I arrived in the United States in 1958 with little more than hope and a hunger for discovery. Within a year, I’d saved $150—enough to buy a 1954 Ford. It wasn’t much, but it had four wheels and a heartbeat. It meant freedom.
My roommate taught me to drive in the university parking lot. I failed my first attempt at the driving test but passed the second time. I still remember the feel of that small piece of paper in my hands—my first true American license, a passport to the open road.
Then, one morning, magic fell from the sky. Snowflakes. My first snow. I stepped outside in a short-sleeved shirt, catching the flakes as if they were messages from heaven. I laughed. I danced. I was a child again, reborn in a new world.
A couple of friends, recognizing my wonder, took me to watch sledding. Children squealed as they flew down the hill, bundled like little marshmallows. I borrowed a sled from a four-year-old and joined in—shrieking just like him. The boy chased after me, demanding his sled back. I returned it, heart full, and wrote to my family about the joy and the miracle of snow. The snow piled up—light and fluffy, nearly a foot deep—and I, still in love with it, decided to drive my car. In hindsight, not the smartest decision. But lovers are known for their foolishness, and I was in love with this new world.
I was inching along carefully when I saw a woman plodding through the deep snow. She wore a checkered coat, a muffler over her face, and her hat pulled low. Her hands, gloved, held something in a cloth bag that I couldn’t make out. But whatever the burden was, it slowed her progress. She walked carefully and deliberately. I stopped the car and offered her a ride. She looked at me carefully—twice, maybe three times—as if confirming something. Then, without a word, she got in the car.
We didn’t speak during the ride. In India, we were taught not to speak to unfamiliar women unless spoken to. I respected her silence. After ten minutes, she gestured that this was her stop. As she stepped out, she paused and said, “I never get into a car with strangers, but I know you.”
I must have looked puzzled. She smiled and said the name of a local noontime TV show. Yes, I’d been invited on that show shortly after arriving in America, and then reinvited several other times to display some exotic imported pieces from around the world that allowed me to get my education in America. It dawned on me—I was a stranger who was no longer a stranger.
That day felt like poetry. Like I had written a stanza in a larger American song.
Years passed. Driving became my compass and my freedom. I traveled coast to coast, feeding my spirit on the beauty of this land.
It was a cold November evening. My nephew, newly arrived from India for his first job as a doctor, was with me. The wind bit at the world, and streetlights flickered like uncertain thoughts. Outside a bar on Main Street, we saw her standing barefoot, her sheer muslin dress clinging to her legs. She looked too young to be there. I thought maybe she’d had a fight with a boyfriend. I pulled over.
She got into the back seat without a word and pointed west. “Where to?” I asked. No answer. Just the same sign. After a mile, she told me to turn right. Then another right. Now, we were looping back toward where we’d picked her up. She pointed again—toward a dark, unlit street.
Something felt wrong. I stopped. “Where do you live?” I asked. She pointed again.
“You’re close enough,” I said. “You can walk from here.”
“No,” she snapped. “You have to take me there.” Her first words.
Her face had changed. Cold. Hard. Demanding.
“Ma’am, I’m happy to help,” I said, calm and steady. “But I’m not turning down that street.”
“You will take me there,” she said, her voice firm and in control.
“ Take me there or I’ll scream,” she yelled.
“Please do,” I replied. “That’ll attract the police. They’ll help you. You’ll be safe.”
She stretched her arms up against the roof of the car, her legs planted firmly on the floor, an immoveable object. This had become a battle of wills.
I began to drive slowly, and she flung the door open.
“That open door will only draw more attention,” I said, continuing to move slowly forward. After a few minutes, my nephew leaned in, whispering, loud enough for her to hear. “There’s a police car ahead.” Only I knew that my nephew was so new to this country that he wouldn’t know a police car from a fire truck.
She panicked. Jumped out. Slammed the door, and screamed every obscenity known to man, and then vanished into the dark.
We drove away in silence. My nephew’s first impression of America, I realized, was a much darker face of the country I had grown to love.
That was years ago. I haven’t driven in over a decade now—my vision has faded with time, macular degeneration slowly closing the window I once looked through with such wonder.
Even though I’m ninety years old now, I still remember those two women. One wrapped in snow, the other in shadows. One who saw something familiar in me, and the other one who just tried to exploit me. Is there a thread connecting the two?
Even though the times have changed, I would still pick up a hitchhiker, or stop to help a stranger. I still remain a mirthful child dancing in the snow, catching snowflakes on my tongue.
balbirmathur.com 