On the day of my departure, Sewa helped me load my belongings into my sky-blue, 1965 Catalina convertible. On weekends and most evenings, Sewa and I drove the Catalina with the top down to drive-in restaurants, blasting Indian music on a portable record player we borrowed from another Indian student. The guys and girls at the drive-in restaurant would look around, wondering where the crazy music was coming from. We ordered cheeseburgers and drank Old German or Pabst Blue Ribbon, the cheapest beer we could buy in six packs at the time.
As Sewa and I drank beer and ate curried chicken with rice at his house, we reminisced about the good times and shared plenty of laughs. When it came time for me to leave, we both became emotional. After saying our goodbyes with heavy hearts, I drove toward Nashville, wondering what the next stage of my life would be like.
The next morning, as I walked into Vanderbilt University Hospital a little before 8:00, I felt like a million bucks. My hair was combed neatly, and I wore a suit and tie, a light blue shirt, and Florsheim shoes. The secretary at the front desk showed me to Jacob Walker’s office. He was the department head of data processing within the Programming Department, and he gestured for me to sit down. As he explained the functions of the Programming Department, I nodded politely, wondering how this information related to me. I was an engineer, not a programmer.
Once he finished speaking, Mr. Walker showed me to my office, which turned out to be a dim corner in the back of the room, sectioned off by a wooden panel. What is this? I thought. After spending so much time imagining my own office, this was a punch in the stomach.
Next, I met the assistant administrator, Mr. Clark. After talking with him for several minutes about his responsibilities and the hospital’s organization, it was apparent that I would not have much to do with Mr. Clark, and when I met Mr. Greathouse, I knew I would rarely see him either. I came to like Jean Brown the most. She was the methods analyst and an enthusiastic, friendly person. Previously, she had worked as a registered nurse in the Infection Control Department. She knew the ins and outs of the hospital, and during the next few days, she told me everything she knew about the hospital and its personnel.
At the end of my two-week hospital orientation, I began my first project: investigating the shortage of clean linens on the patient floors. The Laundry Department manager was not enthusiastic about having an outsider come into his area to show him what to do. I needed to win his trust and let him know I was there to help solve the problem, not to show him how to run his department.
After shaking his hand and introducing myself, I asked him questions. It was crucial to get to know him as a person first. I’d learned this from reading articles on my new profession and also from witnessing the positive effect of it on my work at the UT Hospital. What were his likes and dislikes? How long had he worked here? What was his educational background? Seeing a picture of his family on his desk, I asked about them. Soon the manager’s face began to soften, and he talked more openly. Now I could approach him from a professional standpoint, collecting data and making observations.
The following week, I began looking for an apartment. Mrs. Brown told me about the Executive House apartment complex fifteen minutes outside of Nashville. I liked that it was in the country, away from congested city traffic. The rent was the lowest I’d seen so far—only $125 a month. The landlady, Mrs. Olsen, was warm and friendly, and after I completed the application to rent an apartment, she asked me questions about my family and where I was from. She was in her sixties and lived with her adopted daughter, Maelie, who was in her early twenties. As Mrs. Olsen gave me the key to my apartment, Maelie came out to the front and smiled shyly at me. Freckles dotted her face and arms, and her red wavy hair fell slightly past her shoulders. I smiled back pleasantly.
Looking from me to Maelie, Mrs. Olsen smiled. “All right Mr. Bedi, just let me know if you have any more questions. Remember, jiggle the lock, and it will open.”
I moved in on January 1, 1969. The apartment was a straight shot to work, a twenty-minute drive with only two traffic lights. For a month I slept on the floor and ate dinner on a sheet spread on the carpet until Mrs. Brown suggested I go to a furniture store near the mall for my bedding needs. I followed her advice and purchased a Simmons mattress and box springs, also at her recommendation.
The next day, when Mrs. Olsen let the delivery men in with my new bed, she saw how bare my apartment was. She invited me to dinner that evening, and we ate baked chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. She made sure I ate my fill, insisting I take seconds. All through dinner, she and Maelie asked endless questions about my family, India, and me.
At the end of the night, Mrs. Olsen said, “Maelie, you could show Kris around Nashville sometime.”
Maelie brightened at the idea. “We can double date with Kay and her boyfriend,” she said. “Kay is my friend, and she lives in this complex too.”
I could not say no. After all, I was eating dinner at their apartment. Politely, I agreed to the plan.
Over the next few months, I grew accustomed to Mrs. Olsen and Maelie watching me. They lived on the first floor
