Chapter 9
“Those are nice earrings,” Chanda’s co-worker said scornfully.
“Thank you.” Chanda touched the earrings and tried to not feel ashamed. Now she had clothes and things that other women in this factory wouldn’t even dream of wearing. Chris bought some for her while he was here and the rest she had bought herself with the bundle of hundreds that he had left her before parting. Her hair was now professionally cut and highlighted, and she wore makeup now. It felt good to be so glamorous, to actually be able to take care of herself now. Every evening, when she got off her shift, she would get on Skype with Chris to model how gorgeous she now looked with his money. She also was working on finding a new place to live at Chris’s request. But she still showed up to the factory each day, trying to prevent boredom and while away the days until Chris was able to send for her. The days just seemed to drag on and on. The worst part was not having a clear deadline of when Chris would be able to get her.
“It must be nice, having a rich American boyfriend,” the woman went on. The scorn was sharp in her voice.
Chanda wanted to shrink into herself. “He is a nice man,” was all she could say.
“Prostitutes get nice things,” the woman agreed.
Chanda’s temper flared. But when she opened her mouth to protest, she noticed that the supervisor was walking toward them. She looked down and busied herself in her work, trying to hide the tears that were springing up in her eyes.
“Chanda!” the supervisor barked. He paused in front of the dye vat that she was dyeing clothes in. “Yes?” she looked up at him.
He was staring at her earrings. “What are you wearing?” he snapped.
She ducked her head. The supervisor was notoriously mean. “It is a gift,” she replied.
“She will be leaving us soon,” her co-worker told the supervisor. “She has a new rich boyfriend from America. He’s taking her away.”
The supervisor narrowed his eyes. “American boyfriends like their play things. Then they get bored and leave them behind. They find new women. Don’t trust this man to take you away. Get back to work.” He then continued striding down the line, making sure that the women were working and not texting or giggling. Joy was not permitted in the dye section.
Her co-worker smirked, apparently pleased with herself.
“Are you happy?” Chanda snapped. “You want to get me fired?”
“Don’t cause trouble,” the woman replied serenely. “You heard the supervisor. Get back to work.”
When Chanda got home, she immediately Skyped Chris. He didn’t answer the first time. Finally, at the third time, he picked up. He was mopping his hair back with a towel, fresh out of the shower.
“Sorry, love, I didn’t hear my phone. I was in the shower,” he said apologetically.
Chanda felt her anxiety dissipate as soon as she saw his loving gaze. “Chris,” she said happily. “I’m just glad you finally answered.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head violently. “I am just glad to see your face. I miss you terribly.”
“Oh, I miss you, too.” He smiled. “I am applying for a visa now. I just have to get your passport, medical records, and your identification. I also need to print out our chats and photos together to prove that we are together.”
“Oh, that sounds simple.” Chanda bounced happily down on her bed. “I am so excited for this. It is just taking so long already!”
“It can take up to a year. But don’t worry. I will be there to visit soon.”
“I need you to. They are being mean to me at work. They are all jealous that I have a rich American boyfriend.” She sadly showed him her earrings. “I wore these today and my co-worker tried to get me in trouble with the boss.”
Chris groaned. “I should have expected that to happen. You know how people are. Don’t let them get to you.”
“But my boss said that you could just be using me. That you will tire of me and throw me away.” Chanda sighed. “I know I shouldn’t listen, but it really scared me when he said that. He says it happens a lot. We’re like cheap prostitutes to American men.”
“I’m not like most American men,” Chris reassured her. “I would never do that. I am serious about marrying you. Look.” He rifled through his bedside table drawer and produced the K-1 visa form, which he had already filled out most of. “This is the form I have to fill out to get you into the United States. If I wasn’t serious, why would I be going into all of this trouble?”
Chanda gaped at the long form in his hands. “That’s several pages,” she commented.
“Yes. And all of the documents that I need from you will make it even longer. The sooner that you can send them, the better it will be. Oh, Chanda, why do you insist at working at that place? I wish you would leave already. You know that I will support you. I have plenty of money to give you an amazing life there.”
“I know.” She sighed and gathered the pleats of her skirt around her knees. “I just don’t know what else I would do with myself while I wait.”
Chris shook his head. “I like that you work hard for your money. You like to work. You don’t mooch off of rich men, like a lot of women here do.” Then a dark look overcame his face.
“Are you thinking about bad women who have used you?” Chanda asked. Her empathetic nature immediately sensed a deep-seated torment within Chris.
“Yes, but those women don’t matter anymore. What matters is you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Well, I’m going to finish this paperwork. Send me those documents when you can. You might have to go get vaccines. I’ll send money for that.”
Chanda nodded. This was the real deal, after all. She had nothing to worry about. Chris was always able to assuage her loneliness and worry.
When they kissed good night and hung up, Chanda went down to the café near her place for dinner. Now that she didn’t have her father or Chris to cook for, she never ate at home. It was hard to eat by herself, staring at the empty seat across from her. Spoon feeding her father in his final days was a painful experience, but at least she had his presence to comfort her.
She watched the fast city bustling around her. What would America be like? Chris tried to describe it to her and she saw many photos of it, but she couldn’t imagine it. The cities were so orderly and clean, with no sewage or trash on the streets. Begging was illegal and children didn’t swarm one, begging for coins or candy. Food was sold inside stores instead of large outdoor markets, and it was all wrapped in plastic or frozen into neat bricks. Even the vegetables were sanitary, and the fruits had stickers on them. The traffic in San Antonio and Austin and Houston, though heavy, looked well-directed, like a perfect, controlled flow. Everyone had a house and a car. The poverty of America looked like luxury to her; she couldn’t believe that people considered themselves to be struggling when they worked full-time and lived in houses or apartments and owned cars. Here, poverty meant that you lived downwind of the public latrines in a shanty built from trash in the slums, and worked ten hours a day or more at the factories, and could never see the doctor. What would it be like to live such a perfect life? To be so neat, conditioned, and clean? To have the queenly luxury that Chris offered her in his mansion, with its air conditioning and carpeting and pool in the back? She imagined swimming in that pool, what that pristine, blue water must feel like. She had only ever swam in lakes and rivers, which were always muddy and full of trash. She also imagined riding horseback over the sweeping terrain that Chris showed her on Skype. How tall that would feel like.
Then she wondered if anyone would like her in the United States. Would there be friendly girls? Where could she meet them? She decided that she would need a job and maybe some sort of hobby. People in America loved to have hobbies. But what kind of hobby should she take on? She looked up things Americans liked to go and discovered activities like yoga, hiking, walking, photography, and dance. “I don’t know how to do any of these things,” she said to herself forlornly.
For the first time, she felt horribly unprepared for her new life in America.