Building Bridges: Echoes of the Diaspora
I was born in Punjab, India, where my roots run deep. My father, Fakir Singh, was a man of integrity—an honest and hardworking leader in our village. He named me Sewa, meaning “service,” and lived by that philosophy himself. I spent my childhood watching my father dedicate his life to the people around him. He taught me that true happiness lies in giving, in helping, in being there for others. “Never think badly of anyone,” he would say. “Never take—always aim to give back”. His words shaped the course of my life.
I studied until high school and married in 1965 at the age of 21. It was an arranged marriage, like most in those days. My wife came from a family of good people—her parents owned a sweets shop, and just like the sweets they made, she brought warmth and joy into my life. Our love grew in quiet moments: shared meals, whispered conversations at night, and the simple comfort of knowing we had each other. Love, in its truest form, is finding someone with whom you can speak from the depths of your heart. In a world that often feels selfish, that kind of love is rare. We didn’t know each other well at first, but love is something that grows with time, with trust, with shared burdens and joys.
In India, I had a stable job in the health department. Life was predictable, steady. Then, in 2004, my daughter sponsored my wife and me to come to the United States. We came with excitement, but the reality of immigration is different from the dream. You leave behind a home filled with familiar faces, a place where your name is known, where you belong. Suddenly, you are in a country where no one knows you, where even your own children—who brought you here—are too busy trying to survive and build a future.The first five years in the U.S. were the hardest of my life. I had no job, no car, and no sense of direction. I would walk the streets aimlessly, lost in a foreign world. Grocery shopping was a journey in itself—without transportation, even carrying water home felt like a challenge. My children loved us, but they were working hard, just like everyone else. Life here teaches you to be independent, whether you are ready for it or not.
I remember the day someone told me about the South Asian Network (SAN). At that time, Hamid Khan was the Executive Director, and when I walked through those doors, I finally felt like I had found a place where I belonged. The SAN team helped me with everything—from accessing medicine to finding work. I learned to drive, got my license, and over the years, I worked multiple jobs: taking two buses to get to work, working as a school crossing guard, a security guard—anything to gain financial independence. Because once you have financial stability, life becomes a little easier.
I worked for ten years, and now my wife and I are finally settled. But I have seen many others like me, elders who sit in the parks, alone and longing to return home but without the means to do so. The loneliness of aging in a foreign land is something no one prepares you for. You step outside, and there are no familiar faces, no one who speaks your language. You feel like you are trapped within the four walls of your home, waiting for time to pass.
But I didn’t want to just wait. Around 2009, SAN started a senior center, and I was proud to be part of the efforts to advocate for it. We even went to Sacramento to fight for its funding. Seniors need community—sometimes, all we need is someone to sit with, to share a cup of chai, to talk about life. Now, I dedicate my time to helping others like me, to making sure no one feels as alone as I once did.
Every time I visit home, I feel a deep peace, a joy that only comes from being in the place where you were born. But just as I begin to embrace it, it’s time to leave again. The home I once knew has changed—family members have passed, childhood memories are locked away in empty houses. And yet, I remind myself to be happy wherever I am. Because happiness is not about a place; it’s about the people you surround yourself with, the love you create, and the service you give to others.
So, I dream of creating a senior home for our elders, a place where we can come together and build a community, where no one has to sit in silence with their loneliness. For now, I find joy in my Sundays at the Gurdwara, in the conversations with friends at the senior center, in the small acts of service I can do for others. My father’s blessings have guided me, and his lessons have shaped me. Never break someone’s heart. Always leave behind a legacy of love and kindness.
Looking back, I have lived a full life. I have lost loved ones—my parents, my elder brother, my younger sister. But love never truly leaves us. It stays, woven into the memories we cherish, the kindness we pass forward, the stories we share.
If I could speak to my younger self, I would tell him this: We are all put on this earth for a reason. Do something good with the time you’ve been given. Leave a legacy of love and empathy. Never break someone’s heart. Be grateful for the life you have. And most of all, cherish the people who walk this journey with you.
After all, we are lucky to be here together. See, I am getting old now, my hips are giving up on me—but we still have to have a good time while we can, don’t we?
