On my 7th birthday, in 1970, I left India and came to America: to

Host: The airport lounge was a mosaic of motion — voices from every language, faces from every continent, the constant hum of departures and arrivals. Through the glass, the runway lights blinked in the dark, stretching like a necklace into the infinite sky.
It was late evening, and the smell of jet fuel, coffee, and rain hung in the air. A child’s laughter echoed from the next terminal, a reminder that journeys often begin before one knows their cost.

At a quiet table by the window, Jack and Jeeny sat with two cups of tea, steam curling like ghosts of memory. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup as she spoke, her voice soft — nostalgic, but anchored in curiosity.

Jeeny: “Shiva Ayyadurai once said, ‘On my 7th birthday, in 1970, I left India and came to America — to this land of incredible opportunity.’” (She smiled faintly.) “Can you imagine that? A child, stepping off a plane, believing in a land he’s never seen, but already calling it a dream.”

Jack: (stirring his tea slowly) “It’s always dreamed that way, isn’t it? The myth of America. The land of opportunity, where every arrival is a rebirth, and every struggle is romanticized in hindsight.”

Host: The PA system crackled, announcing another boarding call. A woman’s voice spoke of flight numbers and gates, but beneath it, something else — the pulse of movement, the rhythm of leaving and becoming.

Jeeny: “But there’s truth in the myth, Jack. For so many, it was — and still is — the only light they could follow. My father came here in 1982 with a suitcase, a few rupees, and a promise he made to my mother: that he’d make a home out of hope. And somehow, he did.”

Jack: “Hope is a dangerous currency, Jeeny. It’s spent faster than it’s earned. For every success story, there’s a thousand who vanished into factories, kitchens, and fields. The land of opportunity gives — but it also consumes.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a bargain with the devil. But isn’t that what every dream is? A wager against the odds?”

Host: The rain outside shifted from a drizzle to a downpour, washing the windows in silver streaks. Planes glided through the mist, their lights piercing the darkness like belief made visible.

Jack: “Belief is easy when you’re seven, Jeeny. You don’t see the paperwork, the debt, the loneliness. You only see the shimmer of what might be. By the time you grow up, you realize the shimmer was just sweat.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Maybe. But that sweat built cities, Jack. It kept the lights on, filled the schools, birthed a new language of belonging. That’s what I love about Ayyadurai’s words — not the sentiment, but the faith behind them. He was a child, and still, he believed enough to begin.”

Jack: “Belief is one thing. But calling it the land of incredible opportunity — that’s branding, not truth. Opportunity isn’t given, Jeeny. It’s taken, often from someone else. The Indian doctor who becomes a taxi driver. The engineer who’s cleaning offices. They don’t call that opportunity — they call it survival.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet, they still stay.”

Host: A child ran past, holding a tiny American flag, its plastic edges bent but unbroken. The parents — tired, hopeful, silent — watched, their faces half-lit by the terminal’s glow.

Jeeny: “You think that’s naïve, don’t you? But I see it as courage. To leave everything you’ve known, to start again in a foreign language — that’s not naïveté, Jack. That’s faith with callouses.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t feed you, Jeeny. It doesn’t pay rent. You know how many immigrants I’ve worked with who live three to a room, sending half their paycheck back to families they might never see again? They don’t believe in America. They endure it.”

Jeeny: “Enduring is a kind of believing. Maybe the dream isn’t that America is perfect, but that it allows you to fight for something better. It’s not the land that’s incredible, Jack — it’s the human spirit that arrives here.”

Host: The lights in the terminal dimmed slightly, signaling night’s descent. The rain had eased, leaving puddles outside that mirrored the runway lights — like memory reflecting possibility.

Jack: “You talk about the human spirit, Jeeny, but that spirit gets exploited. You think the system cares about hope? It only cares about output. The dream is a machine — it runs on people’s sacrifices.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every machine still needs a spark. And that spark — that first belief — is what keeps it alive. Without that, the system would collapse under its own cynicism.”

Jack: “You sound like an idealist.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s forgotten what it’s like to arrive.”

Host: Silence settled between them. The sound of planes taking off filled the space, a low thunder that vibrated through the floor. Jeeny’s eyes were soft, but steady, anchored in something ancient — that quiet, stubborn belief that movement itself is a kind of miracle.

Jack: “When I came here, I was ten. My mother cried the whole flight. My father told me I’d be free here — that I’d make something of myself. I remember landing, looking at the skyline, and thinking it looked like steel pretending to be heaven. I believed him. For a while.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And then?”

Jack: “And then I grew up. Freedom turned out to mean loneliness. The streets were cold, the accents mocked, the dream delayed. You learn that opportunity isn’t an open door — it’s a door you have to kick down, and hope you don’t break before it opens.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s still a kind of victory, Jack. You fought. You stayed. You became. Maybe that’s all Ayyadurai was really saying — not that America gives opportunity, but that it gives the chance to earn it.”

Host: The final boarding call for a flight to Boston echoed across the terminal. A family stood, gathering their bags, children half-asleep, their future packed in luggage tags and hope.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about the promise, but the persistence. To arrive, to stay, to build even when the ground feels like glass.”

Jeeny: “That’s the immigrant’s prayer, Jack — to turn survival into story, and story into legacy.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think I still have one left in me?”

Jeeny: “We all do. Every arrival is a beginning, whether it’s a flight, a birthday, or just the moment you decide to believe again.”

Host: The last plane of the night lifted off, its engines roaring, lights ascending into the clouds — a child’s dream made mechanical. Jack and Jeeny watched in silence, their reflections blending in the window — two faces, one gaze, past and future intertwined.

And in that glow, the truth of Ayyadurai’s words lingered — that every departure is an act of faith, every arrival a rebirth, and every land of opportunity begins not with a passport, but with the courage to believe that one can begin again.