Afterward, I went to my room for a nap. Only the bedrooms were heated, using coal heat from a small grate built into the wall. I crawled underneath the heavy quilt on the bed and fell asleep.
The next day, I contacted Mohinder Sood, a friend of Ved’s. He invited me for dinner and introduced me to an Indian student who took me to see the university campus. After three days, I moved to a room in a house with three Indian students for twenty-five dollars a month. The old man had coughed constantly, and I feared I might become sick too. In India, coughing is a sign of tuberculosis.
On registration day, I went to the basketball stadium and wandered around for a few minutes before asking a student what I needed to do. He explained, but I stared at him blankly, not understanding his accent at all. Finally, he pointed at a row of desks pushed together with thick course booklets for the winter quarter piled on top. I watched students get in line, grab a booklet and a white index card, and sit on the floor to look through the booklets. I did the same.
An hour went by before I found my three courses and the sections I would like to be in based upon the timing of the other courses. Flipping through hundreds of pages and scanning thousands of lines took more than my limited knowledge of English would allow, but no one helped me, and I wouldn’t have understood them anyway. I joined the long line stretching from the front of the room to the back. When I reached the front, a lady called out, “Next!” and I gave her my card. She looked at it and checked the numbers with the data in front of her.
“I’m sorry, hon. These course sections are all filled up.”
“Excuse me?” I said, not sure if I’d understood her correctly.
“These. Course. Sections. Are. Full,” she repeated loudly.
I stared at her in disbelief.
“Choose different course sections.” She gestured to the space behind me. “Next!”
Wishing I had saved the page numbers, I sat down on the floor again to go through the long process of flipping through the Winter Courses booklet. Then I joined the long line once again, wishing I had eaten more for breakfast. At the front of the room, a different lady took my card.
“These sections are full,” she said.
My heart sank as I trudged away to begin all over again.
It was late afternoon by the time I returned to my house, feeling exhausted, depressed, and hungry. My housemates were lounging around the house, relaxed and in a good mood. Slowly, I made tea for myself, wishing for my mother, father, and sisters. Here in America I had no one to make tea for me or listen to my troubles and encourage me. Even though I was exhausted, I made the hot tea and drank it as I shared my registration experience with my housemates.
Two of them laughed. “It took us only two hours to register,” they said.
The other student felt bad. “I am sorry you had such difficulty. Tomorrow will be better.”
Before collapsing into bed, I ate a meal of peas and potatoes with bread and butter, washing it down with milk.
Yes, tomorrow will be better, I told myself. Hopefully.
For the first week of class, I wore a suit and tie, alternating between two hand-stitched suits I had brought from India. I wanted my professors to think I came from an educated family in a big city, but several Indian students told me I didn’t need to dress up for class, so I began dressing casually like the Americans.
Friends in India told me not to worry about my studies. The teachers would take it easy on me because they understood I was far from home. Unfortunately, the teachers did not show me any sympathy. Hundreds of students attended their classes. I was lucky if they even remembered my name. Earning a passing grade was solely my responsibility.
Even though I could not understand the lectures, I still took notes, copying whatever the professor wrote on the chalkboard. As the weeks went by, these notes remained stuffed in books or strewn across my desk, forgotten and not in the least understood.
Between classes I returned to the apartment, cooked a meal, and chatted with the other students I lived with. This soon became a comfortable routine. My studies fell by the wayside as socializing became my favorite part of my new life. If nothing else, I excelled socially. However, certain activities I did not understand.
For instance, I had never heard the term “dating” before. I was clueless about how to approach a girl and start a conversation. It seemed a necessary part of student life. My Indian friends advised me on how to approach girls.
“While you are in between classes,” one guy said, “if you see a nice-looking girl walking alone, ask her the way to the campus post office. Pretend you don’t understand the directions and ask if she will show the way. While walking to the post office, ask her name. If she is talkative, ask if she would like to go on a date.”
I decided to give it a try. One day while between classes, I saw a girl with long hair walking by herself. Underneath one arm, she carried several books. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I called out, jogging to catch up to her.
She stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
“Could you tell me the way to the post office?”
“Sure.” She started to explain, but I interrupted.
“I’m sorry. Could you show me the way?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
We started walking and talked briefly about our classes. She asked where I was from and if I liked
