Chandigarh to Chapel Hill

Part 3 Less than a year later, Sabreena found herself on a plane flying to the United States. Coming to America had never been her dream, although she had always had relatives there. But her husband’s family believed that it was the land of opportunity, and she never dreamed of arguing with them, even thought this move meant that she had to leave school without finishing her degree. Looking down from her window as they approached the airport in Raleigh, all she could see was trees. It was very different from Panjab, which was as plain as Texas, and she wondered if she was going to live in a jungle. As soon as she embarked from the plane, her eyes scanned the crowd for her husband. He was easy to spot with a beard and a turban on his head. Everybody else looked odd and spoke with a funny accent. She avoided looking at the strange people, and gazed instead at the surroundings, which made her much less uncomfortable. Her husband gave her a hug and quietly helped with the luggage as they walked through the airport, which was incredibly clean and quiet. The ride home to Chapel Hill left her awestruck and scared. The countryside seemed silent and vast, and the car ride was so smooth. No drivers were playing loud music; no one was honking a horn. All the drivers seemed to know where they were going. “America is strange!” she thought. The next day, at 6 AM, Sabreena lay in bed—it was her normal bed tea time. Where was the maid who would bring her cup of chai and politely wake her up? Where was her father, her mother, her brother or the other relatives who would drink bed tea with her? Where was the milkman singing songs on his motorbike who would always arrive with fresh milk while the family was having bed tea? What about the second round of tea and the discussion between her mother and the maid about the dishes to be cooked for lunch and dinner? A sharp pang in her stomach informed her that she was alone, that she would have to make her own tea and drink it by herself. For a moment, she let herself believe that this was temporary and that she would soon be back in India, but her husband’s voice asking for tea brought her back to her new, lonely life. She made him tea and poured out milk and cereal for his breakfast. Tomorrow, she was going to make him a proper Indian breakfast, she decided. By 7:30, her husband had left for work and she was by herself in her two-bedroom apartment. She decided to take a shower and was shocked to find that the bathroom had no windows. Bathrooms need sunlight—didn’t the Americans know that? She had always thought that they were intelligent! What’s more, there was no bath, only a shower, and there was nowhere in the bathroom to wash her clothes, and the water smelled of chlorine. Her husband had told her to wipe the tub after taking a shower, and as she did it, she realized that she had never cleaned a bathroom in her life. After the shower, she made herself a soothing cup of chai and found herself missing her favorite radio station, “The All India Radio,” which played Bollywood songs in the morning. She turned on the TV, but it made no sense to her and she quickly turned it off. Where were the street vendors calling out as they sold their wares? She wanted to step out in the lane and buy fresh vegetables from a vendor and chat with the neighbors. By this time in India her home would be bustling with activity. Visitors would have dropped by, the maid would be noisily doing the wash by hand, neighbors would have their radios blaring and the cleaning lady would be washing the outside floors with water and a broom. The silence in Sabreena’s new home was chilling. Why had she come to the US? Having nothing else to do, she decided to go for a walk. It was May, and it had rained, making the air soft and sweet. She felt a cool breeze on her face and smiled. When she got to Franklin Street, she peered into the windows of the shops, and watched the passersby, who included girls wearing indecently short shorts. The young men looked handsome and she felt a little guilty for looking at them. A middle-aged African-American man opened a shop door for her, tipping his hat and complementing her. She smiled, feeling happy and embarrassed, and mumbled a thank you as she walked in. Funny, she thought, that her very first morning in Chapel Hill would be the first time in her life that a man had tipped his hat for her. Once inside, she could make no sense at all of the things the store was selling. There was a jumble of T shirts, shorts, umbrellas, backpacks, whiskey glasses, key chains and socks, all in sky blue, with “Tar Heel” written on them. Some had an extremely weird looking animal on them. She had so many questions, but refrained from asking them, not wanting to appear ignorant and not knowing if it would be ok to interrupt the conversation of the salespeople. She looked around for a while and then walked out, both amused and amazed at the things she’d seen. The university campus next to Franklin Street…