How I Ended Up in the US
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I was living in Bombay, quite content with my life in that vibrant city. I had the good fortune to hold an enviable position at a multinational company, Hindustan Lever, and my career there was flourishing. And yet, beneath that contentment, there was a restlessness stirring somewhere at a subconscious level.
That restlessness was fed, in part, by my then-wife Geeta’s growing fascination with the “American dream.” Her cousin lived in Delaware and had filled her ears with stories of the wonderful life to be had in the US, and Geeta wanted that for us. I resisted at first. Having absorbed a very British disdain for American life, I dismissed her aspirations without giving them much thought.
Then, one balmy evening in April 1970, everything changed—or perhaps I should say, everything began to change.
I was strolling along Chowpatty Beach, near Marine Drive, with Vijay and Alok, two colleagues and friends from work, when we ran into an acquaintance of theirs named Manek—a stranger to me. Manek had some news: he was emigrating to the US under a newly enacted category of LBJ’s immigration law called “third preference,” which allowed certain professionals to emigrate without first securing a job. Chartered Accountants qualified—which meant I did!
I’d just met Manek, but I asked him anyway how the process worked. He said it was simple enough: go to the US Consulate in Bombay, fill out an application, submit proof of your academic qualifications, and wait several months for approval.
The next day—impulsively, and without telling Geeta, who was in Kerala with her parents awaiting the birth of our first child—I submitted an application to the Consulate. It wasn’t a plan. It was more like a playful exploration, perhaps driven by some vague yearning for a life beyond the one I already had.
About five months later, a letter arrived from the US State Department: I had been approved as an immigrant under the third preference category. I felt pleased and excited, but also a little unsettled, unsure what it would mean if I actually went through with it.
The news sent something of a shockwave through our lives—and delighted Geeta, who was suddenly closer than ever to the opportunities she had heard so much about. If anything, she was more enthusiastic about emigrating than I was. And a lot had changed since I had filed that application back in April. We were now parents to a three-month-old daughter, Saira. Were we really ready for another life-altering decision so soon?
In the months after the approval letter arrived, something in me shifted. I was told it would be at least another six months before a green card would actually be issued, and by any reasonable measure, I had every reason to stay put. I was still in my mid-twenties, well established in Bombay, with a strong position at Hindustan Lever and plenty of room to advance. There was no obvious practical case for leaving.
And yet, I decided to leave.
I still can’t fully explain what changed my mind about leaving Hindustan Lever and India. When I told my boss and senior management that I was resigning, I mentioned financial considerations and a loose plan to pursue an MBA in the US—reasons solid enough that my boss went on to tell others that I was leaving to pursue graduate studies. But underneath it all was that same restlessness, the one that had been with me for a while, quietly pulling me toward something different.
Resigning meant giving up the comfort, stability and opportunity I had at Hindustan Lever, and the decision left the people close to me in disbelief—especially my father.
I asked the State Department to transfer my file from India to the UK, thinking it would move faster there and perhaps avoid some of the bureaucratic maze back home. In July 1971, my family and I left for England.
England, though, turned out to be a bridge rather than a destination.
One Sunday, I came across a newspaper advertisement inviting Chartered Accountants to apply for a job in Chicago. I mailed in an application and got a quick response inviting me to interview.
I still remember that interview clearly. Ralph Miller, Vice President and head of the department at Blue Cross/Blue Shield, was there, along with Jim Sleep, whose job was essentially to sell candidates on the opportunity. Between the two of them, the picture they painted felt almost surreal, and it ended with a job offer.
One of Sleep’s selling points was that my next promotion—expected within the year—would come with a company car, an air-conditioned Chevy Impala, for unlimited personal use with all expenses paid. On top of that, they offered a salary that seemed astronomical compared with what I was making as a Division Controller in England, plus fully paid relocation to Chicago. For someone who owned a somewhat beat-up Mini, the thought of owning an Impala seemed like fulfillment of the American dream! 🙂
It all sounded almost too good to be true—never mind that I knew nothing about Blue Cross as an employer, or about private health insurance in general. I was coming from a country with socialized medicine and had absolutely no experience with the American healthcare system.
Geeta and I talked it over and decided to take the plunge.
In November 1971, we left for Chicago. Almost 55 years later, I’m still here.
Looking back, it all traces back to a chance meeting with a stranger on a beach—an almost casual application for immigration, made on impulse, that quietly grew into a life-altering decision. If I hadn’t run into Manek on that walk along Chowpatty Beach, if immigration law hadn’t loosened at just that moment, I probably would have lived out a fairly predictable life at Hindustan Lever.
Instead, I was swept into the currents of America, and that journey has continued to shape me ever since. Things worked out better than I ever expected. My father, who thought it was unwise—even reckless—to have given up a plum job at Hindustan Lever, told one of my siblings that what characterized my action in this and other instances was a combination of “luck and pluck”!
I never saw or heard from Manek again.
The man who set my whole life in motion simply vanished from it.