Around noon, I arrived at Ved’s apartment building. The taxi driver unloaded my luggage and placed it on the sidewalk in front of the door. He showed me his hands. “The luggage. Too heavy!” he complained. I paid him the price on the meter, but he showed me his hands again. “More money.”
“No, no,” I told him. “I need to save money. Go!”
The driver stormed away, muttering to himself as he slammed the taxi door and drove off. I knocked on Ved’s door, but no one came to let me in. Realizing my cousin must not have received my aerogram, I sat outside on the cold steps to wait until he came home in the evening. About twenty minutes later, an Indian man walked up to the apartment building.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Krishan Bedi, cousin of Ved Bedi.”
“Oh yes. He told me you were coming, but we did not know when your ship would arrive. I live with your cousin. I will open the door for you.”
He helped carry my luggage into the apartment and asked if I wanted something to eat. I was starving so he made me a sandwich, and although I had not developed a taste for this type of food yet, I ate it anyway. After lunch, Ved’s roommate returned to work, leaving me alone in the apartment until evening.
At six o’ clock, my cousin came in carrying the mail from the mail box in the hallway.
“Krishan, you are here! I am so glad to see you. What a surprise!” He embraced me, and then showed me the mail.
“Look!” he said, laughing. “I got your letter today.”
When Ved saw my luggage, he exclaimed, “What is this? So much luggage! How did you bring it all? And a bistra bandh. This you will not need. Your landlord or landlady will provide all your bedding in Tennessee.”
“Yes, but it was my mother’s wish,” I explained. “I could not say no to her. I wanted her to be happy before I left.”
Ved just laughed. “Shall we have a cup of tea? I want to hear all about your journey.”
The snow fell in large clumps, covering the sidewalks and streets. I had never seen snow before or imagined it could feel so cold. Car exhaust turned the snow from sparkling white to gray in the streets, but the layers and drifts on buildings, houses, and store awnings shimmered brilliantly.
I had one week to learn about American culture and customs before I left for Tennessee. Red and green Christmas ornaments decorated storefronts and streets everywhere, while Christmas songs played on almost every radio station. I heard “Jingle Bells” so often I became amused and tired of it at the same time, even though I had not heard the song before. My cousin worked most days and spent the evenings with me. One night, he prepared a special drink for the Christmas season. “You’ll like it,” he said. “It’s just sweet milk, and it will make you feel good.” The first time, I drank it quickly. “Wait, drink it slowly,” he said. “There is whisky in it.”
“Oh boy, this tastes good!” I said. “What else is in it?”
“Sugar, beaten eggs, and cinnamon. It is called eggnog. People drink it during the Christmas holidays.”
One day, Ved asked Poornima, a good-looking Indian girl, to show me around New York City while he worked. At first I thought she was my cousin’s girlfriend, but later I learned they were just friends. She took me to the shops and treated me to lunch at a diner. I ordered a ham and cheese on rye bread with fruit. It was only my fourth day in America, but Poornima thought I was becoming Americanized well because I would say, “Yeah, yeah,” instead of “Yes” as teachers taught us in India. Actually, I couldn’t understand her accent, so I pretended to know what she was saying.
After spending six days in New York with my cousin Ved Bedi, he arranged for me to ride with a friend traveling to a small town in Virginia. From there, I took a bus to Knoxville, Tennessee. At 10:00 a.m. on December 29th, I arrived in Knoxville, where it had snowed several inches the night before. Ved had given me the address of the place he had stayed when he lived in Knoxville, Tennessee, and I gave the piece of paper to the taxi driver. Once we arrived at the house, the driver helped unload my luggage. He became upset, groaning and muttering loudly as he hauled the heavy luggage up the steps. Finally, we unloaded everything by the front door, and I paid him the money shown on the meter.
When I knocked, an old man in his eighties, came to the door.
“Ved Bedi. My cousin. He say you let me stay here,” I said in broken English. I showed him the address written on the piece of paper.
The old man looked at it blankly. “Eh? What do you want?” He tilted his ear toward me and spoke loudly. “If you’re selling something I’m not interested.” He started to shut the door.
“Stop,” I pleaded. “I am Krishan Bedi. You know my cousin. Ved Bedi. I am new in Amrika, need place to stay. I pay rent. Money,” I said loudly.
The man mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Frustrated, I pushed my way inside and held up the paper with the address. “Ved Bedi, Ved Bedi,” I repeated.
The man must have finally understood what I was trying to say, because he showed me to the bedroom and pointed out the kitchen and refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator. “Eggs,” he said, in
