From Mumbai to California: This Thanksgiving I Remember My American Journey With a Heart Full of Love and Gratitude

November 17, 1985 — forty years ago — I stood with my hand over my heart, proudly holding the American flag as I was sworn in as a citizen of the country I had come to love, the one that promised “liberty and justice for all.”

My brother and I had emigrated from India on Good Friday in 1979. We stepped off the plane in Philadelphia, went through immigration for our green cards, and walked out into the cold, crisp spring afternoon. And there they were—my mother and father—waiting for us after three long years apart while we finished boarding school in India. The four of us immediately folded into a tight, tearful embrace, huddled together as if trying to make up for all the missed hugs in one moment. I was 18 and Raja, just turned 17.

I still remember sinking into my father’s Ford Thunderbird, its plush leather, the hush of the world outside, and Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning “Fly Me to the Moon.” The whole scene felt almost too magical to be real. There were no blaring horns like in Mumbai, no chaos of rickshaws and scooters, just the soft hum of the highway. The speed of the cars amazed me—everything around me felt new, smooth, and full of promise. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was already falling in love with America.

My heart overflowed with gratitude that day—grateful to be reunited with my parents, grateful for the safety and warmth around me, and grateful to have arrived in a country that felt, even in those first fragile moments, like a land of boundless possibility, innocence, and abundance.

We lived in an apartment in Bryn Mawr, on the Main Line outside Philadelphia—1000 Conestoga Road. I remember it like it was yesterday!

My father had promised that on our very first weekend in the U.S., we would drive to Pittsburgh to the Tirupati temple. He was a great believer! The temple there—grand and serene—felt like it could stand gopuram to gopuram with any temple in South India. 

That evening, we had dinner with Billy, the son of my father’s boss. By the end of the evening—before dessert even—he had offered me a job starting Monday. No interview, no forms, just a simple, heartfelt “come work with us.” Within a week of landing in America, I found myself in the working world! 

At a time when there were so few Indians around, the others in the office were understandably astonished by how I had been hired. But they embraced me completely. The boss, James W. Callahan; his younger son Mark; the senior partners, Frank and Charles; and our manager, Kathy—they welcomed me with a warmth I’ll never forget. And in that office, I met my first best friend, Roseann Brown. She took me under her wing, and before long, I was folded lovingly into her big family of eight siblings, and her parents treating me as one of their own.

There are many heartwarming, tender, and unforgettable moments I carry from the decades that followed, small bumps along a much larger, beautiful road. I never allowed those minor hurts to define my life as an Indian American.

Those early days in Bryn Mawr—the kindness, the unexpected turns, the sense of being held and included—still warm my heart. Those days are still among my most cherished, because they showed me how openly this country could welcome and honor our differences.

In Portland, Oregon, I attended a residential training program in Travel and Hospitality. Computers were still new then; giant and clunky that looked more like furniture than machines! But alongside our textbooks, we learned the mysterious coded language of TWA’s airline reservation system.

Once again, I found myself surrounded by wonderfully mismatched classmates of every age and background. There was the 33-year-old Bostonian whose accent I could barely decipher but found endlessly entertaining; my tiny but mighty 28-year-old Armenian roommate; the 19-year-old blond Elvis look-alike (my first American crush—I was convinced he’d break into “Love Me Tender” any minute); and so many others who made each day lively and unpredictable.

We all lived in a residence-style hotel across from the college, where we studied, ate, complained about homework, and attended classes together. On weekends, we hit the pubs and restaurants. The students over 21 would form a protective human shield around Elvis and me—the only two underaged—and sweep us inside as one big, noisy group. The bouncer would check a couple of IDs and wave us through, too lazy to untangle the chaos.

It was yet another warm—and often hilarious—lesson in how diversity and inclusion shaped my early years in America. I was thriving in my own version of “college life,” far from family on the opposite coast and enjoying every unpredictable moment.

California—the true melting pot of America—gave me yet another glimpse into the richness of diversity and the quiet strength of inclusion. I worked at a brick-and-mortar travel agency with a steady stream of walk-in clients. My coworkers came from every corner of the world: Japanese, Korean, Cuban, Mexican, Canadian—all of us different, all of us simply American in our own way.

One afternoon, a woman walked in wanting to book a trip. I greeted her at the front desk and began asking the usual questions—where she wanted to go, when she hoped to travel. She looked straight at me and, with a sharpness I wasn’t prepared for, snapped, “I don’t want to talk to no Iranian!”

I was stunned—not just by the hatred in her voice, but that she’d misjudged me so completely. A part of me even tried to make sense of her cruelty; perhaps she had lost someone in the Iran-Iraq conflict, perhaps her pain had curdled into prejudice. Before I could even find words, Linda—my boss, a petite, fiery Caucasian woman—stepped forward. With calm but unmistakable firmness she said, “We do not serve prejudiced, rude people. Please leave our office.” And she ushered the woman out.

I remember standing there, shaken but deeply moved. In that small office in California, my coworkers made it clear who belonged—and who didn’t. It was another moment that showed me the best of American decency in the 1980s: people who stood up, who stood by one another, and who refused to let hate to have the last word.

There are many heartwarming, tender, and unforgettable moments I carry from the decades that followed, small bumps along a much larger, beautiful road. I never allowed those minor hurts to define my life as an Indian American. Instead, I chose to raise my children to see beyond the surface—to look past the color of a person’s skin, their sexuality, their profession, or their economic background. I wanted them to meet people with curiosity instead of judgment, and to discover something new in every human connection.

We have traveled an extraordinary distance since those early days— from a world without computers or mobile phones to one brimming with possibilities, innovation, and hope. And yet, as we stand in this moment, we are weathering a storm where hatred, violence, corruption, and injustice seem to wear an unsettling air of normalcy. But this is not us. This is not the U.S. I know.

Even now, through all the noise of our times, I hold on to those memories. They remind me that the America I found at 18—the one that opened its doors to me—still lives in the people I meet every day.

I believe in American compassion that reaches across borders, in kindness that softens hardship, and in the enduring spirit of humanity that can still make this country the beating heart of generosity in our world. It is that version of America, the one built quietly in everyday interactions, that continues to live in my heart.

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Nanda Mehta is Founder & Managing Director of Ahaana, (www.ahaana.org) a nonprofit organization whose goal is to create a cultural network for South Asian community through art and theater. Nanda is also CEO of Creative Journeys, (creativejourneysinc.com) a travel and event management organization. Through both Ahaana and Creative Journeys Nanda specializes in event management and planning, marketing, and storytelling.