On the third night, I spoke to the manager of the New Jersey operators. “I have been in the US for almost eight years and have not talked to my parents even once,” I explained. “Our hometown village has just installed a phone, and I need to talk to them so that I can hear their voices and so they can hear mine.”
Sympathetic to my story, the manager could only say, “I am truly sorry, Mr. Bedi, but we are helpless if the New Delhi operator does not pick up the phone.”
For three more nights I tried to reach Malaudh. Each night, I emphasized my story to the New Jersey operator, who would relay my story to the New Delhi operator. Still no luck. Later, the operator told me that sometimes the New Delhi operator goes to sleep or is on break so they just don’t pick up the phone. That could be the story in Ludhiana as well as Mandi Ahmed Garh.
On the seventh night, as my patience was running thin and I pleaded my case yet again, all the while praising the operators for trying so hard, we finally made it through all the exchanges. The phone rang at the Malaudh post office, and the operator at the Mandi Ahmed Garh exchange said, “Hello, there is a call from America for Shree Mukandi Lal Bedi.” The man who answered the phone knew Mr. Mukandi Lal’s son was studying in the US, and he ran to my father’s shop to tell him that his son was on the phone—“Please hurry and come!”
When my father heard this, he immediately sent a message to my mother that I was on the phone at the post office. “Come in a hurry,” he urged. My parents ran to the post office. At the same time, our neighbors next to the shop also ran, passing the news along that there was a phone call from America. Around twenty-five people gathered at the post office to hear my voice. I could hear my father saying “Hello, hello,” and I answered, saying, “Hello, hello. Pari pana,” meaning “touching your feet,” a gesture of respect in Indian culture used when greeting an elderly person on the phone. That was all I could say and all I could hear due to the poor connection and the voice delay. Still my heart jumped with excitement when I heard my father’s voice. The connection was not clear, and I strained to hear him through the phone’s static.
“Krishan, our neighbor’s son, Bhushan, wants to talk to you,” my father said. The battery to the post office telephone was going low, and when he handed the phone to Bhushan, all I could hear was “Hello, hello,” before the connection became fuzzy and I could only hear static and faint noises in the background. I slumped back in my chair, frustrated that I could not talk to my mother. It was 3:00 a.m.
Meanwhile, the man at the post office suggested to my parents that if they were willing to travel to Mandi Ahmed Garh, the connection would be clearer, and they would be able to hear me better. The operator from Mandi Ahmed Garh was still on the line and could hear what was going on. He relayed the message to Ludhiana’s operator, who told New Delhi’s operator, who repeated it to the operator in New Jersey. “Will you wait for your parents to travel to Mandi Ahmed Garh?” the New Jersey operator asked me.
“Yes, I will wait.”
Even though Mandi Ahmed Garh is only fourteen miles away from Malaudh, I knew it would take my parents about forty minutes to reach the town by bus. Later, I learned that someone offered to take them on his scooter.
An hour later, the New Jersey operator called. “Let’s try the connection now,” she said.
Putting me on hold, she repeated the long process of getting through to the New Delhi, Ludhiana, and Mandi Ahmed Garh operators. Finally, they reached Mandi Ahmed Garh. When the line connected, I could hear many voices clamoring in the background. Besides my parents, there must have been ten to fifteen people from Malaudh crowding around the phone, anxious to hear my voice.
“Hello,” “Hello,” my father and I said at the same time. Because of the five second voice delay, we continued to talk over each other. Even still, I was happy that I could hear my father, and then finally, my mother. We didn’t say much, just kept repeating hello and simple greetings. “Pari pana,” I said to her, and my mother showered blessings on me.
“You stay happy and healthy, and may God give you lots of money.” Then my mother said in a heavy voice, “Krishan, when are you coming back? It has been eight years that I have not seen you.”
She started crying, and hearing her, I felt the tears in my own heart. “Soon,” I replied. “In a few months, once I get my visa.”
“Your three minutes are up,” the operator interrupted. “Do you want an extension?”
“Yes, yes,” I said quickly.
My father and I said “Hello,” “Hello” again, but before I could get another word in, my father said, “Here is someone who wants to say hello to you.”
The other people wanted to hear my voice, and while I said “Hello”
