The Street Corner

By Harish Noudiyal

It’s question many of us have pondered with frequency as a writer in my imagination towards fiction stories trying a good writer asking myself whether I could or otherwise. The question raised in my vision, when I decided to write this fiction story it’s mostly based that what happened around us an inspiring exploration of how people transform their life. A template of how we could answer this kind of question each-others. Although comes from poor background and search of individuals, who have struggled to find their ultimate goal, their true nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664126404

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Harish Noudiyal.

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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/20/2020

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

817873

CONTENTS

Autobiography

Preface And Introduction

Characters

Patriotism Toward The Nation

The Street Corner

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I am an Indian American born and raised in the northern part of the country, on the foot of the Himalayan plateau deep in the countryside. I was born in a mud house that was in such horrible, painful conditions along with thirty-five other villagers. I born in 1949, exactly right after the World War II. My state is called Uttarakhand, which was part of Uttar Pradesh. I lived with my parents with my three siblings. The family condition was miserable, deep to the filthy dirt. We used to have farmland, but it all depended on the seasonal rain if god permitted. The villagers plowed the land with the help of bulls, and both parents, along with the children, helped. My village is called Noudiyal Gaon, which was one mile from the main road. People walked down the road to shop in small shops where we could buy almost anything.

As belongs to the poor family and of the values, color, toughness, and caring that I found there as a child. I go to the farmland to play with other children when it was empty; the children endless and dusty farmland. Cricket was the main game, but some local games include running one after others and so on. I played with the kids before there was television hardly any those days and enough attention to fight hunger. From my parents, I received the love, that ultimately gave me strength even when I had forgotten its source when my father was not around. My mother always goes after me to read and write though she herself was illiterate.

I go to a local school, sitting on the dirt floor and writing on the wooden plate so that you could remove the ink, which was made of gray mud. The pen was made of bamboo, and it looks like a pen. It wasn’t necessary for me to be much of a social creature. Once I discovered the old books and a photograph that were a part of my grandfather’s lifestyle and inspired me. My grandfather was in the British army way before I was born. The books and photos took me, not so much to foreign lands and fanciful adventures, but to a place inside myself that I have been constantly exploring and dreaming ever since.

Writing for me was not to prove myself, but it has been many things I have gone through It was a way to express or overcome the hindrance of the problems as I tried to reach out to the readers. It was a way of establishing my pro-activities and humanity in society to the people that often ignored those in less favored positions. What I want to do with writing keeps changing too. Perhaps I just get clearer in what it is I am doing with the story. I am sure that when I die, perhaps the people will lay out their struggle nicely. I was thinking of doing something or writing since was in high school, but the English language was a serious problem for me. I could hardly write anything.

My background was Hindi medium was quite difficult; writing was pretty hard still now, but that was the way of communication and trying my best and try to express my thought, what I have tried. My high school teacher knew that English was a serious problem for me, so he decided that among many of my writing has grammatical and spelling as well as the main issue and still exists. I could not pronounce many words, but the teacher compelled me all the time to keep on trying, and I tried to read magazines and newspapers and watch English shows. During that era, there were hardly any facilities for television and the radio in my village.

During my high school, I would have identified my own avenue of value as an intellectual, because I cannot speak well and had a limited social lifestyle too. But when I left that interior village background and went to where my father was working, in a place called Mussoorie, a small hill station where most the American, British, and other European people lived. They have their own schools and were living in their own communities as well.

Time has passed, and I finished my intermediate college and was thinking of higher education. To get an admission to a higher degree of education needed plenty of money, which my father absolutely did not have to support me, so I have to look for a part-time job.

I was very lucky that most of the jobs in the area were for the hotel industry and started after 3:00 p.m. As soon as I was able to get a job in a hotel called Roanoke, which was closed to the bus stop, as an attendant to look after the visitor’s requirement.

The hotel industry moved round the year, such as in summer, for tourist and school industry and winter snowfalls.

After one month, I got admission to the Municipal Post Graduate College-Mussoorie. While working in the hotel, I built up my speaking skills in English and made some friends, mostly American and British. I was dreaming somehow. I should try to go to a foreign country, especially to America. And I did try my luck. I learned the value of life and took responsibility for my family in India no matter how difficult the circumstances were. During my stay in the United States of America, my father passed away. Because of that, I was disoriented and confused. What a beautiful man he was.

My entire success whatever, the credit goes to one of my good friends called Judy. I met her when I had a clothing store in Brooklyn. She was fascinated with Indian clothes and always bought from my store. One day, I was very sad and sitting behind the counter and worried about the business. Unfortunately, she came to the store and asked me what happened, why was I sad. I explained to her everything. She asked me if I need help, and she would if she could. We will go to her principal if he could help me get a board of education job. I was very lucky. I got it. She was a generous, kind, and very helpful person in my life. Because of her, I am still standing.

I learned that day to day and moment to moment, he lives close to me as per instruction and advice given by him. I learn from him that to take a chance and grab a moment of beauty can crumble the delicate fabric of an intricate value system and leave one desolate and alone. He guides me. That strength of body and strength of purpose are not enough. Chance and color of one’s skin, chance again, can tip the balance. Somehow, I managed to come to the United States of America for hope bright future. Coming from a poor family and holding lots of ambition to do better and progress in life. I was living with my family with my four siblings and making a monthly salary of around 250.50 rupees, equivalent to $3.50. This amount was not enough for a total family members of six to survive. So I borrowed money from friends and relatives for air passage.

I was living in a squatters’ area outside the subdivision with my siblings. My parents were alive at that time, but my father’s health was deteriorating every day, and according to the doctor, my father was suffering from colon cancer. They both were living in a small town, far from my family, but from time to time, we keep visiting as well as caring for his welfare. My brother was in the army. His sideline job was doing the household chores in the subdivision, and sometimes, if I need his help financially. Regarding my plane to America, I spoke to my mother and wife, as well as my brother, and convinced them that I should take different bold steps toward my future. They refused at first, but later, they allowed my action.

Finally, I reached America in 1979 or 1980 and found a small hotel in downtown Brooklyn. Looking for a job in Manhattan. There were lots of Indian merchants in the jewelry business, but I got disappointed. Every day, from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m., I walk all over, but no response to getting a job. Money was getting short even to pay the hotel room rent. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to vacate the hotel. Now, no place to live and having only $25 remain with me. Something stuck in my mind, that with $25, I could turn my life around, so I took bold steps, spent $15 on jewelry, and started selling it on the street and on the subway. I decided that it was to better stay in the subway and sleep in subway cars at night. I was selling small things on the train, and whenever get shortage of the items, I have to go out of the subway only otherwise stay in all the time and sell the items.

The winter, it’s extremely cold, but inside the subway cars were very comfortable. I used to change cars all the time because of the police reason no proper documents living in the country. When I go outside and to get in people help me through their monthly cardholder or pass which I have no idea how? It was a very tough time I went through. Taking a shower was a big problem. Most of the subway bathrooms were locked, sometimes day and night. If I am lucky to find an unlocked bathroom, I get in and quickly wash with a wet towel. I shaved my head so that there will not face any problem to dry. It was a very painful life I went through spent myself one month and seventeen days. Eating pizza one time in the day, sometimes nothing.

The bitterest time of my life occurred during the first week. I lived in horror and was scared of the homeless people because they might hurt or steal from me. For that, I have to be alert all the time. The longest days were too short in the subway, and the shortest nights were too long for me. I was somewhat unmanageable the first few days, but after getting stronger than before. My struggle succeeded in breaking me. Although I was broken in body, soul, and spirit, my natural resilience was crushed, my intellect weakened. The dark night of living in the subway closed in upon me, and I was transformed from my strong, honest living whatever circumstances were god was on my way to help me in every corner.

I put my hands behind my head and lay on my back, trying to hold on to the memories of my family left in India. Their faces seemed to be far off somewhere in my mind, and to get to them, I had to bring to painful memories. I longed for the gentle, sweet, and