In 1969, my father traveled alone from India to Boston so that he could enroll in the master’s program in geophysics at MIT.
I don’t know whether he flew or came by boat, so when I try to picture him setting foot in America for the first time, I don’t know what to imagine. I’ve tried to find the photographic evidence, but there aren’t any pictures of the fifteen years he spent in this country before he married my mother. Maybe he just threw out the tattered albums when we were moving between houses, but it’s more likely that he never took any photos at all. He’s never been a sentimental man.
I also don’t know why he chose to come in the first place. He has never had any great fascination with money; despite his making a…
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