Arlene’s face turned red. “Kris, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll put it back in the oven for a while.”
She took our plates back to the kitchen while Paul teased her. “Arlene, you are feeding my friend frozen fish.”
Sometimes Paul invited Bill and Cindy, their next door neighbors, to dinner also. When I found out Bill took flying lessons at the Knoxville airport, I started seeing visions of myself flying an airplane and someday owning one.
“It is really easy to get a pilot’s license,” Bill told me. “It is a great thing to have in life.”
Bill gave me a coupon for one free lesson. After that, each lesson would cost sixteen dollars per hour. The first lesson involved completing paperwork and reading material about how to fly a small airplane. I thought it would be neat to have a pilot’s license, as most people only have a driver’s license. Then, once I found a good-paying job, I could buy a used plane and fly it all over the country. At the time, one could buy a used airplane for around $9000, and it seemed impressive to tell my friends and coworkers I owned a plane.
For my second lesson, the instructor took me up in a small two-seater plane. I sat in the control seat on the left side of the plane with the control wheel, or yoke, and all the gauges and buttons in front of me while the instructor told me exactly what to do. We leveled off at a thousand feet above the ground, overlooking the mountains and the Tennessee River.
“Make a left turn,” he said at one point.
Pressing the rudder pedal, I turned the control wheel and watched the turn coordinator gauge at the same time. As soon as the plane turned, my door flung open, revealing the mountains all around and the ground miles beneath me.
“Oh shit!” I yelled. “Now what do I do?”
The instructor was trying to stay calm, but he was scared too. “Oh God, oh God,” he kept saying. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, thankful for the seat belt strapping me in.
“Pull the damn door and close it tight!” the instructor yelled over the rush of wind coming into the plane and the roar of the engine.
I tried several times, but the wind pressure kept knocking the door from my hand. At the same time, I accidentally pushed the control wheel forward, and the plane nosedived. Suddenly, all in one movement, the instructor took over the controls on his side, straightened the plane, and reached his arm across me to shut the door.
When we landed on the ground, we both let out a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry, I should have made sure your door was shut properly,” the instructor said.
My heart was pounding, as if threatening to fly out of my chest, and I could hardly speak. It was my first flying lesson, and it would be my last. With school and work to focus on, I did not want my time in America to end abruptly if something were to go wrong again.
Chapter 9
My study project report for the UT Research Hospital was due at the end of September 1968, and I devoted all my time and effort to completing the report, going to the office on weekends, cutting down on my social activities, and repeatedly telling myself, “You must sacrifice something to get something.”
Professor Buchan and Mr. McFarland reviewed the report to make sure my staffing formulas and recommendations made sense. I was anxious, and my nerves were on edge. The chief pathologist, a member of the administrative team, carried a high status among the medical staff, and because my report uncovered the problems and weaknesses of the Lab Department, I worried that he might not agree with my findings and recommendations.
In October, Mr. McFarland presented my study to the chief pathologist and managerial staff. For clarification of any point, the questions were referred to me. There were no major surprises for the lab staff, and the chief pathologist seemed pleased with my recommendations. Before we left the room, he made a closing statement: “Kris Bedi did a good job of understanding the laboratory functions and activities, collecting the historical data, and making good observations. I will think through the staffing level recommendations and discuss it further with my supervisory staff.”
I felt everything had gone well. The chief pathologist acknowledged me for the study, even though Mr. McFarland presented it. Mr. McFarland, on the other hand, did not hide his annoyance that the chief pathologist and managerial staff directed all their compliments to me. Without saying a word, he stormed out of the room.
Shortly after Thanksgiving, I received a job offer for a position I’d interviewed for two months earlier at Vanderbilt University Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee. They were looking for a management engineer, and Professor Buchan immediately recommended me. The letter stated my title (management engineer), start date (December 17), and salary ($9,000 a year). After graduation, they would pay me $10,000 a year. Later, I learned it took them so long to hire me because they were hoping to find another candidate. However, there were not many industrial engineers with experience in the healthcare field at the time. I was thrilled to receive the letter, even though I was also disappointed it had taken them two months to decide about me. Professor Buchan advised me to take the offer, so I sent an acceptance letter. While I was happy to have a job with a large, well-known hospital, at the same time, I was sad about leaving my friends, especially Sewa Singh and Professor Buchan.
Of all my friends, Sewa was the saddest to see me leave. Together, we participated more actively in American social life than most Indians. We enjoyed going to American parties and drive-in restaurants, and we liked to sit on the side of the road at an intersection in front of his apartment, drinking beer and talking.
