It seemed like a caravan of cars were trailing her to the airport. She felt important, dignified and humbled at the thought that those cars belonged to people who cared about her. All told, about forty people would be there. She was about to get on a plane with her new husband and start a new life. She was the first to leave her country, and her family would be there to see her off, as is customary.

January 21st would be the longest day of her life. Well, so far. Who knows what the future may hold for her? There she was, her new husband by her side and her family and his––well-wishers all––who had come to say goodbye. Nervous anticipation knotted her stomach, but while she hated to leave, she couldn’t wait to get on that plane. Nevertheless, she was waiting. Quite a long time.

Many airplanes coming in or going out of India were funneled through the Soviet Union back then. And, unfortunately, the specific airplane she was scheduled to board had been grounded in Moscow due to snow. While a bit of bad weather in another part of the world may not make a huge difference in the everyday things in life normally, in air travel, it can produce monumental effects. What started off as a four hour delay, turned into six, then eight, then ten. In the end, she waited in the airport with her new husband, her family, and his relatives for twenty-four hours before finally boarding the craft.

In all of that time, the family did not think of leaving them. It was customary to see emigrants off, and they were going to see them off no matter how long they had to wait. Custom aside, the obvious love and affection bestowed upon them touched her. It was a testament to the strength of families and their love for each other—an example of how a simple thing, such as seeing someone off at the airport can turn into a life lesson in patience, loyalty, and love. It was something that she would never forget.

When her plane was finally called, she hugged and kissed her family goodbye. Strong, loyal people who, despite the obvious discomfort of waiting in any airport, stayed with her without complaint and wished them luck with their new lives.

A couple of hours later, the cabin of the airplane was very quiet. The plane had touched down in the Soviet Union once more on its way to America. But a routine stop had become yet another worrisome delay. She stared at her husband, eyes silently questioning what would happen next. The people around her wore different expressions. Some talked softly. Some pretended to read their books or magazines, yet never turned a page. Most had the same look she did—guilt despite having done nothing wrong.

While the passengers avoided looking at each other directly, she was taking stock of things. There, a businessman––she could tell because he held his unopened briefcase in his lap, eyes fixed on a point to his left. His elbows were squished uncomfortably at his sides by the passengers sandwiching him in.

The stewardesses, as they were called then, walked up and down the aisles, asking the same questions they asked ten minutes before.

“Would you like a pillow?”

“Sir, a magazine?”

Nobody wanted anything but to get the plane moving again.

She wanted to get moving again. For weeks, she and her husband had packed and planned for their move to America. For weeks, she dreamed of a new life, a new adventure. For weeks, she had prepared herself to leave India and her family. After waiting in an airport for twenty-four hours, she was waiting again.

The year: 1971. The location: Moscow. Communist Russia. Their plane had been directed to a certain area on the tarmac, and they were boarded by Soviet policemen. Tall and broad-shouldered, their menacing presence filled the cabin of the airplane. Their uniforms fit snugly across their backs and their arms, biceps bulging against the fabric as they hoisted their guns. With blonde crew cut hair, the corners of which looked like it could cut glass, the guards perused the cabin with their unsmiling, pale faces pinning the passengers to their seats with icy-blue stares. Each aisle earned an armed man at its end. Another man marched to the front of the plane. A minute later, the overhead system crackled—then, a voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. We will be delayed in Moscow for a bit. Nothing to fear, everything’s all right. It’s just standard operating procedure. We will be taking off shortly. Please be patient, and please remain in your seats. Thank you.”

She looked at her husband who patted her hand. Soft murmurs could be heard on the other side of the cabin, quickly hushed by the policeman’s hard gaze.

“This is like being in prison,” she thought and settled against her husband. She had not imagined that a layover could be so tense. She closed her eyes to shut out the visions of armed men and a hostile foreign country, and she dreamed about the future waiting for her in America.

She knew that the Americans would be different altogether. This tense stop in Moscow was a glitch in her plan, but it served as a contrasting point to the Americans she would encounter in several hours. She knew that great things would happen. She knew that her children would be born in a country that offered fantastic opportunities. She knew that she would be able to have the best of both worlds—her culture and a land in which she could celebrate her heritage openly.

She knew that in America, she would not be stuck in any one particular job, a freedom that would fascinate her friends and family in India. In India, once you had a job, no matter what it was, you were in it for life. Her search for knowledge would compel her to seek new jobs and new challenges, but first, she had to get there.

When she opened her eyes again and the policemen had congregated at the front of the plane, speaking in low voices. Their leader consulted a sheaf of papers in his hand and nodded a few times. Then, with one last look at the passengers, the men exited the plane. A communal sigh of relief and nervous laughter filled the cabin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Please buckle your seatbelts as we obtain clearance for take-off.”

Her husband turned to her and smiled. Fairly silent throughout this ordeal, he had the look of one who knows that things will be okay. And he was right. The plane began taxiing down the runway, and as the airport in Moscow raced by, she turned from the window and faced directly ahead, holding her husband’s hand. They were on their way to their new home.

Her life in America, especially in Lowell, has turned out to be everything she had hoped for. Her love of knowledge and learning new things has taken her into many rewarding careers, a freedom she would never have had in India. Her love of travel has exposed her to many people and experiences, but she calls America “home.” She calls Lowell “home.” Eventually, Saroj sponsored her entire family to live in the United States, and she plans annual trips to visit those left behind in India.

Although her native India gave her a firm foundation, it was America that gave her the wings to fly.