“It is amazing to see how my son has come so far,” my father said proudly after I gave my parents a tour of our house. “You have done very well in the United States. We are happy to be here and to see your way of life and to help you in any way we can. This will be an interesting visit.”
“We are proud of you, Krishan,” my mother said, smiling. “I am so happy to be with you and Raj for such a long time, and we are looking forward to spending time with our beloved grandchildren this summer.”
If only they knew how deeply thrilled I was to have them there myself. I could tell them all day long, but words could not express my deep emotions at that moment.
A few days after my parents came to stay, Raj started managing Bressler’s ice cream store. We had purchased the store, located in the mall, a few months earlier, and Raj had attended a two-week training program in Chicago to learn how to manage it.
Since Raj was often at the ice cream store, my mother helped her with whatever she needed at home. Right away, she took over unloading the dishwasher. However, my mother was too short to reach the cabinets, so instead of putting the dishes away, she set the dishes on the counter and my father put them away. While Raj and I were at work, my father would answer the phone. “If the phone rings,” I’d told him, “go ahead and answer it, but state, ‘Mr. Bedi is not home. Call later.’”
My father wrote down my instructions, and the plan worked well. Our friends would simply call later when we were home. However, one day the phone rang, and it was Raj’s brother, Satish, on the line. While Satish tried to tell my father who he was, my father kept repeating, “Mr. Bedi not home, call later.” Satish, realizing what was going on, waited for my father to finish, and then said in Hindi, “Baiji, I am Satish. Satish Verma from Nabha.”
Immediately my father perked up, stating, “Oh Satish mal, why didn’t you tell me that was you?”
“Baiji, I was trying to tell you,” Satish said, “but you kept saying, ‘Mr. Bedi not home, call later.’”
During the day, my mother walked around the neighborhood to strengthen her knees. People, being polite, would wave at her and say, “Hi.”
My mother did not know how to respond, and, one evening, she brought up the matter to me.
“While I am walking, this woman with light-colored hair who lives in the blue house keeps saying ‘Hi, hi.’ There are several others who say the same thing. I’m not sure what illness they have. They keep saying ‘Hi, hi.’ It is very strange.”
I just chuckled because in Hindi, people say “Hi, hi” when they are in pain due to sickness.
“Bibi, there is nothing wrong with them,” I said. “What they are saying means Namaste. You can also say hi and wave your hand.”
“Oh,” my mother said, laughing, too, at her mistake.
Another evening, my mother related to me what happened when she picked up the phone.
“I told them, ‘Mr. Bedi not home, call later,’ but they kept talking. So I say in Punjabi, ‘Why you keep talking? I just knew only this much English.’ Then they stopped talking.”
I always enjoyed hearing my mother’s stories and seeing life in the States through her eyes. While everything around her was American culture, from the way people spoke to each other to how they behaved, she only knew Indian culture and the Punjabi language, and many times the American way of life left her feeling puzzled.
Meanwhile, at Providence Hospital, I was proud of the results my management team and I continued to achieve. However, the inflation rate was high at the time, and we were not receiving salary increases. Looking for a way to fix this, Mr. Gilreath and Finance Director D. M. Hass hired a consultant to work on an administrative compensation package.
After a few months, the consultant’s recommendations were approved. As part of the package, each of the administrative staff was granted $2000 towards an IRA and a company car, with certain limitations, such as a monthly lease payment.
Needless to say, I was excited about choosing which car I wanted to lease. The car was only granted to four of us: D. M. Hass, Bill Poll, Mr. Gilreath, and me. Mr. Poll liked the Camaro. As part of the lease agreement, he paid $1,000 out of pocket. Mr. Hass chose a Toyota Corolla with no money out of pocket. I liked the sporty Camaro and chose a white one, also paying $1,000 of my own money. The hospital paid $200 a month for each car. When I drove the car around town, revving the engine and gliding effortlessly through the streets, I felt on top of the world. The car had eight cylinders, so when I drove to Lawrenceburg to see my friend Harbans Gill, it was exhilarating to test its speed on the country roads. Harbans and his wife were amazed to see me pull into their driveway.
“Bedi Saheb, what’s going on?” they asked.
I felt as though I were up in the clouds—owning an ice cream store, a company car, receiving a $2,000 financial package, my kids going to a private school, my parents staying with me, and earlier that year, I had invested in two apartment buildings. At the time, I bought gold and silver coins, giving Raj a gold Krugerrand coin to wear as a pendant. Harbans Gill’s wife also wanted one, and one day, he said to me, “Bedi Saheb, what’s going on? Have you won the lottery? You are making it difficult for us. Now my wife wants one.”
There wasn’t much else I could ask for, and it seemed life just kept getting better and
