Plastic on a Lampshade

"Why would you shave your head in winter?" asked a colleague. "That's not trendy," he said. I responded politely, "Tonsure is a time-honored Hindu tradition, a symbolic offering of grief for departed souls. My mother died yesterday."

In this insightful non-fiction narrative, Plastic on a Lampshade: An Immigrant's America invites readers to explore the immigrant experience in the United States through a journey woven with humor, poignancy, and introspection. The author's reflections offer a moving reminder of life's passage, urging us to embrace the present fully. This exploration connects deeply personal experiences with universal themes of cultural assimilation, familial sacrifice, and personal growth.

First published in January 2023. Revised edition, September 2025.

1. Opportunities and
 Hardships

It's time for takeoff. A group of young adults shuffle forward with their backpacks, boarding a flight bound for colleges and universities across the United States. They are full of expectation, some nervous, some wide-eyed, others pretending this is just another trip. They don't yet know the scope of the journey they've chosen — one that will remake their lives, and their parents' lives too.

Forty minutes earlier, a gate agent had asked everyone to remain seated until their row was called. But as Indians, we rose in unison anyway, forming an eager, impatient line at the gate. The students' oversized backpacks banged into the arms of those behind them, but no one really complained. This was the beginning of something bigger than the discomfort of the moment.

Onboard, some students scrolled through movies, others quickly fell asleep, lulled by the monotone hum of the engines. A few left their window shades up, letting harsh sunlight slice through the cabin, yet no one seemed to mind. They were too distracted by the dream unfolding ahead — their American adventure, their supposed ticket to opportunity. For now, the cramped seats and bad food were minor inconveniences.

Watching them, I remembered my own flight years earlier. I had been no different, eager yet naïve. The distractions of a movie, the excitement of crossing an ocean, none of which prepared me for the realities waiting beyond the terminal doors.

2. Welcoming and 
Piqued

Several years before, I had taken a similar flight to America. On the London–New York leg, I sat beside a middle-aged man from India. When our meals arrived, he pointed at the chapatis wrapped neatly in cling film and asked if I intended to eat them. I said no. Without hesitation, he leaned across and grabbed them off my tray. I was stunned into silence.

On the last leg, New York to Chicago, my seatmate was a burly man who spent two and a half hours talking about his hernia surgery. I listened politely, not out of fascination but because I was determined not to appear rude to an American. That was my initiation: a lesson in swallowing my own discomfort to meet cultural expectations.

*

At the university, the International Student Office welcomed us warmly. They reminded us not to rely on hearsay, but on official information. Regulations change quickly, they explained. First came health paperwork, then course registration.

"Go north up the ramp. When you get to the glass building, go downstairs to the Bursar’s Office."

North. I was lost already. In India, directions meant turning left at the banyan tree, passing the tea stall, and going "straight" on a road that was anything but straight. In America, the sun was my only compass, and I prayed for clear skies as I stumbled my way across campus.

*

My American host family helped me find my footing. One evening, we opened an atlas together, tracing my journey from my birthplace to school to college, all the way to their living room in the Midwest. They were curious; I was eager to belong.

But it was in the home of an Indian-American family that my curiosity was truly piqued. During lunch, as questions were volleyed at me, my eyes wandered to a lampshade in the corner. Still wrapped in stiff, crinkling plastic, it stood as if frozen in time. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

3. The Quest

For many Indian immigrants, the quest for America begins during college. Increasingly, it begins even earlier, with middle school students aspiring to U.S. universities. The motivation varies: knowledge, opportunity, or simply economics.

When I left home for graduate study, my parents were asked repeatedly, Why so far, for a degree in the humanities? Why not medicine or engineering here? In India, ambition was expected, but not in the arts.

*

American institutions differed widely. A small liberal arts college might enroll 1,300 students, with classes of 17. A state university could host 35,000, with 200 in an introductory lecture. Rankings mattered to international students, but what few realized was that not all programs within a university carried the same reputation. Placement agencies in India often funneled students into institutions with high acceptance rates and lower tuition — a pragmatic but limiting approach.

Then there was the visa process: long, expensive, nerve-wracking. Students practiced answers for consulate interviews the way actors rehearse lines. U.S. Customs officers, too, became a final stage in this theater of entry.

For many, higher education was less about immersion than about immigration. A master's program in computer science or public health wasn't just an academic pursuit; it was a pathway to a Green Card. That meant the cultural and intellectual riches of the American campus were often left untapped. Both students and universities lost something in that bargain.

4. Individuals and
 Institutions

I never shortened my name, never chose an Anglicized version. My Thai friends, however, introduced themselves as "B" and "C," nicknames assigned by an English instructor to make them easier to remember. I found it cruel, stripping away identity to make it palatable.

Institutions worked hard to seem welcoming, but they rarely recognized the unique struggles of international students. Regulations required proof of funding for the entire program before visas were approved. Scholarships or assistantships helped some; others arrived with hope and found themselves stranded.

Language posed another barrier. Passing the TOEFL was not the same as bantering fluently with American classmates. Many international students gravitated toward compatriots. Affinity was comfortable; assimilation, far more complicated. Prejudices lingered. Professional life would echo those divides.

The pressures were immense: coursework, debt, uncertain job prospects, and the constant weight of immigration status. Some students broke rules and faced dire consequences. Others internalized their struggles, shouldering unique risks of depression and, tragically, suicide. Institutions could offer support, but rarely the full safety net these students needed.

5. Change is Beautiful

When I arrived in America, I had friends from college who guided me. Their support helped me navigate the system, and our friendships carried me through exhilarating years. We grew together, then apart, then together again in cycles — the way life unfolds.

I was outspoken, even stubborn. They were patient, generous. Over time, I noticed some friendships shifting, shaped by proximity, affinity, even new wealth. A transactional quality replaced the raw honesty we once shared. I drifted away from some, clung to others.

The word friend itself puzzled me in America. People used it quickly, casually. Social networks muddied it further. Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics became my quiet guide: distinguishing between friendships of utility, pleasure, and virtue. Real friendships, I learned, were rare, demanding, and deeply beautiful.

I am grateful to many: Bob, whose advice steered my career. Larry and Sherry, who helped me define my goals. Alex, who gave me my first real chance. Ed, who trusted my team. Sherry, whose friendship was cherished. Shannon, whose presence was like sunlight through fog. Bill, the Zen Master. Dennis, who lived altruism. Donna, whose laughter healed. Jerry, who gave me a lifetime's experience. Deb and Monica, sincere colleagues. Martin, a generous friend. Brad, whose patience was endless. Dan, whose virtue needed no shared meals. Roy and JoAnn, companions in cycling and conversation.

And then Larry and Marilyn — who fed me, housed me, teased me, and treated me as family, squeaky embarrassments and all. Without them, I would never have tasted Americana as it truly was.

Life is short. I treasure every moment with these friends. Change is beautiful, yes, but love and gratitude endure.

6. Work Experiences

As an international student, I worked on campus with a permit. The wages were modest, but the experience was priceless. As a graduate assistant, I learned to blend pedagogy and technology, to support faculty and peers, to grow into confidence.

One day, a staff member I barely knew asked if I wanted to paint her house for pizza. I declined politely. The exchange left me both amused and puzzled — America's casual boundaries never stopped surprising me.

Professional life came next, but sponsorship was a hurdle. Many companies openly refused to hire immigrants, fueling the rise of consulting firms that preyed on desperate graduates. For those of us who found legitimate opportunities, race remained an undercurrent. No matter how Americanized one became, people of color had to prove themselves again and again.

Yet the workplace brought immense joy, too. I asked questions, listened deeply, and was rewarded with trust. I implemented projects, received the Chancellor's Academic Professional Excellence Award — a recognition so unexpected that I stumbled incoherently through my speech.

Yes, my supervisor once scolded me for being impatient, unwilling to accept the status quo. He was right. And I am proud of it. My passions demanded it.

The United States gave me room to grow, to lead, to innovate. Whatever its flaws, it will always remain my first professional home.

7. Let the Music Sing

In a small Midwestern town, music floated through a park on a summer evening. Families spread blankets, children darted about, grandparents settled into lawn chairs. Some came to support a son or granddaughter in the band; others simply to be part of the gathering.

The musicians were volunteers — retired teachers, dietitians, nurses, pilots, clergy. Some had picked up instruments long shelved since high school, others practiced diligently each Saturday morning. Their joy wasn't in recognition but in participation, in the simple fact of playing together.

When I listened, several truths struck me. Here were people from different states, even different countries, bound by nothing but music. Here were retirees returning to a purpose after years of careers and obligations. Here was a community united by art.

It baffled me that a country so rich, so resourceful, would cut music and arts programs from schools. Why deny children the chance to discover a skill that could enrich their lives for decades? A child who learns clarinet in middle school might one day play with joy in a community band at 65.

That evening's concert was, for me, real America: ordinary people gathered, offering and receiving joy, sustained by art. I hoped such traditions would endure.

8. Mistaken Identities

On a frosty Midwestern morning, I walked across the parking lot to my office when a woman waved from a distance. She was beaming.

"Congratulations!" she shouted.

I looked around, unsure who she meant. But she hurried to me, swaying with excitement.

"Congratulations on the baby!"

I froze. Then realized: she had mistaken me for someone else. Someone in the tech department had recently become a father. I wasn’t him. But in her mind, I was.

It wasn't the first time. 

My townhouse neighbor, a woman who dressed boldly and sipped wine on her steps, once broke down sobbing in her garage. When she saw me at the mailbox, she wailed, "My boyfriend dumped me!" She pointed her paintbrush at me as if I were the culprit. Onlookers — elderly walkers on their evening stroll — frowned in disapproval. To them, I must have looked like her Mexican boyfriend.

On campus, people often called me by a tech worker's name. I joked about it with colleagues; some laughed, some didn't believe me. Until one day, as we walked to the cafeteria, two passersby greeted me cheerfully: "Congratulations on your promotion!" It was the tech worker who’d been promoted, not me. My colleagues looked stunned.

Was I inventing these stories? Or was it harder for them, as Americans, to admit that identity could be flattened so easily, that skin color and foreignness erased individuality? For me, it was both comic and wearying.

9. Responsibility and Representation

The flashing lights of a police cruiser always made me tense. Once, in a small town, I was pulled over for not stopping for pedestrians. But the pedestrians hadn't entered the crosswalk; they had been about to jaywalk across a two-lane street. I asked politely who was at fault. The officer let me go. Still, I drove away wondering if I'd been stopped because I was a man of color.

At a bank, I once deposited a check from another account in my name. The teller asked suspiciously where I had gotten the money. Her nervous laugh afterward did not erase the sting. Did she wonder how a "Mexican" had thousands of dollars to his name?

At grocery stores, cashiers routinely asked customers if they'd found everything. Except sometimes, they skipped me. They asked the fair-skinned man ahead of me, not me. So I began to disarm them. "How's your day, Kaylee?" I'd ask, reading the name tag. From then on, Kaylee would brighten, polite once more. My hope was that the next time, she would extend equal courtesy to everyone.

At airports, random security checks became routine until I enrolled in TSA PreCheck. Then, another pattern emerged: I was always asked to confirm I belonged in the expedited line. The fair-skinned travelers beside me were not. I never challenged it. As an immigrant and a man of color, I feared turning a checkpoint into a confrontation.

10. On Travels

To visit America is a dream for many. To live there for decades was a blessing I did not take lightly. My impressions were shaped not only by landscapes and monuments but by kindness, by curiosity, by everyday encounters.

Americans were polite, friendly, outgoing. Their boundaries were firm — don't ask personal questions too soon, don't touch strangers, not even their pets. Politics, too, was best avoided. And weather? They complained endlessly about heat and cold, though their lives were cocooned in air-conditioned cars and homes.

Everything seemed large: meal portions, houses, highways, supermarkets. Even coffee cups, carried more than sipped.

The U.S. demanded to be experienced, not just photographed. I embraced it: winter fog in the Midwest that reminded me of Sandburg's verse, road trips spanning thousands of miles, summiting Baxter Peak, canoeing in Puerto Rico's bioluminescent bay, praying at New Mexico's Alcove House, marveling at national parks.

Sometimes the juxtapositions startled me. Watching MTV in India, I'd once imagined America as glamour, embodied in Duran Duran’s "Rio." Years later, standing on the banks of the Rio Grande, I saw black plastic bags marking desperate border crossings. Glamour and hardship — two sides of America's promise.

In Vermont, a walk through woods recalled Frost's "two roads diverged." In Maine, a lighthouse visit reminded me of Longfellow, whom I had studied as a boy in India. To see his house in Portland, decades later, felt like a circle completed.

Big cities drew me first, but in time I gravitated toward quiet places, offbeat towns, hidden trails. William Least Heat-Moon had it right: the digressive journeys are the best.

11. Purpose and
 Meaning

One winter's day, I entered the home of an Indian-American family.

"Open your shoes and walk on this," the man instructed, pointing to rigid clear plastic covering paths across the beige carpet.

The house was bare, cold, undecorated except for a framed engineering degree on the wall. Sheets covered the sofa, though no pets lived there. Plastic sealed the windows. A ceiling light glowed dimly. In the corner, a lamp stood with its shade still wrapped in plastic. I stared at it, unsettled.

Later, at a big-box store, I wandered into the lighting aisle. Every lampshade, brand new, was wrapped in plastic. Suddenly the image seared into me: the lampshade in that family's living room, frozen, preserved.

On the shuttle back to campus, my mind churned. The plastic spoke of struggle, sacrifice, a desire to preserve something fragile against a harsh world. But it also spoke of postponement — of joy deferred, of light dimmed in fear of damage.

That was not the American Dream I wanted. I wanted a lamp that shone freely, unwrapped, alive in the present.

12. Hopes and Costs

Leaving India for higher education or work abroad is exhilarating. A young adult boards a flight drenched in anticipation, not imagining that one day a phone call could alter everything.

"How expensive is it to study in the U.S.?" my cousin once asked.

I explained that tuition and housing could be managed — loans, scholarships, assistantships. The harder cost was personal. Distance. Absence. Choices that could never be undone.

For many, the story begins with education, then marriage, then children. When both parents work, grandparents fly from India to help. They spend long hours indoors, isolated by language, transport, and unfamiliarity. Outings are rare; dependency heavy.

As children grow, parents encourage them to join peers in sports, camps, vacations. Slowly, commitments in America outweigh connections to India. Visits home shrink from yearly to once in two or three years. Grandparents age; screens substitute for presence.

And then, one day, the phone call comes. A parent hospitalized. A ticket booked in haste. Vacation days bargained for. A visit that may or may not happen in time.

When my mother was dying, I was unable to receive the call. My sisters performed her final rites. When I shaved my head in mourning, a colleague asked why I would do such a thing in winter. He thought it unfashionable. I answered calmly: "Tonsure is a time-honored Hindu tradition, a symbolic offering of grief for departed souls. My mother died yesterday."

Years later, as my father was slipping away, I parked by the roadside and spoke to him through a phone held to his ear. I lied about being fine, everything else I said was true: I told him not to worry, thanked him for everything. He left this world with my voice in his ear. Afterward, I asked myself: having lost both parents, am I now an orphan?

Immigrant life carries this unspoken cost: to miss final breaths, final touch, final rituals. No scholarship, no salary, no success prepares you for it.

In retirement, many Indian immigrants dream of returning to India. Some split their time, spending summers in the U.S. and winters in India. But age makes long flights unbearable. Children's roots grow deeper in American soil. Life repeats its cycle here, not there.

Some manage to return to India permanently. Some continue to live in the U.S., clinging to routines, preserving even plastic on a lampshade — holding off the inevitable, unable to unwrap life fully.

Acknowledgment

My journey in America was not mine alone. It was sustained by friends, mentors, colleagues, and families who opened their homes and hearts to me. I carry their kindness with enduring gratitude.

Larry and Marilyn, who welcomed me as family, fed me, teased me, and gave me a home away from home — without you, my America would have been incomplete. Bob, Larry, Sherry, Alex, and Ed guided me with steady counsel and trust. Sherry, Shannon, Bill, Dennis, Donna, Jerry, Deb, Monica, Martin, Brad, Dan, Roy, and JoAnn — your friendship, laughter, and generosity shaped countless moments of my life.

To all who walked beside me, in fleeting moments or lasting bonds, thank you. Every act of kindness, every shared conversation, and every gesture of support made this journey richer than words can capture.