Over the next three years, I attended the Vishvakarma Institute of Engineering Technology, an engineering college in Ludhiana, working toward a diploma in civil engineering. My time at the institute gave me a taste of living in a place much bigger than Malaudh, and in some ways, it seemed more sophisticated. I made a good friend named Jasbir Singh Mann. We liked to study on the floor, and when we grew tired of reading and memorizing terms, we fell asleep on the floor surrounded by books and papers. We felt that studying and sleeping on the floor showed that we were serious, hard-working students.
In the summer of 1959, I received my Diploma in Civil Engineering, second division, not without some bribery and approach to the teachers. I treated the professors to dinner at a nice restaurant or took them to the movie theater in exchange for questions on the test. In addition, Jasbir helped me study for the final exams. At Vishvakarma, most students completed two to four years of college in physics, chemistry, or math programs. Students at this school usually didn’t qualify for admission at a more prestigious engineering university.
My parents were happy I had completed three years of Diploma in Civil Engineering in one try, especially since my brother twice failed his final year of engineering college before passing the exam. My parents arranged a big celebration in our village when I came home. My father proudly distributed sweets among the poor and to his colleagues, and he sent sweets to our relatives. Once the celebration was over, I asked myself what I would do next. If I was lucky, I might be able to work as an overseer, supervising the construction of buildings, roads, and dams; or a surveyor, inspecting land to determine elevations or depths where a new road or building would be constructed. However, a diploma from a small, unknown college such as the Vishvakarma Institute was not impressive, and most employers looked for workers with experience or a bachelor’s degree from a well-known university.
My brother worked as an overseer at the time and would tell me stories about his boss, the Sub-Divisional Officer (SDO) who was responsible for a large, geographic area called a sub-division and had much more authority over the overseers working for him. In a way, he was like a ruler or rajah, and his chauffeur drove him all over the territory he was responsible for. Did I want to work as an overseer with little authority over anyone or a surveyor who had even less responsibility and power?
The SDO position appealed to me more than the others, but I discovered that I could only qualify for the title after eight or ten years of service as an overseer. I wasn’t sure if I could get a job as an overseer with my engineering diploma from a small unknown college. It wouldn’t mean anything to anyone, and I didn’t have any on-the-job experience to qualify right off the bat.
I decided to take an examination at a well-respected engineering college in Nilokheri, 150 miles from my hometown. If I passed the exam in all subjects, I could find a good job as an overseer and eventually become an SDO.
My brother arranged for me to stay in a room near the college, but several days into my stay, I developed a bad rash under my arms. It was painful and scary to look at, and even worse, it prevented me from preparing for the exams. The frightening appearance of the rash worried me. After several days of no improvement, I consulted a doctor. He administered eight shots into my arms, and slowly the rashes disappeared. Somehow, I still could not concentrate on studying for the exams, which were spread out over a three-week period. Before taking each exam, I knew I would not pass. It was no surprise when the newspaper declared the results, and my roll number was missing. My dream of becoming an SDO was ruined. Not knowing what to do or where to go, my only option was to stay at home and work with my father.
The sun shone brightly through the front door of my father’s shop as I brought a cup of freshly brewed tea to a customer haggling over prices with my father. She took a sip. “Thank you, Krishan,” she said. “Just how I like it.” The middle-aged woman was one of the regulars, but she still persisted in bargaining over prices with my father. “I have children to feed,” she’d always say. “I can’t be taking whatever first offer of price you throw at me, Respected Mukandi Lal.”
“I have a family to feed as well,” my father would say. “I can’t always sell my goods for almost free.”
I began folding bolts of fabric and organizing them by their colors. A moment later, my father walked over to me. “We reached a good price this time,” he said. “She is a good customer, but she is always trying to swindle me.”
I reached for an unrolled bolt of red cloth and began folding it carefully. “It must have been the tea. She is always happier when she gets a drop of tea in her.”
My father laughed. “Yes, Krishan. I don’t know how I’ve done without you these few months. It’s been a hard time with you gone. You are a big help to me.”
I reached for another bolt of cloth without meeting his eyes. How could I
