California to Texas & Back: A Journey 2009

By Lipika Borkakoty

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465307354

Lipika Borkakoty

Lipika Borkakoty, the author, spent most of her adult life in America but was born and educated in the eastern hills of India. She takes an extremely courageous step to leave her childhood home at nineteen to the southern part of India and pursues an engineering degree. She endorses Corporate India, travels to America, falls in love with the country, and hurries back to the West Coast. Her childhood and adult life give her happiness and pain that she finds a way to come out of here in the American soil. She works in high-tech Corporate America, gets herself a master’s degree, buys a suburban home, raises three children, and lives a life that she takes pride in. Dawn of 2009 brings in changes to her life rather unexpectedly, and she reflects and relies on her lean and agile expertise from her corporate life to navigate through her personal life changes. She finds herself moving out of Texas after thirteen long years back to where she started her American journey—the West Coast. She loves the people so much, she wants to take her readers through some of that experience that she discovered from her working an agile information technology life and encourages us to carry forward some of the lessons gained when you try an agile, lean way of thinking to arrive at collaborative and democratic consensus. She aims to spend her life towards emphasis of strong education in life, research, and prevention of early childhood diseases and prevention of cancer in the American society through a healthy and conscious lifestyle.

Book preview

CALIFORNIA

TO TEXAS & BACK

A JOURNEY 2009

LIPIKA BORKAKOTY

Copyright © 2011 by Lipika Borkakoty.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011961066

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-0734-7

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-0733-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0735-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

106581

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 Early Childhood

Chapter 2 Education—Early and Beyond

Chapter 3 Values—Emotional Intelligence

Chapter 4 Marriage and My Wonderful Children

Chapter 5 What America Does for Me

Chapter 6 Trips Back to India

Chapter 7 My Dream for America

Chapter 8 How Agility of the Mind Drives Human Interests

Chapter 9 Progress in Life

Chapter 10 My Love for Red, Blue, and White

Chapter 11 What People Led Me To

Chapter 12 A Tribute to My Strength

Chapter 13 A Tribute to My Inspiration

Epilogue

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I dedicate this book to my late father, my mother, my little brother (and his family), my children, their dad, and all our extended family and friends. Without their unquestionable support, I would not have been able to put this experience into words.

Most of all, this book is my heartfelt tribute to all the brave and courageous soldiers of this nation, men and women of service—without them, I wouldn’t be where I am. I have hope because they have the will. Humbled by what they did as they stood by me, even as a child, and continue to do so. I will live my life for them and you.

August 31st, 2011

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Foreword

The state of Texas gave me a wonderful gift; I embraced motherhood, had three beautiful children all in the same hospital, all with the beautiful and yet unpredictable all-so-famous heat and sometimes-unknown snow.

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I am extremely grateful to the Medical Center of Plano at the intersection of Coit and Plano Parkway, their dedicated doctors, nurses, and administrative staff. I am honestly in debt to realize how well they understood I needed them.

I do not know if I can really thank them enough for doing what they do, but every time I see this door from my Texas house, it reminds me they will be with me forever.

Acknowledgments

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Both sides of my mind and the center acknowledge the following:

▪ Audacity of Hope, an inspiring book by the forty-fourth president of the United States, President Barack Obama

▪ Plano public library system that lent me a copy

▪ The Reagan Diaries

▪ Time magazine

▪ Patriotic images from online portals of popular fabric stores (Joanna Fabrics, fabric.com)

▪ Holy Child School website

▪ Cotton College website

▪ National Engineering College website

▪ University of Texas at Dallas website

▪ University of California, Berkeley

▪ Hathaway Dance Academy, Plano

▪ Lee’s Taekwondo, Plano

▪ East Bay Dance Academy, San Ramon

▪ Kuk school at Dublin

▪ Arya Dance Academy, Dublin

▪ http://www.usa-flag-site.org/history.shtml

▪ Jennifer’s Music Connection, San Ramon

▪ FedEx Kinko’s for all the scanning and printing

▪ US Art for the framing of the most historical possessions I am surrounded by

Chapter 1

Early Childhood

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Chapter 1

Early Childhood

Family and Impact on Me

The ribbons of hope and the desire to pursue happiness wrapped around my childhood are truly reminiscent of the life that I lead now.

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I was born in Assam, India. I grew up in the picturesque city of Guwahati on the banks of the mighty and scenic river Brahmaputra. Mighty because every year it brought in floods from the mountaintops of the Himalayas and inundated the lower banks as the river reached its middle course. Scenic because it does not stop making you wonder and stimulates your visual senses as you stand and stare, either from one of its bridges in Saraighat or take a ferry ride across it and look beyond the islands. The sandy banks often told you this was not short of any beach by an ocean.

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An apartment life commemorated by an early picture of my parents, such a sweet memorabilia. In a sweet two-bedroom apartment in Guwahati that appeared like the best childhood home, it was a modestly sized space in a three-story building my father was instrumental in constructing. The whole building was of mortar and brick, built for his older brother who lived three hours north of Guwahati in a scenic and hilly town called Shillong in a neighboring state of Meghalaya.

I remember living all my childhood life till I left home in 1989 to go pursue an engineering degree. I have vivid memories of it being surrounded by walls and ironwork as an enclosed piece of property. There was an elevated veranda with expansive terrazzo floors leading to the two wood-stained doors that formed an entry to an all-so-familiar home sweet home. A picture of the four of us when I was graduating high school in 1987 on my little brother’s birthday—also celebrated as the Republic Day in India, which is the day that celebrates India being declared as a republic.

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There were tenants on the third level who were so close to us that I remember calling them bor deuta (referring to a father’s older brother) and bor ma (his spouse). I often visited them and walked into breakfast times where I would be handed a beautiful chapati roll with butter and sugar inside it. They had two sons, older than my brother and me. I remember learning how to play marbles and how to wink with one eye from them. One of them showed me how to place one of my hands over one of my eyes to keep it shut while the other eye got trained to be open; a simple muscle coordination came from those days. I even got lessons to hold my hand as a bridge-like cave while I played with marbles and juggled them through and sometimes past it. There was a lot of childhood fun and laughter on those terrazzo floors. Every reason to celebrate, I celebrated it right there.

I once explored up the two flights of stairs, past five landings, and walked straight into bor deuta’s office; the door was probably open. I was five years old.

Loved his nice statuesque teak desk and was fascinated by an elaborate footrest—equally sturdy and made of wood. It looked like a nice platform. I was probably visiting in the hope of one of bor ma’s chapati rolls, but instead fatigue got to me, and I fell asleep on that footrest for hours. When I woke up and came downstairs after hours of napping, I realized my father was panic-stricken and was looking for me all over Gujarat with bor deuta.

They were pleasantly relieved to find a sleepy five-year-old, safe and sound, but I was so surprised that I had caused so much anxiety that it got imprinted in my brain.

The snakebite that almost took my life is another bittersweet memory from the same apartment life. I played in an open field across the apartment complex; I remember playing with little girls that lived next to us. We often played badminton, and sometimes people from the whole street joined us.

I remember my mother oftentimes at the veranda waving at us and reminding that it was time to wrap up just before the sun set.

Oftentimes I came back on time, but one of those days as I wandered around that field, I was extremely intrigued to touch the leaves of a water hyacinth. I could not prevent myself from placing my right foot next to a blooming violet. Little did I realize I got bitten by a snake.

I remember something wrapped around my foot. I removed it instantly, but it was a little too late as I saw a clear cut and some blood on the surface of the skin. There was a part that wanted to tell my mother as it was during a weekend, but the other part convinced me that I could continue playing.

By the time my parents took notice of it, I was hurting, and all I remember is seeing a few layers of wrapped strings on my right leg starting from my ankle, graduating up to my thigh. I kept listening to their concern about the poison spreading up to my vital organs.

Soon, deuta wrapped me up in his arms. I remember he was holding me and kept giving me candy, a treat that was so hard to come by. I think the sugar kept my eyes open.

I remember being taken to the operation theater where I saw all gloved and masked nurses and a familiar face—my own uncle, my mother’s third brother and the doctor who was always busy saving everyone’s hurt bones—was ready. With one of his family members, he always tried. My deuta was outside, and all I remember was shrieking in pain as I got three deeply set incisions. The intent was to get the blood out of my body before it spread. I did not understand because I could feel, and all the sugar that was running in my body assured me I was fine. But there was an observation period of twenty-four hours when I was supposed to have been strictly under care. I remember sleeping that night. I don’t remember waking up till late midmorning the next day.

I did not stop breathing in the middle of the night, my heart did not collapse, and none of that snake poison got to do any harm to my little body because of timely attention that I received from my parents and the go-to person, my Dr. Mama (meaning maternal uncle).

I have heard this story so many times from my parents about how nervous they were all throughout the night, about how concerned they were, that they could barely sleep—I could read their apprehension every time they retold the same story.

Over the years I relived the anxiety they went through so many times that it became a lasting impression in my mind. Not only did I become more careful about how I played, but also I watched out where I played, and the rules and regulations around them became stricter. I was resilient and followed them and remembered them and reminded them.

My father was always possessive about me; I could see it as a little girl. He was nurturing and fed me eggs, always never almost failing to ask, Do you want it flat or do you want it round? I got to pick a version and either got a poached egg or a boiled egg. He had a chef hidden in him; he would make the craziest set of pickles, bottle them up, and then lay them out in the sun for the vitamin D and all the goodness of the sun’s rays to do its magic on an already miraculous combination of ingredients.

He would help out in the kitchen after work and make delicious meat and chicken curries. Because my mother loved to study, she went on studying as though she was not done educating, as though because Grandpa could not send her to medical school. She had to keep going back to college. She completed her bachelor of science, followed by a bachelor of arts, went through some of master of arts, changed course, completed her bachelor of education three graduations later. She was still the main chef, but deuta shared equal partnership in our kitchen facing the train tracks. Those were happy times; whenever he could not cook something special and see my studious mother staring at her books, he would whisper in my ears, Let’s go! and I knew where we were headed—we both were usually walking down the street, back onto the main street that had a restaurant. They had an entrée that was a mutton dish. It was by far the most popular dish. Deuta would order a family portion of it, and I got to sit and relish a square slice of ice cream neatly placed on a round plate. Before I broke into the nicely trimmed, perfect square-sized ice cream, I often wondered how they did it, but usually spent most of my effort just enjoying it. By the time I was done, I usually found someone saying it aloud that our order was ready. The next steps were easy. He would steam some white rice and say, Let’s go tell your mom dinner is on the house!

And we ate and had fun, and Ma got the much-needed relief when she needed it. He always made sure my mother does not feel like she had to stop studying; it was pretty obvious by the way he helped. They were good at team parenting.

He had passion for his young widowed sister and her five young daughters. Deuta travelled back and forth for legal reasons to ensure his widowed sister got her due rights. She needed help with her daughters; I am not sure if I saw anyone more willing than my own deuta—he was always ready to take that road trip for any hearing, and I could see his passion. I did not realize why he cared so much about someone that he would leave me as often, but now that I have a sibling of my own and have children that have siblings, I can relate to the connection one shares for a sibling.

Deuta made sure my aunt was financially secure and could raise the five beautiful daughters. They all grew up to be successful, and he even hosted the wedding for the oldest of all daughters in that same apartment, on that same field where I often played. We had guests from all over sleeping in our house and in my aunt’s, who lived adjacent to us, deuta’s older paternal aunt. I remember there was abundance in food, and he hired a thakur—basically a chef who cooks for weddings—at the place of weddings. It is an interesting environment because for a week, we got up, brushed our teeth, and walked straight to the tent where the cook lit up his fires and started out a batch of breakfast and some tea. My dad made sure my ma did not have to cook for all the wedding guests, and she could really use that help. We cousins would all pile up our plates with puris and warm milk and waited on the terrace of the building for the next best thing. We were always happy to eat the luncheons and dinners that led to the main day of the wedding. The few days that led to the wedding felt like a fair of some sort right in the middle of my apartment. It was such a festive mood that we hardly realized one of our cousins was getting married till we actually saw her wedding clothes and jewelry.

It was one of the wedding days; I remember being dressed in a white and violet salwar set, and my deuta was hanging around in one of the tents with one of his acquaintances who obviously did not know we were related. I gather he asked my deuta who I was. My dad, the proud father that he was, waved at me, called me to his side, and said in a somewhat excited tone, Hey, whose daughter are you? I knew that was his playful side, and so I smiled back and answered, Why, yours, of course!

That is one incident that probably came back to my memory years after it had happened as though someone very dear to me brought it back for me, and I saw it and relived it like I got a second chance with life. The day I remembered, it was February 16, 2010. Since then, this is one remembrance that refuses to leave my side, and it is a good thing.

Those were some of my most wonderful memories of a doting father.

I remember my dad’s younger brother also getting married in that same setting. It had some of the same pleasant memories. I was happy to see my only khura (a younger paternal uncle) getting married in my house. He found the bride of his dreams in a beautiful, gorgeous aunt who had the coldest hands I had ever touched. Her palms were forever cold, and I was suddenly on that third floor of the house almost all the time once my all-time-favorite bor deuta and bur ma vacated it for my newly wed uncle and aunt.

I would walk straight into their apartment, sometimes to find my paternal grandmother who now had three places to be in. It was fun for her and fun for us to keep climbing up those flights of steps and finding reasons to visit as often as we wanted.

My mother, as busy as she always has been immersed in her world of studies, she never forgot to remind us that she loved and cared for us the most in her life.

The earliest memory of her is her packing her suitcase to go the hospital. My father was giving me very meaningful smiles about the fact there could be a baby brother or sister soon. I remember I was extremely tensed about the whole situation—weary about her well-being and just not following everything that was happening. I looked at Ma folding baby-soft very light-colored linens; they almost looked so worn. I wondered why, but they had saved all the baby clothes from the time I was a baby. They were rewashed and looked baby ready.

Soon enough, after some careful advice and explanation that she will be back, she made that trip to the hospital, and I had my first lonely night without my mother. I got a pillow with a white pillowcase, took my mother’s lipstick and painted a smiley, and hugged it all night. I remember tearing up on it.

I look around the house now and see pillow pets lying around, giving them the same much-needed strength that comes from support and from knowing that it is actually there.

I slept that first night on my version of the pillow pet and woke up to deuta promising me that he will take me to the hospital to see the new baby when it is time.

Later that day, he kept his promise and announced that I was the proud sister of a baby brother. The pride did not quite resonate with the sadness in my mind. I was six years old and not sharing the same excitement at the news of the arrival of a little sibling. I remember the nurse handing out a crying baby and saying he was my little brother. The whole moment was so overwhelming. I was holding my deuta’s hands tighter by the minute. He kept consoling me that I was going to be a big sister, but the idea was foreign. I remember hanging around Ma; she looked happy and tired. I came back home that night and waited for her return.

Life was never the same again. When my oldest says the best part of his life was when he was the only child till he probably turned three, I could relate to this moment and choose to agree—but I dare not; my lips are always sealed.

My mother’s biggest passion apart from cooking for the whole family and teaching math and science to students in her school was her love for flowers. It was evident. Every first of the month, when she brought her salary into the house, we knew her income was a secondary income, and Dad would usually come home and hand over most of his salary to my mom, and she wore the hat of the finance manager in the house. She managed the funds so well that she would return with a handful of plants and flowers that we would plant and add to an ever-growing corridor of planters that lined a narrow walkway along the boundary wall of the concrete building that housed our sweet apartment home. I remember the concrete steps and the days when I would gaze at the succulents, at the cacti, at the flowering plants, at the variegated shrubs. She tried planting everything; her trips to the plant nurseries were like the secret missions that my dada found out after they got planted in the pots.

She often packed us picnics to the local zoo; we would ride with her and spend the whole day with the animals and play at the park inside of the zoo. We would stop at the picnic spots and eat up food that she would specially pack for us.

Another favorite location for Mom and children picnics was a scenic setting, Basistha Ashram. Shiva Mandir was constructed by Ahom King Rajeswar Singha along with a gift of land 835 Bighas for the ashram. The history of the Basistha Ashram where the temple is located dates back to the Vedic age. According to legend, the ashram was founded by the great saint Basistha (Vashistha).

This ashram is believed to be the home of famous sage Basistha, also known as Vashistha. The ashram is located a few kilometers (ten to twelve) from Guwahati on the outskirts of Garbhanga reserve forest, which has an ample population of elephants. This Garbhanga reserve forest is also a proposed butterfly reserve. The ashram has a temple, but still the cave in which the Muni Vashistha is believed to have meditated is located five kilometers inside the ashram.

The ashram also has a waterfall discovered by some of the local boys of Guwahati, which is what dazzled us throughout our picnics. I remember jumping and hopping among the gushing streams. The riverbed was so stony and shallow in places that we could play in it with bare feet, without much danger. I seldom remember visiting the deities inside or the meditation grounds.

I am so thankful that she did these little picnics for us as often as she could even though deuta was busy at work. He had to follow a different schedule, but she took time out of her schedule, paused, and made available enough time that we have developed wonderful memories, growing in an ambience that had simplicity but yet adequate fun and learning just by the way of living.

Every year, we would join her school staff and students’ picnics. I remember visiting the nicest of locations with rivers and banks with river stones. It was always such a pleasure to be a part of her staff. I made new friends from other schools. It was always a fun, exciting day every summer, every year. It was a thing we did every year.

She has been a very resourceful and positive-minded spirit. Her personal achievement in her life, her longtime dedication to education, and her spirit of giving against all odds were all so remarkable that I often smiled in wonder. I sure am glad I grew up with so much inspiration around me. If she had not provided the ambience she did, I would probably not have understood life as it is today.

She sang hymns having trained in vocal and the harmonium, a passion she had to abandon, during her college days. She often asked me to pick up guitar lessons that I refused. I wish I had listened.

She was my source of strength and support when I needed a shoulder to lean on as I graduated from a Catholic convent to a government college that was not only for girls. I did not like the early attention I got in the college. I was not used to having someone from the opposite gender asking me out, and I encountered it quite often. Sometimes it made me nervous. I kept a very strict disposition and had a very nice group of friends that I could rely heavily on, but I was successful in staying at college for two years without dating anyone but made sure I came home and told my mother every detail about who said what. The fact that I shared such an open communication channel with my mother gave me the self-confidence and self-esteem that one needs when one transitions from one environment to the other.

My Brother and I

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From the time he arrived from that hospital till now when he heads a finance organization here in Connecticut, life sure took the both of us through some wonderful times, most of them made memorable just by the fact that we shared. I could not have had a better childhood and am so proud I shared it with him. This is a fond reminiscence of me and my brother wearing sweaters knit by our mother, I still remember both the sweaters were in red—she always managed to