When I boarded the flight from Bombay to the U.S. all those years ago, I was still, in the eyes of my family, something of a nobody. A good kid, yes. A hardworking student, sure. But nothing extraordinary. My cousins with stable jobs in Indian companies, who wore crisp shirts to the office every day, were the ones seen as “settled.” I was just the boy still asking his parents for spending money .. while clinging to the dream of graduate school abroad.
And then — overnight, or rather, over one 18-hour flight — I became someone else entirely. My worth seemed to multiply the moment I landed in America. I hadn’t achieved much yet, not really. I was still learning to navigate grocery stores with ten brands of yogurt and professors who spoke too quickly. But back home, the news that I had “gone to the U.S.” created a ripple. Suddenly my phone calls were put on speakerphone during family gatherings. Relatives listened with respect to my opinions on everything from computer training courses to hot stock tips, even though I barely knew how to balance a checkbook or use an ATM.
The irony never failed to amuse me: I was still the same person, fumbling with laundromat coins and wondering whether to buy frozen pizza or cook rice and dal for dinner. Yet the sheer act of moving had elevated me. Even marriage proposals began to arrive—relatives proudly mentioning daughters, cousins, neighbors’ nieces — many of whom had never met me but liked the idea of a quick entry into America on a spouse visa. For once, the line outside my metaphorical door was longer than my self-esteem could process.
My own wedding, in fact, was shaped by this. I married young, and the path into America made everything easier for her. At the time, it felt like a blessing: two lives tied together, building something new in a foreign land. But many years later, the hollowness of that foundation revealed itself. She left me, and I was stranded — not just legally or logistically, but emotionally. It was a painful reminder that a visa might get you into a country, but it cannot keep you in a marriage.
This 2025 WSJ article describes how the H-1B visa has created a kind of social currency back in India. It certainly brings back many memories from the past .. Families looked differently at sons and daughters who “made it” to America. It reshaped hierarchies, shifting the definition of success away from the secure government jobs of my parents’ generation toward the riskier but shinier path of tech and engineering abroad. I didn’t need to read the article to know it was true — I had lived it. My place in the family tree seemed to grow taller, not because I was wiser or wealthier, but because my address had changed.
It was flattering, yes, but also strangely hollow. Because deep down, I knew the person on the pedestal and the person eating instant noodles at 2 a.m. were the same. My accent didn’t change overnight, my awkwardness didn’t vanish, and my bank balance certainly didn’t grow fatter. What changed was perception. I had become rare merchandise in the marriage market, a ticket stamped “Made in India, Exported to U.S.”
As years passed, this halo softened. The novelty wore off. More students came, more cousins followed, and the idea of “going abroad” became less like winning a lottery and more like booking a budget airline ticket. Yet the old perceptions linger. Even now, when I visit, I still get asked questions with an air of expectation: What’s the tech job market like? Is AI going to take over everything? Should my son learn Python? Sometimes I answer honestly, sometimes I laugh it off, but I always think: Do they know I spent an hour last month fixing a clogged sink?
Everyday life here is far less glamorous than what it appears from across the ocean. My mailbox is stuffed with grocery flyers and credit card offers, not golden opportunities. My “high-tech” job involves staring at spreadsheets and Zoom calls that could have been emails. My fridge is cluttered with leftovers, and yes, my car needs an oil change and an inspection. I still spend weekends hunting for good deals at Costco and convincing myself that cooking a big pot of sambar on Sunday will last until Friday (it never does).
The small frustrations pile up: waiting on hold with customer service, juggling bills, wondering whether my dental insurance really covers that crown. Yet, somewhere in this ordinariness, there’s a quiet joy too .. When the Indian store finally restocks Maggi noodles .. When a neighbor waves as I carry groceries .. When a colleague says, “Hey, you explained that really well.”
I don’t say this out loud at family weddings back home, though. If I did, someone would shake their head in disbelief. “You’re in America! You don’t have to worry about small things like that!” But small things, I’ve realized, are the texture of life everywhere. No country issues you a visa exempting you from burnt toast or noisy upstairs neighbors.
Looking back, I sometimes chuckle at my own story. I came for education, stayed for work, and found myself caught in a web of both inflated and deflated perceptions. On one hand, I was an “expert” in all things simply because I had crossed a border. On the other, in daily life, I was no expert at all — just another human being figuring it out one ordinary day at a time.
Maybe that’s the quiet truth no one tells you before you leave: your value will expand and contract in the eyes of others, but the real weight of your life will be carried in the everyday small routines.
And in the end, I don’t mind being both: the inflated version who once dazzled relatives, and the everyday version who worries about whether the dishwasher cycle really cleaned the dishes. Between those two selves lies the real me, still learning, still stumbling, still grateful, still alive.