chapter 8

On the Way to NeenahThe distance from Chicago to Neenah is about three hundred kilometres and takes about three hours by road. Amar was not trying to set any land speed record; in fact he wanted us to enjoy the sights, so we took a little longer. Two things about the drive stand out in my memory—how spotlessly clean the whole place appeared to be, and how few people there were about.As we were making our way through Chicago to Interstate 41 that would take us to Neenah, I noticed a few big sheets of paper and some trash under a bridge. Trash. I was ecstatic. This was the first time, since we’d landed, that I was seeing any litter. Amar explained that a vagrant must have slept rough there the previous night and not bothered to remove his makeshift mattress. Yes, the U.S. has its homeless too; a sobering thought.Meanwhile I decided to cry halt to my martyr act and declared I was hungry. ‘Don’t even mention food; I’ll throw up,’ VK protested.I decided I wouldn’t and whispered to Amar, ‘How about some delayed breakfast somewhere?’ Poor guy, he too had probably been hoping I’d take the initiative for he swiftly pulled over at an Oasis outlet on the highway over the Illinois Tollway. We bought sandwiches, monster ones, of course, and munched on them, out of the sight of VK who remained in the car. Satiated, we were soon tootling along again.An extraordinary thing I noticed was the absence of people. There was no one on the pavements, or indeed the lawns and yards and fields that were visible. Where were all the people? Inside cars, of course. There was a never-ending procession of cars and other four-wheelers, and we could spot faces in the vehicles that we passed or those that thundered past; often truck drivers intent on their job of taking consignment X to place Y as efficiently as possible. We did see one body attached to a face when a flamboyant Harley Davidson rider overtook us—we were driving through Harley Davidson country and were excited when Amar pointed out their factory.During the whole journey we saw only two people actually walking. I’m not kidding. A woman and a man. Separately. The woman, in blue jeans and boots, walked briskly along what appeared to be an endless lawn before an invisible house. The man we caught walking, appeared to be doing nothing. He had to be a philosopher, I thought.This remained our experience whether it was on our bus ride from New York to Boston, the rail journeys we took or the long drives in California. So much land, so many cars, so few people. No wonder the Mexicans are trudging in.We drove a lot around the Midwest. The amount of grass being trimmed by men riding lawn mowers was unbelievable. No blade of grass in America, it appeared, had the right to grow beyond an inch or two. A minor transgression and it would be promptly cut to size by a human on a lawn mower the size of a small car in India. Where were all the cows that could have grazed on all this grass, I wondered. We had passed several dairies, identifiable because of boards that said so. The cows, like the people, were not to be seen. Not even driving cars.The contrast with my native land was striking. Though our highways are now beginning to resemble ones we see in foreign cities, you cannot drive in India, look out the window and not spot people. Or litter. Or, I imagine, in some parts of India, cows.Around lunch time, Amar stopped at a place called Nutrition Café. VK, now on a steady diet of chocolates, decided he wasn’t game to change it yet. He opted to remain outside the restaurant and stretch his legs. I walked about with him for a bit while Amar parked the car. The car park here was as neat and as stylishly laid out as the one at Candlewood and the other parts of Chicago we had visited.‘American bricklayers are meticulous and artistic all right,’ VK remarked approvingly. ‘Look at the symmetry of all this brickwork.’ There was, however, a dirty white mound on one corner of the parking yard that appeared to beckon us. On getting close we realised it was snow. I circled it, kicked it and touched it. It took all the abuse stoically. I think it must have been craving attention.There were trees planted in neat lines in the park and some of them had a deep reddish covering of very tender leaves. ‘I’ve seen similar trees in Chicago,’ VK observed. Leaving him to muse over the leaves, the trees, their name and origin, I followed Amar into the restaurant.We returned to find VK in conversation with a young chap, balanced on a cycle. VK later said that when he saw this guy cycle up and stop under a window, he went up to him and greeted him. No response. When he helloed a third time, the chap pulled a pair of ear phones out of his ears and smiled. VK asked him the name of the trees. He had no idea, and wanted to know if VK had the answer. VK told him he had been in the country less than 48 hours and was clueless.Soon they got talking. The nameless chap had just finished high school and had gained admission to a degree course at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He would soon be leaving to pursue it. He seemed very excited at the prospect. He had picked his course that combined climate science and agriculture with care for he wanted to become a consultant to big farms. There was a lot of money in it, he said.I was just in time to hear him emphasise that he wanted to make money. ‘Lots and lots of money.’‘We’re in the U.S. to attend the graduation ceremony of our daughter-in-law who has just finished an MS in Information Management at Syracuse,’ VK volunteered. I thought he puffed up a little.The guy must have been impressed because he drawled, ‘Aw, really?’ and punctuated it with a series of ‘wows’. Half were, presumably, for the university and half for the course.VK hadn’t finished with him yet. ‘What exactly will you do as a consultant? I’ve not heard of an agriculturalist whose focus is the climate.’‘With cloud computing, AI, advanced satellite networks and so on,’ the youth explained, ‘it would be possible to give clients, big farmers, very specific weather predictions and other hints on how to run their farms more efficiently.’Farmers would, in the future, need such information and he would, in a few years, be ready to provide it. This proved what we already knew even before going to the States. The American universities are so good because they are very quick and responsive to the changing world. Half the country and the then president thought that climate change was a hoax or a problem that would take care of itself. And here, in a region that was conservative, was a famous university designing and offering a remarkable course, very much taking climate change into consideration. And young people, like this chap talking to us, were enthusiastically pursuing it.At this point, the window slid open and a woman’s head popped out. She offered him a packet. He had been lingering near the window because it was where cars drove up and drivers ordered food still seated in their cars. As he bid goodbye, VK asked, ‘How far are we from Neenah?’‘This is Neenah.’ He grinned, waved and zoomed off, bent over his handle bars like a racer.That was a cheery welcome, and a refreshing change from the cold, curt one to the country itself at O’Hare airport. This chance meeting with young American blood warmed our hearts all right. VK learned later, at the FDR Memorial at Fishkill, that the tree was the Japanese maple, to be distinguished from the native maple. A well-informed guide at that museum who enlightened VK on this, made his day when he also volunteered more detailed information about the tree.