Larisa cried nonstop the morning I left. It was difficult to see her crying so hard, and the whole way home I felt like crying too. My sadness only grew stronger the closer I came to UT’s campus. Did I do the right thing?
Once back at school, I thought about what I should do to complete an industrial engineering degree. My grades had improved in math, but I was still getting Cs in the engineering courses. Was it possible the Engineering Department would not let me into the graduate program?
I discussed my concerns with the department head, Emeritus Professor Emerson, who was also my industrial engineering advisor. The “Emeritus” in front of his name was a title of respect for a hardworking professor with many accomplishments for the university and tenure of more than twenty years at UT. He had expanded the Industrial Engineering Department, and everyone knew him to be an extremely kind and understanding gentleman. He somehow understood a person’s needs in all situations. Emeritus Professor Emerson saw my difficult struggle to maintain good grades, as well as my dedication to my dream. Eager to help, he offered me the chance to work toward my master’s in industrial engineering.
One day, the phone rang at the house. “It’s for you,” Paul Kehir said, handing me the phone.
“This is Larisa’s mother,” a woman’s voice said angrily. “You should stay away from my daughter if you know what’s good for you. I know all about you. You are playing with fire. I am going to have you deported for dating my daughter. Stay away from her!”
My mouth dropped open in shock. How did Larisa’s mother get my phone number?
“The day Larisa marries you, she will be pronounced dead, and we will have her funeral,” Larisa’s mother snapped. “If you don’t stay away from her, I will call UT and have them suspend you. Then I will have you deported. Stay away from my daughter!”
After she hung up, I stared at the phone, not sure what to think or do. I knew she didn’t have the power to deport me or suspend me from school, so I was not concerned about that statement. Paul Kehir raised an eyebrow at me. He could hear Larisa’s mom yelling over the phone and the gist of the conversation.
“Kris, you better start packing your stuff to be shipped back to India,” he joked. Then, more seriously, he said, “Kris, dating a rabbi’s daughter, you are playing with fire.”
Larisa had been writing to me on a daily basis, but after her mother’s phone call, she wrote one more letter before stopping altogether. “My mother is watching me very closely,” she wrote. “She found some of your old letters, and she called UT to get your phone number. She kept asking me if we were getting married, and she kept saying they would have my funeral on the day of our wedding. Kris, if we ever married, they would disown me and would not allow me to see them again for any reason.”
Several weeks later, Paul handed me the phone again. “Someone from Chicago is calling for you,” he said. What now? I thought, assuming it was Larisa’s mother again. Instead, it was a man’s voice. “Mr. Bedi, I am calling from the Chicago morgue,” he said. “I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Jasbir Mann is dead.”
I wasn’t sure I heard right. “What? Could you say that again?”
“Mr. Mann is dead,” the man repeated. “His body is at the morgue. We need to know what to do with the body.”
In a state of shock, I could not speak.
“Sir? Mr. Bedi?” the man said. “I need to know if you want the body flown back to India.”
“I’m not sure,” I answered.
“Well, I can keep the body at the morgue until you get here,” the man said. “Or you could opt for a pauper’s funeral, a choice for a person with no money and no relatives in the area. The body would be cremated, and the minimum charges would be covered by the social security administration. You only need to send $275 so we can proceed with cremation.”
I didn’t know what to do. A strong sadness overcame me as I thought about Jasbir’s difficult struggle in the US. I had been worried about him ever since I’d left his place in Chicago during spring break, but this was a complete surprise.
“Do you know what happened to him?” I asked.
“The cause of death is not certain,” the man said. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“Can you hold for a moment? I am going to talk to my roommates about the situation.”
“Of course,” the man said.
“What do I do?” I asked Paul and Ray after telling them what happened. “I do not have access to international calls so I can’t call his family. Even if I could call them, I would have to book a call and wait several hours for the operator to get back to me. And then, I don’t even know if his brothers have a phone because they live in a small village.”
Jasbir was my best friend from college days in India, and now there was nothing I could do for him. I also did not feel comfortable making such a decision on his family’s behalf, but as there was no way to reach them quickly, I had no choice.
“Perhaps, in this case, it would be best to cremate him,” Paul suggested.
It did sound like the best option, so I told the man to proceed with the cremation and send the ashes to his brother since I wasn’t sure if his mother was still alive, and I knew his father had passed away several years earlier.
That night, I tossed and turned in my bed. I could not rest knowing
