As I was preparing to make my launch to the United States, I decided to go to New Delhi, the capital of India and one of the four major cities where developments were taking place. I prepared myself mentally and emotionally to face stiff competition from the much more sophisticated and connected natives of this city.
My aunt and uncle lived in New Delhi and generously provided me with a place to stay. However, in order to survive, I would have to find a job.
For three months, I applied for every possible opportunity, but I was rejected for each of them for being either overqualified or not experienced enough.
Unbeknownst to me, another drama was taking shape on a nearby stage. A wealthy man who owned a chain of movie theaters had fired the assistant manager of one of his theaters in New Delhi. When the long-time employee filed a lawsuit, the theater owner discussed this legal matter with his lawyer and asked if the lawyer knew of a suitable replacement. The lawyer told him he knew of a young man who was reliable, a good worker, well-mannered and well-educated, with just the right personality to interact with the patrons. The lawyer could personally vouch for him, because this young man was the nephew of his physician, who was also well-known to the theater owner.
That physician, Dr. Sant Ram, was my uncle and my host in New Delhi.
Immediately, a call was placed to my uncle, saying I had been appointed assistant manager of the Odeon Cinema, a top-rated movie theater in New Delhi. I was to report the next morning, and I was expected to wear a jacket and necktie.
I was having dinner with my uncle’s family when he called from his office and told my aunt the news. When she shared the story with the rest of us around the table, there was a prolonged silence. It was unbelievable. Then, everyone erupted in celebration.
There had been no known vacancy, no application, and no interview. And yet, I, a stranger from out of town, had been awarded the job. I had the feeling of being a piece on a chessboard, part of a larger game I could not possibly comprehend. I was in awe. If this was not a miracle, I felt, then what could it be?
The next morning, I reported to the general manager of the Odeon Cinema.
The manager was a tall, handsome, middle-aged man, smartly dressed in a light blue striped suit. His black shoes glistened. His bright, vermilion tika (a religious mark on the forehead) showed that he was freshly showered and had recently performed his morning worship. He seemed to be in good physical condition and took long, brisk strides. He exuded energy and had a disarming smile that put me at ease in the first few minutes. I apologized to him for not being properly attired and said I would order myself new clothes later that day.
The general manager had only received a brief phone call from the owner about my appointment. Thus, he was more curious about me than welcoming. He asked about my background. I had very little to tell. He asked about my experience. I had none. He had presumed that I must be a close relative of the owner, whom everyone called Seth Sahib (“boss man”). But I had never heard of the Odeon Cinema nor its owner until the night before.
The general manager was bemused, and it showed.
He gave me a quick tour of the facilities and introduced me to whomever was there of the more than 40 employees. I noticed he was introducing me as “Seth Sahib’s man.” He made sure to tell them I was a recent graduate from Allahabad. There was nothing wrong with that, except in his intonation. It would be akin to being introduced in New York as the young graduate from a hick university, with no experience, but hired because he was a friend of the boss. The image was reinforced by the fact that I looked younger than my 21 years, even though I had grown a thin mustache to try to look older. I was dressed in a white, short-sleeved sports shirt, inexpensive trousers, and old shoes. I had been up since dawn and had biked almost an hour to get there. In comparison to the manager, I looked shoddy.
The general manager’s office was relatively spacious, well organized, and tidy. He showed me the office of the assistant manager, which was adjacent to his and nearly one-third the size. It was empty, except for a silent, black telephone on a light-brown wooden desk. The manager told me that the fired assistant manager was still on the payroll until his lawsuit would be settled. During that time, he was required to attend the office daily, but not to perform any duties. He had been asked to first use up all his earned holidays and would be back in a month or so. Once the lawsuit was resolved, that office would be mine. Until then, I was to use a corner of the general manager’s desk.
For a moment, I studied the assistant manager’s office. Somehow, I could not see myself there. That feeling proved to be prophetic.
After the tour, which took some 30 minutes, the general manager did not know what to do with me. So, I was asked to just sit in the office and observe.
At the end of the day, I was summoned downstairs. I moseyed down to the lobby but did not see anyone I recognized.
“Outside, outside!” urged a ticket clerk from inside his cage. I went outside, but I still did not recognize anyone.
The doorman whispered to me, “Seth Sahib,” and discreetly pointed toward a car waiting curbside, some 10 yards away. Still not understanding the situation, I calmly walked over to the car. There sat a gray-haired gentleman in the back seat of the white Ambassador car. “I am Seth Sahib,” he said simply.
Without another word, he looked me over from head-to-toe, as if he were examining a horse for sale. I became self-conscious, especially since I was not properly dressed. And, it being the end of the day, I was looking even more ruffled.
“Were you not told to be dressed in a jacket and necktie?” he asked sternly.
I apologized, “Yes, Sir, but I do not own a suit. After work, I am going to go and order one.” In those days, there were practically no ready-made clothes in India. All clothes had to be tailored individually.
“Tomorrow morning, I expect to see you dressed in a suit,” he said. “You are the manager, you know. You have to command respect.”
“It will be three or four days, Sir, before they can sew a jacket,” I told him.
“Get two, and tell the tailor to rush,” he commanded. I could not tell him that I did not even have money for one.
His tone of voice told the chauffeur to start the car. Nothing more was said. Seth Sahib drove off without even shaking hands with me.
I didn’t care. I had the job.
balbirmathur.com 