“This will be the best post ever. As soon as i get home…”

He got home at 10. Exhaustion took over and soon he was snoring.

The blog would have to wait.

Author’s note: My first attempt at writing a short story in the space of 55 words; popularly known as 55ers. It’s pretty hard, as i were to realize over the course of composing this one. Hope you like.

Related posts:

1. Twitter Killed the Blogger

Unlike his cabinet colleagues, Masoor declined all official amenities and decided to continue living as a common man. Living an ordinary life would allow him to better empathize with his fellow aam aadmis.

Besides, an austere life would set an example for others in public service. He could not let himself enjoy a life of comfort while his countrymen plodded their way through hardship.

He lived in a tiny MIG flat in Dwarka and drove a Maruti Wagon R to work. The car happened because going to work on his Hero Honda Splendor became too big of a security concern. He had no domestic help (demeaning to fellow Indians), paid his phone/bijli bills himself, and lived a contented life with his wife and three little kids.

The US Secretary of state was on a state visit, and Masoor was scheduled for a meeting with her today. Pakistan had been firing on the border, and there had been increased incidents of intrusion in Kashmir. China on the other front, wasn’t any less busy with its aggressive stance on the border disputes and would routinely shake a diplomatic rifle at India.

India had been pleading with the US for some diplomatic show of support, but things were in a state of statemate stalemate.

Today’s meeting was going to be crucial.

This was peak load shedding season and there had been no power for the last 20 hours. The inverter was long gone. Somehow he spent the night preparing for the big meeting in candlelight. The kids proposed keeping a bucket nearby for the sweat. Evaporation would help cool down the room, they had just learned in school.

Somehow the night passed, and he was ready for work.

He picked up the lunch dabba packed by the wife, and just as he was going to leave the wife remembered that there was no milk in the house. Damn. He rushed to the mother dairy and got his usual double toned milk.  Not before getting into an argument with a brash teenager who tried to jump the line. Don’t your parents teach you any manners?

Milk done. He was out on the road.

It happened suddenly. There was a little boy crossing the road as he was approaching. Suddenly he got a call from home (the wife wanted to remind him to book tickets for the Bangkok trip next month). After the split moment of distraction he suddenly saw the approaching child and barely managed to avoid becoming a murderer. But that wasn’t enough. The kid’s father had noticed, and came running, or cantering, or whatever it is that looks like a mad horse rushing to dismember you.

Masoor was hanging out of the window of his car, the collar of his neatly ironed shirt in a stranger’s hand. From his perch, he could see impending doom.

A cop came running. Masoor’s breath was back in the lungs.

I am a minister in the Indian government. How dare you manhandle me, you moron? Did anything happen to your child? Who gave you the right to take the law in your hands?

The cop was a young guy, and not a very bright one. He didn’t even recognize the minister. After all, you knew a minister when you saw one. They traveled in flashy cars, and with large convoys. They didn’t get into little roadside brawls.

Sir, bahut shor macha rahe ho! I will give you a traffic violation. You were going too fast.

What the hell. No I was not. Tum log aise junta ko pareshaan karte ho?

Saab, I don’t have too much time for this nonsense. Give me 50, and be on your way.

Masoor was getting late, so he figured this battle will be better fought another day. He paid up, and moved on. He didn’t drive for long. It had rained last night and traffic was crawling. He was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic.

He got late for work. The US delegation left after waiting for an hour, and he got a nice reprimand from the PM.

The silver lining, though was that he got his Bangkok tickets booked. He got a special 30% discount because he booked 40 days in advance, as the rule stated.

Of course he was going to travel, umm, cattle class.

Related posts:

1. 8 Lessons for Indian Managers

Akhil managed to catch him on Yahoo messenger during one of his late nights at the office, and thought he’d share some news that would interest his old friend.

Akhil: Hi Rajesh! Whats up buddy?
Rajesh: Hey Dude! I am ok. Sup?

Akhil: I am doing ok. You tell me how’s India? Having fun?
Rajesh: It’s alright yaar. Life going on.

Akhil: Guess what, i am considering moving back to India!
Rajesh: hmm…
Rajesh: Frankly Akhil, don’t do that MISTAKE!

Akhil: What? Why?
Rajesh: Abe its not worth it. India is full of shit. I don’t want you to make the same mistake i made.

Akhil: You sound pretty unhappy about your move?!
Rajesh: I am not. I REGRET it.

Akhil: Wow. That bad?
Rajesh: Yaar the job scene is bad; its not easy to move base; and its just too much effort.
Rajesh: You slogged your ass to reach a position in the US. Now don’t give it all up to come back to India.
Rajesh: If you are thinking of coming back to India think hard, then Do Not do it.

Akhil: But i think that there is more growth opportunity in India; all the tech companies are there; and salary levels have risen pretty high.
Rajesh: That is true. You might get a nice job in India. But there are so many problems.
Rajesh: The quality of life…pollution…corruption…dishonesty will be all over you. I can only advise my friends not to repeat my mistake.

Akhil: Arre yaar all this was there when i lived in India all my life before coming to the US. How bad can it be?
Rajesh: Sure. Just that now that you are used to and have access to better amenities, then why do you want to give it up?

Akhil: Well, all of that is true. India may have little problems, but running away isn’t the solution.
Akhil: And like they say, home is where the heart is! I am coming to India.

Related posts:

1. Return to India – Initial Thoughts
2. The New India
3. All About Returning To India

She had already been working for a few months now.

Life was all settled and going on nicely. Their combined income afforded them a very comfortable lifestyle. Life was great. They would save for a while, buy a big house in the suburbs with their own garden. Ravi had his Lexus. Asha would get her second love, a Honda CRV. They would have two kids and a dog. If all went well, Asha and Ravi would achieve their American dream in a few years.

All did not go well. Their dream was to come crashing soon.

Ravi’s trading division at Goldman Sachs had been struggling under the weight of the ongoing financial woes. Goldman decided to cut off the aching arm.

Ravi no longer had a job. Ah…the vagaries of life!

They would keep him on the payroll for three months, and he had that much time to look for a job. After the three month period, he would no longer be employed and Goldman would notify USCIS to revoke his H1 visa.

As it turned out, 14 February was going to be D-day. If he did not have a job by then, he would be out of status. If he stayed in the US beyond that date he would be living illegally, and doing that would hurt his chances of ever again getting a US visa, forget Green card or citizenship.

February was ringing in. Ravi had been looking for over two months, but nothing had worked out. At his level there were hardly any jobs out there. For the few ones the competition was intense. With a hundred people competing for each job, the odds didn’t really stack very well in his favor. Employers were beginning to give preference to American citizens. Some were outright refusing to sponsor H1 visas.

Ravi was out for drinks with some of his ex-colleagues from Lehman. Like elsewhere on Wall street, his group had consisted of a lot of immigrants like himself. Swamy was his closest buddy.

Swamy was done with America. I am going back to India man, i made enough money. He was going to leave next month, and take a few months off traveling across the country. For some weird reason, he didn’t seem worried about what he was going to do once he was done traveling. You have gone crazy..why would you go to India?

Ravi couldn’t follow Swamy’s footsteps. He had too much at stake. He had his unfulfilled American dream. He had left India behind for good. Besides, what would he do in India? Who would pay the kind of salary he wanted?

All hope was not lost yet though. Ravi had one more interview lined up with this hedge fund in Connecticut. If that went through, all problems would be solved. If it didn’t work out, there was nothing he could do. Except for that one last recourse.

The interview was on 5th February. On the 3rd he picked up the Wall Street Journal only to read the headline that made his heart sink. His hedge fund had folded. It was gone – buried under the rubble of a few billion dollars of losses.

He picked up the phone and called Asha. It was time to take the drastic step he had hoped he would never have to consider. He was going to call the lawyer and file an application for transferring his visa to H4, as Asha’s dependent. That was the only way he could stay on in this country, and get some more time to find a job.

Ravi was going to be an H4 husband.

Life had come full circle for this happy couple.

Related posts:

1. H4 Wives
2. American Dream/Desi Consulting
3. Brain Drain – Reversed

As the air hostess handed over the immigration forms, Rajat felt a daze from the blood rushing to his head. His dream was coming true, at last.

Ever since he had gotten into engineering and heard all those stories of Indians going to America to live out their american dream, he had had only one goal in life.

Rajat wanted to live in America. He wanted to bathe in american water. He wanted to eat american eggs and drink american milk. He wanted to work in America.

He got that golden chance two years into his job with one of the leading consulting firms. Once he lost out on that onsite opportunity, there was only one way out.

Rajat found a consultant who would file for his H1 visa. Once that came through, he would go to the US, and be assigned to work on a project for some fortune 500 client.

This was too good to be true. He paid $2000 towards the visa filing fee, and another $2000 as a deposit to the consultant, just as security that he wouldn’t chuck the consultant as soon as he landed on the hallowed shores.

Luck was on Rajat’s side. He got the visa.

With bravado unusual for him, he bragged about his plans to friends and colleagues, and virtually spit in the face of his supervisor while resigning his job.

He didn’t mind burning this bridge. He was never coming back.

You and your stupid Indian consulting business. I am a big game player now. I have wasted enough time working with morons. This is going to be the big break i need and deserve.

He had it all planned out. In a few years he would have made a bag full of money. Once he had enough (how much was enough was not clearly defined) he would find a nice Indian girl and get married. Soon they would buy a house with his stockpile of cash. The parents will come over. They will have a few kids, and a couple of cars. Life will be fun.

Bye Bye India.

He was ready to live the big life. He was ready to make the moolah. He was ready to conquer America.

The flight landed at JFK. The first gust of american air felt like magic on his stubbled face. Rajat was already in love.

Immigration, Customs, a huge and complicated airport, and four hours later, Rajat reached the address that the consultant had given him.

As he got off the cab in the shady Jersey City neighborhood, Rajat had a severe sense of foreboding. This did not seem like the America they showed in movies. This looked more like downtown chandni chowk.

The apartment. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Shared by six guys. There were people all over each other.

Ahh..what the hell. This must be busy season. This is just temporary accommodation for a few days.

The temporary phase eventually didn’t turn out to be that short term. Rajat stayed in the apartment for a month, and his co-inmates made him realize that he was not in the special place in life he thought he was.

Every year thousands like him got hired by those body shoppers and dumped in these dungeons till they became productive and started bringing in money for the consultant.

It was one big industry. There were the companies who needed to outsource work to consultants. Then there were primary vendors who were responsible for providing these people to the client companies. These primary vendors in turn got their people from secondary vendors, who could be getting people from another consultant, and so on.

It was one big messed up food chain and Rajat was at the very bottom. He was of no use to anybody till he got a client project, and with the dwindling economy, competition was tough and projects hard to come by.

There wasn’t going to be much dignity in this american dream. He would stay in this apartment with six other people for now, and live at the mercy of the consultant who had, by the way, kept his original papers, as added safety. They knew their game. Rajat wasn’t their first.

This was slave trade. The modern version.

Related posts:

1. Fast Track American Dream
2. If Santa Was Desi
3. Desi Confused by America

She was in America.

The past two weeks had been a whirlwind. She had met Ravi on 20th Nov, and ten days later they were husband and wife.

Ravi was a strapping 30 year old vice president at Goldman Sachs. He had been lapped up from NYU’s Stern school where he had been among the top performers in his MBA class. He had managed to hold off his mother’s insistence for the past few years, but now that he had gotten the promotion he so desperately wanted, there was no stopping her.

All he had to do was take a picture with his Lexus in clean clothes and send to his tech savvy mom. She set up his profile on Shaadi.com and set about finding a suitable match for her son. A shortlist of 25 was prepared and Ravi was summoned to headquarters in Mumbai.

Of all the doctors, engineers, and finance types that his mom had shortlisted Ravi liked Asha most. They got married a week later. There was no time for a honeymoon in a two week leave.

The newly weds were in New york.

Asha used to teach math to high schoolers back in Mumbai. She would have to find work once she was in America. Alas, she didn’t know jack about the visa and related vagaries involved in living the American dream. Ravi was still a few years from getting his green card, and as his dependent, she was in the US on an H4 visa.

She was not allowed to work. Not for money. Not legally, at least.

There were three options. She could enroll in school and get the Phd she had wanted for so long.  She could wait for Ravi to get his green card which would allow her to work. She could find an employer willing to sponsor her work visa and wait till that came through. This of course wasn’t just time consuming, but also potentially involved going through a lottery.

None of these options offered an immediate solution to her problem. She needed to do something meaningful with her life. Illegal immigrants were being given citizenship and qualified professionals such as her were being subjected to the probabilistic game of a lottery. The ironies of life!

Asha did not lose her asha yet. She was an optimist, and Ravi had prepared her (somewhat) for this possibility. For now, she could just take it easy and stay home till she figured out a plan.

The first month was spent being homesick, and putting her messy Jersey City apartment in order. Her husband was smart, but his apartment looked more like a hostel. There was a lot of cleaning to be done. Soon the apartment was tide clean. Asha wasn’t homesick anymore. Now what?

Asha was lost. She felt trapped in a vortex that the US government had created for the hapless wives of immigrant workers. She wasn’t entitled to a social security number. As a consequence she could not get a credit card. She could not get a driving license. She of course couldn’t work.

They made sure dependents stayed that way.

The husband worked long hours. The wife was used to a busy life herself, but now suddenly she was stuck inside the four walls of her Newport apartment with nothing to do.

After months of desperate solitude, she managed to make a new friend. Veena lived in the same complex but it took four months for their paths to cross. Anyway, cross they did. Veena also was a H4 wife, and had been one for over two years. She was a software engineer, and had failed to get a visa this year. Thanks United States Lottery!

Asha’s life became a teeny bit more interesting. She now had someone to talk to. Someone who understood the pain she was going through. They became close friends. The long crib sessions to discuss the senseless immigration policies of the US helped mitigating the anguish she felt.

Small mercy for Asha and Veena – finding others in their position. Many H4 wives have had to live their lives in solitude with no recourse to alternatives outside the home. Socializing in new cities in a foreign culture can be tough.

American dream some might say. Ask the H4 wives.

Related posts:

1. H4 Husbands
2. F.O.B.
3. American Dream/Desi Consulting

Akhil kept listening as AJ lashed out at his Indianness.

AJ was Indian. Kind of. His real name was Ajay and he was born to parents who had left India over 30 years back. He was an American citizen. He despised the link to India. It kept him down. It was stopping his progress. He was smarter than most kids his age, but he was exotic. Never really there. As much as he hated the expression, he was an American Born Confused Desi. An ABCD. Akhil, on the other hand, was a FOB.

Akhil and AJ were roommates. They were attending the masters program in Computer Science at the University of South California, and destiny university housing had put them in the same room. Akhil considered himself as an ambassador of India. AJ hated everything Indian. Clearly there wasn’t much love between the two.

For now, the flamboyant display of words was caused by the smell of the dal Akhil was cooking in the kitchen. It smelled wonderful, but not to AJ’s American nose.

I detest you. You are a lousy piece of work. It’s like god got tired of creating decent people and took time out to see how bad he could get. You were the result of that break god took.

Akhil took it all. He kept quiet. They had been together for a year; he could bear another month before he graduated and moved to San Fransisco for his job with Yahoo.

He was 27. He had worked hard to get to grad school. He had contributed his bit to global warming burning a lot of midnight oil preparing for his exams, scoring a perfect score on the GRE. He was smart, and had a level head on his shoulders. That attribute had come in handy in this living arrangement he was forced to get into for lack of options.

A month passed, and it was time to go.

AJ’s parting words: “Good Riddance. Hopefully i will never have to see you again.”.

Ten years later, Akhil had arrived. He had rapidly risen through the ranks at Yahoo to become an Engineering Director. He had achieved more than ordinary mortals his age could aspire to, yet his heart pined for home.

Akhil packed up, moved back to India, and joined the India office in Bangalore. The pay was good. Facilities were much better than what he expected. The wife loved the domestic help.

More importantly, they were home.  Life was good again.

Tonight was a gala night at the office. Christmas party. Lots of food, drinks, and people. Some of the external vendors were also going to be present. Akhil hated these social events. He’d rather stay home and spend time with family. Too bad, his position warranted presence at such events. So there he was. Trying to be there, downing his boredom in glasses of Sprite (Akhil did not drink), when he noticed a familiar looking person working the crowd.

AJ!

It hit him with the force of ten terabytes of data hitting the network. AJ, his roommate during one of the most critical years of his life; a man who made him learn so much, even if by being mean in every aspect possible; a person who hated his country more than he hated diet coke;  right here, in Bangalore!

The old roommates talked. AJ’s company was one of the external vendors that worked with Yahoo. They had been hit by the downturn, and had decided to setup an office in India. He had been told to either quit, or move to India. He had had to accept the second option. There were mortgages to pay off, and he couldn’t afford being unemployed.

AJ was still complaining about the heat and pollution in the city when Akhil remembered his wife waiting for him. He had to leave. There wasn’t much to say.

Take care, AJ. Welcome home!

Related posts:

1. Take It Easy
2. The World This Week – 5 Apr 2009
3. World Champions!

All Indians around him, even the ones who had been in the US for years were FOBs. They would remain so till, well, forever. Along the way, they would get married, and have kids. Their kids would be ABDs (American Born Confused Desi). But they would be FOBs forever. Anyway, this is about our favorite DBD (ABD – American + Desi = DBD). Akhil.

Akhil was a 24 year old software engineer. He chucked his well paying tech job to come over to the US to get his masters degree. All paid for by the university. He was after all, a bright kid.

His flight to cross the proverbial seven seas stopped over in Paris. A starving Akhil went to get a coffee and was horrified to find a cup of coffee priced at 4 dollars. 200 rupees!!! There was no way he was going to drink that. Then he found his new friend from the flight – a fellow to-be-FOB who agreed to share the coffee. And Akhil had the costliest half cup of coffee of his life. Yet.

That was two months back. Since then he had spent many dollars. Many of them on starbucks’ caramel machiato that cost 4 dollars for a cup. But not one of those dollars had been spent without converting the cost into rupees and doing a comparative analysis to decide the worth of whatever he was considering.

America confused him. He had always heard so much about it being such a great magical superpower. So far he hadn’t really seen any of that magic. Same roads. Same cars. Same shops. What was so great about America he used to wonder. Sure, the roads were cleaner, there were no power cuts, water was available all the time. But he was expecting something grander than a 24 hour running water supply.
One thing was nice though. On the road, people used to greet him as he walked to school (they said school when they meant college.) People seemed friendlier and more courteous. One point to America.

Walmart was the hugest-est shop he had ever seen. You could buy anything there. From vegetables to clothes to guns to bicycles. He was awestruck. There were so many Indians all over the place. And they always seemed to ignore him, just when he was on the verge of going to give them a hug as a fellow indian.
It was a different world alright, but not all that different from where he was coming from.

He had gone through all the american culture cheat sheets he could lay his hands on. He knew that Americans called their currency notes as bills, and the cars filled up with gas not petrol, and a hundred such points. But he was still insufficiently prepared for the subway (eat freshhh!) trip where he asked the cute girl to put some capsicum on his sandwich, and she looked at him like he had just flown down from some other planet. Some sign language later, she told him that what he wanted was called pepper. These FOBs!

Later that month, he offered his research colleague some biscuits, only to get laughed at again. Biscuits apparently were some American bread that they sold in Walmart and you baked in an oven. He didn’t know that he had been eating a cracker all along.

Akhil discovered that not all FOBs were same. There were some who were proud of being a FOB. Some became American as soon as they got off whatever boat got them to amreeka. Some were recent FOBs. Some were FOBs of five years. Some spoke with thick punjabi accents. Some spent all their time perfecting the American tongue. Some devoted their attention to pursuits of straight A’s while some others’ pursuits were directed towards the ladies.

And there were, of course, the ABDs. They were the same thing..till they opened their mouths. Their was one of his ABD friends whose accent was so strong that Akhil could only understand half of what he said.
Akhil though, didnt mind his FOBness. His professor was a desi (10 year FOB). The head of department was a 30 year FOB. Half the research group was desi. He had his mini India setup right here in America.

All that was missing was the chai that he was so addicted to. That was the one thing America sorely lacked. Point to India.

Related posts:

1. Take It Easy
2. Its a Small World
3. The Travails of an India Returnee

He had finished his weekly session teaching eighteen year old American kids how to save documents in word, as part of his Computer Literacy assignment. His throat always got parched from all the speaking, and he had gone out of the room to grab water.

He had also managed to get locked out of his classroom. His wallet, ID, home keys, everything was left in the room. Poor Akhil was worried about what to do and he remembered that Mike had his office nearby. He ran to Mike’s office and asked him if he had access to the same room.

Mike did not.

But he suggested that Akhil call up the campus police and that they could help unlock the room for him. And as Akhil left, Mike said “take it easy”.

Akhil thought that maybe he looked worried thats why Mike suggested him to take it easy. He was a little surprised though. He wasnt quite that worried. Anyway, he thought, that was nice of Mike.

The cops took 10 minutes to get there, and were very cooperative. As they left, they told Akhil to, well, take it easy.

Akhil had just arrived in America to start his masters, and really didn’t know much about the American way of doing things. That night he discussed with his more experienced roommates, and they laughed at him shamelessly for a full minute before they could even reply.

Abe gadhe…you are a complete idiot. Just take it easy.

Related posts:

1. Its a Small World
2. The Travails of an India Returnee
3. F.O.B.

He was after all, going to America.

That though couldn’t happen till he finished packing. Which would be once his mom was done stuffing fifteen packs of dals, and spices, and snacks, and soaps, and toothpaste, and shoe polish, and god knows what else, into his two suit cases which as per US regulations couldn’t weigh more than 64 pounds.

Not the pound that is the British dollar, but the pound that is the American kilo. (What sort of silly people weigh in Pounds. A woman weighing a nice 40 kilos would probably have a heart failure if someone admiringly told her that she looked about 90, and forgot to add the unit.)

Anyway, who cared. Rajiv had already converted to the pound system. He even went to the Agarwal sweet store and asked for 2 pounds of kaju barfi. He called them ignorant and they shooed him off. Their loss. He was going to America, kaju barfi or not.

Rajiv had grown from strength to strength the past 6 months. He was a wreck during the initial application stage. Only he knew how he managed to get his 95 percentile GRE score. In March he got notification of his acceptance to the University of Southern California (no funding, but his dad was rich enough to pay the thirty thousand dollars. Thank god for rich parents). He was the envy of his classmates, and the latest find for the babes girls. He was a lion. Soon it was time to get the visa. He had heard of so many stories where the visa officer rejected the visas of even deserving people. He was mediocre, on his best day. He was going crazy. He couldn’t afford turning back from here.

There was going to be no need for turning back. The visa officer liked his face, and wished him luck.

He had enjoyed the attention he had gotten ever since. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Boys, Girls, everybody loved him. Even the neighbor’s dog monty no longer snapped at him. He loved himself. He was going to America. He was already calling all his friends dude, and getting his 03′ Santro LS filled with gas, often confusing the petrol pump attendants. (One idiot actually dumped CNG into his car. Took him a week to get the mess cleaned up. Retards.)

He was gonna live the American dream. He was gonna make a lot of money. He was going away from the shithole called India. He was going to America.

For now, his mom was alternating between crying and packing. Little Jasmine was too little to really care. Rajiv felt a little weird. He was going to be so far from all this. And he saw the positive side of it. Wow. How cool is that going to be. This didn’t sound bad at all.

He was wearing his Calvin Klein jeans, a Banana Republic t-shirt, the Gucci shades his trendy-shopper mom got for him. He looked American. He felt American.

He knew all that there was to America. He had seen all seasons of Friends and Seinfeld. He had practiced that accent at all the local bars and coffee shops. He had switched from AajTak to CNN. He was no longer interested in Cricket. Move over Sachin, Barry Bonds was the new god. He loved black coffee. He even swore only in English. No more crude Hindi words for him.

He had what it took to be the next big shot Indian import. Only he wouldn’t be Indian for long. People wont even realize that he was from India. He was that slick. All those white girls waiting for him to rescue them from sick boring dumbass white guys were going to love him.

He was going to be a big deal. Huge.

Related posts:

1. Mallika Goes To America
2. Driving in America
3. Desi Confused by America