I still remember the day I held that letter from the Immigration Department. Nervous, hands trembling, I opened the simple white envelope, folded neatly in thirds. Inside was a small square card. I was officially a Green Card holder. My new journey officially began that day. The feeling of achievement—pure, quiet, indescribable—was nothing like I had imagined.
Looking back, it’s funny how long it took to get here. The early nineties felt like another world. Immigration to the U.S. was glamorous from India: a life of opportunity, fast cars, big houses, and all the movies promised. Reality, as I quickly learned, was smaller, stranger, and often ridiculous.
I was late to the game. While friends were already taking GRE and TOEFL tests, I stared at my books, unsure where to start. Eventually, I gave in and began cramming words that seemed to float in the air around me: words with no context, no meaning, but apparently essential. “Words, words, words,” I muttered, as if chanting a mantra. I wasn’t sure if any of it would ever be useful, but I went with the flow.
The test itself was anticlimactic. I walked out with a “decent” score, and the next challenge loomed: picking a university. No websites, no rankings, no reliable advice—just hearsay. Someone’s cousin swore a school was great, another warned of expensive apartments, and the dollar was terrifyingly strong. Somehow, I ended up at a small town called Kingston, New York.
Flying there was an adventure in itself. My first time on a plane, I was squished between two large passengers, their elbows claiming all available space. Dinner arrived: bread, cheese, fruit, and yogurt. I poked at it suspiciously. Was this really what Americans called food? When I finally needed the restroom, the man beside me snored like a motorbike. I froze, debating whether to wake him. Tiny dilemmas have a way of sticking in your memory.
Landing at JFK was chaos wrapped in kindness. My bags were grabbed by a tall guy who insisted I follow him, tugging me toward his cab before I could protest. Another tall, broad-shouldered man appeared, offering to help with my luggage and even helping me exchange some money. His calm, steady presence in the middle of confusion was reassuring. Then Megha, a stranger, offered me a ride to Penn Station. I don’t even know if she realized the small miracle she was performing. In the car, I tried to express my gratitude, but words felt insufficient. That simple, heartfelt “thank you” moment reminded me that kindness often appears when you least expect it.
Kingston itself was quiet—eerily quiet. My first week, I survived mostly on cereal and bread. Attempts to cook with other students produced food that was edible only in theory. I took a job washing dishes in the cafeteria. My ego hated it, but my wallet approved. At $5.50 an hour, I could at least cover my bills without begging.
Culture shock was constant. Once, a group of us vegetarians ordered a pizza. “No tomatoes,” said the waitress, “can I substitute with pepperoni?” We nodded, clueless. It tasted great. Later, the truth sank in, and one friend fasted for a week, convinced he had committed a grave sin. Names were another battlefield. My own name mutated into dozens of forms; others fared worse. Muthukrishnan Swaminathan used to spell his long name aloud, letter by letter, with examples: “M as in Monkey, U as in Umbrella…” It never helped. We laughed. A lot.
Winter was magical and merciless in equal measure. Snow covered the streets in pure white beauty, and I ran, jumped, and even tasted handfuls just to believe it was real. But the cold seeped into your bones. Isolation, gray skies, and jet lag combined into something almost mischievously cruel. I missed Bombay: the noise, the sunshine, the spicy food, the chaos.
Amid these hardships, I found remarkable pockets of warmth. Chandra, an older student, and his family at Rhode Island became a constant support. They invited me over for home-cooked meals many times, took me on family trips, and even taught me how to drive. Their generosity didn’t feel extraordinary; it felt natural, comforting, and essential. It was in these small moments—the laughter over burnt vegetables, the nervous first attempts behind the wheel—that I learned what community, kindness, and mentorship truly meant.
And then there were the people who made life unforgettable in unexpected ways. I met someone unforgettable: tall, blonde, with deep marks on one side of her cheek. I stared at her at a party, tongue-tied and nervous. Our first conversations were awkward, punctuated with laughter that only nervous adults can manage. Slowly, clumsily, our friendship turned into something warmer, a comfort amid the chaos. Coffee, small walks, shared jokes over cooking disasters—all ordinary moments made extraordinary by her presence. Romance, I realized, wasn’t fireworks or grand gestures—it was these small, shared moments that stuck with you.
Life slowly settled into a rhythm. Classes, cafeteria shifts, and chores became part of the everyday. The mundane frustrations—the wrong train schedule, the frozen sink in the apartment, the cafeteria job where I learned to hate scrubbing pots—shaped the days as much as any big achievement.
Summer came with an internship, money flowing, and a tiny feeling of independence. Simple pleasures became highlights: a cup of coffee at the local shop, an unexpected compliment from a friend, a quiet evening laughing with her.
Years passed. Graduation came. My Green Card application was processed. Life felt fun, full of promise. And finally, here it was—the letter I had dreamed of. Hands shaking, I unfolded it and saw the small white card. I was officially a Green Card holder. My new journey began today. The quiet triumph of that moment—simple, personal, profound—remains one of my most vivid memories.
Looking back, it wasn’t the big moments—the exams, the flights, the acceptance letters—that defined the experience. It was the small, everyday frustrations, the awkward missteps, the frozen dinners, the laughter with friends, the kindness of strangers like Megha, the generosity of Chandra’s family, the small sparks of romance, and even the snowstorms, mispronounced names, and cafeteria disasters. All of it added up to this one quietly unforgettable day: holding that Green Card, feeling both the weight of the journey and the lightness of possibility.