and country, and parents and relatives stood on the lawns and walkways, smiling, taking pictures, and hugging the graduates, I realized I was missing my own parents. Weaving my way through the groups of families laughing and talking, I felt lonely. No one from my family would be there to hug me, drape marigold garlands around my
