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On the day of my arrival at my boarding house, I met fellow boarder, Ken Holmes. He was a freshman at Wichita University from a small town in Kansas, and we became instant friends. He was the first stockholder in my newly-formed company and remained a business partner in all that I did for a very long time. He became like a younger brother to me.  

While looking for exporters of handicrafts, Ken and I saw an advertisement posted by an exporter of hand-woven carpets. The carpets were woven in a village near my hometown in India. However, carpets would not fit in the space we were being provided at the Innes department store. So, Ken and I formed a partnership, Mathur and Holmes, and ordered $340 worth of carpets that we planned to sell to our friends.

When the shipment landed at the port in New Orleans, papers were sent to us requesting payment. What I read in those documents made me break out in a cold sweat. I didn’t know how, but I had ordered carpets worth $3,400! I looked at the papers over and over again, unable to  believe I had made such a major blunder. Later, I understood that this problem was the result of a difference in the way numbers are written in the USA and India as well as a mistake by the person who filled out the papers. At that time in India, they used a comma between dollars and cents instead of a decimal point. Normally, they would have written thirty-four dollars as $34,00 but they had written $3,400 by mistake. When I saw that, I thought that the carpets were selling at $3.40 per square foot, when in fact they were selling for $34 per square foot!

The carpet exporter, however, had also made a serious mistake. He sent the original documents to us, rather than sending them to the bank. This meant that Ken and I could retrieve the carpets without making any payment to the seller. But we did not wish to take advantage of anyone. If we did that, we asked ourselves, how would we be any different from the New York taxi driver who took advantage of me? This was the first business dilemma of our lives, and we wanted to practice the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

First, we had to find a way to get the money. After lots of soul searching and some prodding from Ken, I called my new cattleman friend in Ashland, Kansas, remembering his words to me: “Son, if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to call me.”

When I called, without hesitation he asked me, “How much money do you need?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” I told him. I did not have the courage to ask for the entire sum. He told me to meet him at his bank the next day, where he cosigned a loan for me. 

With the money and documents in hand, I went to a local bank in Wichita and requested a loan for the remaining $2,500. The banker understood that, based on the exporter’s mistake, we already had the necessary papers to get the carpets without making any payment. He was impressed by our commitment not to cash in on the supplier’s mistake, and he loaned me the money.

Ken and I were now in debt and delighted with our accomplishment. But we had no time to celebrate. We had no experience selling carpets, so we had to learn fast. 

We decided to start at the top and went to the most prestigious carpet shop in town. The owner not only gave us good advice, but he also gave us space to display our carpets in his showroom at no charge, and his sales staff offered to help us sell the carpets.

For the next several weeks, we worked every evening making calls peddling those carpets. In three months, we paid off the loans. 

Now we were debt-free, with profit in our pockets. But that was not the end of the story. After we paid off our loan, we delivered one of the carpets to the cattleman who loaned us the money. While he was reluctant at first, he did graciously accept this token of our gratitude.

When the summer vacation of 1959 arrived, my sponsor, Mr. Graham, offered me a summer job. It was to promote his business, Private Enterprise, Inc., to the Wichita community. In this venture, he was offering to invest half the capital required for entrepreneurs in foreign countries to start a business. They would be able to buy him out after they had doubled Graham’s portion of the investment. Graham was seeking investors in his business, and I was an ideal “show-and-tell” person.

I was provided with a list of “who’s who in Wichita.” My salary for the summer was to be $300, which disappointed me because other friends were going to make that much per month. I reminded myself that my first task was to learn, and here was the opportunity. I bought a light summer suit and a necktie.

As it turned out, this job was made for me. Somehow, most of the people on the list agreed to see me. They knew Bill Graham but were interested to know about me. And I was interested in asking them about the secret of their success.

Most of them became my friends, and some became my mentors. Several invited me to lunches to meet their friends and associates. Some invited me to their homes to meet their families. Others invited me to their churches to talk to their Sunday schools or to give talks at their social clubs. One person took it upon himself to organize a speaking tour of social clubs and churches in Wichita. Since I did not have a car, he personally drove me to most of the speaking engagements, even to some towns outside of Wichita.

One weekend, I was hosted by a family who lived on a ranch in Ashland, Kansas. On Sunday, they invited me to join them at their Methodist church, where the minister heard me participating in the Sunday school class. “Would you like to give the sermon today?” he asked.

Nonchalantly, I raised my shoulders to indicate, “Why not?”

In between the class and the church service, my hostess came up to me. “We will be sitting in the front row,” she said. “You can sit with us.”

“The minister has asked me to sit with him,” I said. “He’s asked me to give the sermon.”

“No! No!” she said, horrified. “You don’t even know what a sermon is.” She turned around and went over to the minister. I saw her jaw drop as the minister confirmed the news.

In my sermon, I told the congregation that the world had shrunk. “Christ told us to love our neighbors. In this shrinking world, our neighbors are no longer just people living in our communities. Our neighbors are also people in India and China,” I said. “This is what Christ is calling us to do now.”

My hostess was still looking at me with shock on her face. She was nervous like a mother, afraid of her son making a fool of himself. I could not help but smile.

Afterward, the minister asked me to greet people at the door and shake hands. My hostess came out, bubbly, chirping like a bird. She was so relieved. Her rancher husband tipped his hat to me. “You have done it, boy,” he said.

Later, on the drive home in their car, the husband said, “Son, if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to call me.”

The wife expanded on her husband’s statement. “We went to college during the Depression,” she said. “It was hard. We do not wish our children to suffer through anything like that, and the same goes for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, hoping that day would never come.

A week later, I had to ask him for help.

Within two days of my arrival in Wichita, I walked along Broadway Street and saw Innes Department Store. I had never been to a department store before. All stores in India were small, mostly mom-and-pop stores. As I looked around Innes, all that merchandise in one place dazzled me. No one living amid so much merchandise could go hungry, I thought.

Instantly, I had a plan. I requested to see the owner of the store. Very politely and patiently, a store clerk explained to me that there was a general manager, but no owner. That was good enough for me.

Before seeing the manager, I went to seek the help of a newfound friend in the office of my sponsor, Mr. Graham. My ears were still not tuned to American English, and I needed help to decipher what was being said. Together, we went to see the manager of Innes. I tried to explain that I would like to import some merchandise from my native country to sell from his store. He told me his store was part of the Macy’s chain, and they had an import department to buy merchandise for all the stores collectively.

“But I will be wearing my Indian clothes,” I said. “I will be the attraction. The merchandise will sell like hotcakes.”

I did not understand most of the manager’s answer. My friend explained to me that the manager had just agreed to give me six months of free space at Innes. That was totally unexpected.

Years later, I called upon the general manager to thank him for giving me my first start in business. By then he was the general manager of another store in Iowa. He told me that during our first meeting he had not understood most of what I said, except the word hotcakes. “If a kid just off the boat had already learned our colloquial hotcakes,” he laughed, “I figured he would do alright.”

Now that I had the space at the department store, I needed merchandise. I approached all of the dozen or so foreign students at the university, asking if they would like to get some native handicrafts from their homelands to sell at the store. I offered that I would trade them for stock in my new business. Only one of them agreed, a student from China, because she already had some merchandise available to sell. That was enough for the vision to be upgraded to merchandise from around the world, not just from India. Another newly-minted friend suggested the name International Bazaar, which stuck.

At the same time, I contacted most of the people I had met during my short time in Wichita to see if they would like to buy stock in International Bazaar. Practically everyone laughed at first but then joined. Some of them also introduced me to their friends.

A man I had just met that day told me he would join only after I proved I could raise the rest of the funds. “I will not need you by then,” I told him, bluntly. He wrote his check for $200 on the spot and said he wished his children who were my age would have the same guts. He was now the largest stockholder and helped me up my ante with other prospects. Later, I found out he was a wealthy man and a shrewd investor. After that first meeting in 1958, he took an interest in everything I did and invested in my business pursuits. He told me it was a cheap way for him to buy a front-row seat to vicariously experience my adventures.

Within a week, I had raised $1,800. That, to me, was a huge amount. Happily, I announced the stock sale was closed.

Right away, I sent a check for $800 to my father in India, asking him to send me some handicrafts. In an import-export flyer, I found names of people from various countries who wanted to connect with buyers in America. I sent a $50 cashier’s check to several of them. Fully believing that it would soon be a corporation, I explained what “we, a group of students” were doing and requested them to send us a shipment of their best merchandise as samples for future business. It was an act of faith to send the money with my letters. All complied, though a few took a long time to respond.

I did not know how to type, but typed anyway, using two fingers. It would take me a whole evening to type one letter because it was important for me to send only letters that were perfect. My little attic room was my office, even though I used Mr. Graham’s Broadway office as my mailing address.

It was not long before I realized that $1,800 was not as much as I had thought. Additional capital was needed. Television came to mind. I had seen television for the first time when I moved to Wichita. What a powerful means of communication! I thought. The medium fascinated me with its potential.

I went to one of the local TV stations, met with the president, and told him my story. He said it would be a great story if the general manager of Innes would tell it. Immediately, I went to the general manager, who laughed when I told him it was an “opportunity for free advertisement on TV.”  He summoned his secretary to place a call to the TV station’s president.

When the story was aired live, the TV host asked me how I intended to raise the money. “I am asking people now to buy stock in my company,” I said.

The next day, it was pointed out to me that I had sold stock illegally because it was not registered. I approached my law professor, and he set up a corporation and became a member of the board. Now I had a small team to work with. “I” became “We.”

The Chinese student who had some merchandise to sell became the symbol of our new venture. Dressed in her native Chinese brocade outfit, she made a striking impression. Innes ran a full-page advertisement with her picture to announce our arrival.

Ultimately, Innes gave us a year and a half of free space, and we expanded to two other locations.

The sun was just rising when the bus rolled into Wichita, light streaming in as if through a fine sieve. Glued to the window, I was witnessing a mystical scene.

September 21^st, 1958 had just dawned. I was three months shy of my 23^rd birthday, with six dollars in my pocket. I could hardly wait to reach the Wichita bus station.

My sponsor, Bill Graham, had conveyed to me that upon arrival in Wichita, I should go straight to the Lassen Hotel. His wife would pick me up at noon to take me to their home for lunch. I couldn’t rest or sleep much. Not wanting to be late, I went to the lobby at 11 a.m.  I waited until 3 p.m., but no one came. I didn’t know who to call or what to do.

That evening, one of Graham’s assistants picked me up and took me to his house for dinner. He explained the reason for my missing Mrs. Graham. She had expected to pick me up at the curb outside the hotel. I was waiting for her in the lobby.

Tired and jet-lagged, I felt a peace descend on me that first evening in Wichita. It was a calm that might befall a child who has just found his home after being lost for many years.

Funds were an immediate issue. Mr. Graham, who had many rental properties, gave me a part-time job with the maintenance crew. I was assigned to be a carpenter’s helper. However, I could not hammer a nail without striking my thumb. I had never held a hammer before. Graciously, I was reassigned to a painting crew, but I was fired after the first day because I misunderstood the instructions and painted the wood baseboard along with the wall. That led me to a lawn-mowing job, but someone forgot to tell me I had to bring my own lawnmower, which I did not have. I was moved again. This time, I was assigned to scrub the floor at the main office as part of the janitorial crew. That I could do.

I was moving fast, but in the wrong direction.

Breakfast was usually a Hershey chocolate bar or an apple, either of which cost five cents each. Lunch was at the student cafeteria, for about 50 cents. My main evening meal was about six slices of white bread and Campbell’s soup straight out of the can, which cost only 10 cents. One night, some students asked me if I would like to join them for barbeque. Even though I did not know what I was being asked, I joined them. The ribs plate was 85 cents. I brought the whole plate back home without touching it and ate it for the next three days.

All this may sound as if I was living in deprivation. On the contrary, at 75 cents an hour, I figured I was making $12 a week. That was a lot of money for someone who had none to start his new life.

Attending classes was a total washout. The classes might as well have been in Japanese. I understood the written words, but the problem was understanding the spoken words. People spoke fast, and I could not decipher their accents. Each sentence seemed like one big, long word. People had to repeat themselves or speak slowly. Even then, I had to rely on facial expressions to make out what was being said. I could see on my listener’s faces that they, too, were having the same problem understanding me. But in a month or so, this problem disappeared. That was perhaps the time it took for my ears to get attuned to the sounds of American pronunciations.

During my first week, I wrote a letter to my cousin in India. I reported, “Everyone in America smiles all the time—every hour of the day.” After a month, I realized the smiles on everyone’s faces had disappeared. I wondered, what happened? Then it occurred to me that when I first arrived, I was smiling all the time and people were smiling back.

I started to smile again.

Within minutes of taking off, we were flying through a pile of puffy white clouds. It was not only my first flight from India to the USA but also my first time on a commercial airliner. And I was having what I would call a spiritual experience.

A scene from Indian mythology came to mind. Indra, the guardian and keeper of the heavens, would fly through clouds so fast that people could hear the thunder of his chariot without being able to see him. The clouds that supported and enabled his travels were alive and aware entities. At that moment, I was living and experiencing that mythology. I was Indra, part and parcel of the living sky. My heart was experiencing the limitlessness of the sky. It was poetry.

Upon landing in New York, I was received at the gate by a French air hostess. “You dumb immigrant,” she said. She was displeased that my chest X-rays were in my suitcase and not in my hand.

The hostess grabbed me by my arm and dragged me, walking faster than I could with my luggage. She occasionally looked back at me in disgust as we walked the long hallways to the immigration officer. “These dumb immigrants don’t understand anything,” she repeated.

This disheveled, jet-lagged young man from India had just been introduced to America! The reception was unpleasant, and not what I expected.

That first impression was soon erased by the friendly, polite welcome from both the immigration and customs officers. I had landed at Idlewild Airport. I was told my next flight to Kansas City was from LaGuardia Airport, and I needed to take a taxi to reach there on time. Estimated cost: two dollars. Converted into Indian currency, that was a lot of money. But I had no choice.

The taxi driver was a Polish immigrant who had come to this country as a young child with his parents. During our ride to LaGuardia, he convinced me that the distances in this country are very great and there was little chance that I would ever come back to New York again. He recommended that I spend a few days in New York before going to Wichita. He offered to take me into the city instead of to LaGuardia.

“Do you know anyone in town?” he asked.

“I know one man, a Mr. Davis,” I said. I had his name on a slip of paper, given to me by my uncle before I left India. My uncle was the medical officer for a major hotel, where he had treated an American woman the day before I left. He told her his nephew was going to the United States, and she said her father lived in New York. She wrote his name and address on the slip of paper.

“In case your nephew needs any help,” she had said.

“Why don’t I take you to his place instead of the airport?” the taxi driver suggested. He gave me his business card and said he would watch my luggage while I went inside LaGuardia to change my ticket for the next day.

On the drive from the airport to downtown, we went over a long bridge. Tears started to flow down my face.

“Why are you crying?” the taxi driver asked.

“Because I have reached home,” I said. “I didn’t know if I would ever make it back.”

We stopped in front of a high-rise building. The taxi fare was $6.30, which was a lot of money for me, almost my weekly salary in India. I had been watching the meter tick all the way. I took out one of my two $20 American Express traveler’s checks and handed it to the taxi driver, expecting change.

“Thanks!” he said and drove off.

Dumbfounded, I stared at the exhaust pipe of the taxi, which soon disappeared. I stood there with lowered head, not knowing what to do. Then I made a quick decision.

I turned to the doorman, who was standing nearby and had witnessed the scene. It was obvious from his expression that he expected me to complain about the taxi driver. But instead, he saw a huge grin on my face, as if I had been the recipient of a big favor.

“I need to see Mr. Davis,” I said, and handed him the slip of paper that my nervous hand was grasping tightly.

“Ten-o-six,” the doorman said stoically.

“Where?” I asked, confused.

He pointed me to the hallway inside. But I still couldn’t figure out what “ten-o-six” was. After I went back to him three times, he took me to a nearby wall that had a couple of black buttons. He punched one. The wall parted, and a small room appeared. Was this ten-o-six? I wondered. Funny room. The doorman’s hand motions suggested that I get in. Quickly, I pushed my two suitcases and handbag inside the room.

Lo and behold, the doors closed.

I had never seen such machinery before, and I didn’t know what to do nor how to get out. I looked all over the small room—it was made of steel, and there was no way to open the doors. I knew something would happen, but I didn’t know when. I decided to just relax and wait it out. Tired, I sat down on the suitcases with my head resting on both my palms. Fifteen long minutes passed, seeming like an eternity.

Magically, the doors opened, and in front of me was a little old lady, probably in her 60s, with her little dog. They were both startled to see me. The dog stepped back and started to bark.

I raised my hands and apologized. “Pardon me. I have to see Mr. Davis,” I said, and showed her the slip of paper.

“I believe he is in ten-o-six,” she said.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said. I realized that I was rattled, and my accent was even worse than usual. After a few attempts, she finally understood me.

“Ah, ten-o-six means the 10^th floor, and the apartment number is 6.” She walked in and punched a button, and the room started to move upward. Puzzled, I was mesmerized by the lighted button on the wall. The little dog was wagging its tail, perhaps trying to cheer up a wonder-struck human on his first ride on an elevator.

The lady went with me to Mr. Davis’s apartment. Through the glass window, we could see there were no lights on. No one answered our knocks on the door.

“I think he’s away for the weekend,” the lady said. We went back down to the lobby.

“He has a country home,” the doorman said. “Most likely he is there for the weekend.

But you can wait it out. He might come back.”

By this time, I was famished. I asked if I could leave my luggage there and go get food. He told me where the eating places were.

A friend in India had told me that in America it was bad manners to go anyplace without a hat. A hat was a must, and the first thing I must do upon my arrival was to get a hat. I looked in the store windows and saw hats for $2.50, $4, and $7. There was no way I could afford those hats. I had only sixteen dollars left to reach Wichita. I was looking for a $1 hat.

Next, I looked for the cheapest restaurant available. I went into a small, narrow place, barely a counter with just a few people sitting on bar stools and the cook on the other side. He was a large man wearing a white chef’s hat and a T-shirt with his belly sticking out. I didn’t know what American foods were nor how to order. The only thing I had heard of was a hot dog.

“Hot dog and a cup of coffee,” I said.

“White or black?” I didn’t know if he was talking about the hot dog or the coffee.

When I asked, he blurted out “Coffee!” and gave me a quizzical look.

The cook was also an immigrant, from some European country. We both had a hard time understanding the other’s accent. Besides, I had never heard of white coffee in India. We drank tea.

“Black,” I said timidly, not knowing what was going on. He plunked a big mug of coffee on the bar. “Could I have cream in it?” I asked.

“You ordered black,” he said sternly.

The hot dog was served on white sandwich bread. I had never had a hot dog before. It tasted terrible. I didn’t know I was supposed to put catsup and mustard on it. I was starving, so I took a few sips of the coffee, my face grimacing, and a couple of bites of the hot dog, and then left the restaurant. I was famished—but not that famished.

Families were sitting outside on their front porch stairs because the weather was hot, and they had no air conditioning. It was mostly women and their children, including teenagers. Many of the women were fat, wearing flowery dresses and no bras. They were talking to their neighbors, even across the street. It was a loud scene. Coming from India, neighbors hollering at each other was a familiar scene for me.

And that is exactly what was wrong with the scene. The America I knew was from advertisements in magazines, with beautiful, slim women dressed in pretty clothes. These women did not look anything like that. Was I in the right place? Were these the “maestros” that I had come to learn from? I did not realize that I was in one of the poorer sections of New York, where immigrants lived. 

After making three trips back to check if Mr. Davis had come home, I asked the doorman where I could stay the night. He told me about a hotel that charged $2.50 per night and gave me directions on how to walk six blocks to catch a bus that would take me there.

Balancing two heavy suitcases and a shoulder bag with a broken strap, six blocks seemed like 100 miles. When I caught the bus, I had no idea how to pay, so I handed all the money from my pocket to the driver, and he counted out the right amount. I sat down near the driver’s seat, and the bus started to fill up until all the seats were taken.

Then an elderly couple got on. I had been taught that whenever an older lady enters a bus, you must offer her your seat. My mind was saying, “You are dead tired. Keep sitting.” But my heart was saying, “Stupid, don’t you know who you are? Get up!” I looked around, and no male had gotten up to give his seat. I got up and offered her my seat.

She said to her husband, “Charlie, sit down,” and he sat down.

I could have torn her to pieces. I was thinking, Lady, I got up for you, not for Charlie! My heart had just won the battle, and then it went to war again.

When I arrived at the hotel, the person behind the counter showed me to my room. There was a community bath and shower. I stunk, and I hadn’t slept in three days. When I took a shower, I didn’t realize the hot and cold faucets were placed on opposite sides from how they were in India. The first gush of water out of the shower scorched me, so I took an ice-cold shower.

The next thing I remember after putting my head on the pillow was the sunshine hitting my face through the windowpane. I had slept like a log.

At that point, I was so hungry I didn’t care how much I spent on breakfast. I went to Howard Johnson’s across the street and ordered toast, eggs, and milk. It tasted especially good after going such a long time without food.

When I returned to my hotel, the receptionist said Mr. Davis had called the night before. The receptionist had pounded on my door for a long time, but I was so tired I didn’t wake up. Mr. Davis had asked that I call back when I got up, so I called him.

Soon he picked me up at the hotel. He was the kindest, gentlest man, a retired stockbroker. He thought I was a friend of his daughter, and that I had a message from her. She was traveling around the world. I told him I had never met her.

He took me back to his apartment. His sister and some other friends had come to meet me. They fixed sandwiches for lunch, and then Mr. Davis showed me around New York City. On our way to the airport, we had dinner at a fancy restaurant.

The doorman had told Mr. Davis about my being stiffed by the taxi driver, so he asked me if he should try to find the taxi driver and get my money back. I told him I had the taxi driver’s business card, but I wanted to start my American trip by focusing on people like him, and not like the taxi driver. His teeth pressed to his lower lip as if he was trying to hold back some emotion. He looked at me for what seemed like a long time. His eyes could not hide his feeling of admiration. Gently, he offered me some travel money, but I told him I still had $16 left, enough for my trip to Wichita.

From the restaurant, he called Mr. Graham, my sponsor, to tell him I had arrived. “Oh, that son-of-a-gun made it,” Mr. Graham said. I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was another way to say “son-of-a-bitch.”

I flew to Kansas City, and then took a taxi to the bus station downtown for my trip to Wichita. The wait was several hours, so I left my luggage in the care of the person selling tickets and went for a long walk. The night air was refreshing and invigorating. I passed a theater where a movie had just ended, and couples were strolling back to their cars. They were young, slim, and well-dressed.

One scene particularly caught my eye. A young couple, perhaps in their twenties, stopped in front of a large window at the Jones Department Store. The young lady, in high heels and a red dress that flowed in the wind, was holding hands with the young man, who was dressed in a dark suit. They were looking at the mannequin in the store window. The beautifully dressed mannequin was supposed to be wistfully strolling in a garden as if she had achieved her dream and had not a worry in the world. The young couple was looking through the window as if that mannequin expressed their dream. The floodlight coming through the window highlighted the tenderness and fragility of the couple standing in the dark street. It was a magical, dreamlike scene.

“Ah, New York is not America,” I said to myself. “This is America.”

Like the couple in front of the store window, I, too, was going for the dream.

I was sure no one would believe the surreal story of how I was able to obtain my Foreign Reserves Office clearance, so I did not share it with anyone except Uncle Sant Ram. When I handed him my papers, he just shook his head in disbelief. No one else asked who my guarantor was.

Uncle Sant Ram immediately made all the necessary arrangements for my medical tests, which included a physical, blood tests, and chest X-rays. The American Consulate in Calcutta cleared my name for travel to the U.S., because Allahabad, where I had graduated, fell under its jurisdiction.

Family and friends quickly raised the money for my one-way ticket to the USA. My father promised to pay them back as soon as his life insurance policy could be cashed out. One of my cousins had a travel agency and made the reservation.

A group of relatives, including my parents who had traveled from Allahabad, came to see me off at the airport. We did not have enough money for my brother and three sisters to come and bid me goodbye. At the airport, my cousin pointed out that even though I had my ticket, some cash would be needed for travel before I reached my destination. A collection was taken, and all my uncles emptied their pockets. The money was converted into two crisp $20 traveler’s checks, something I had never seen before.

The sponsorship letter from Graham had arrived on September 11, 1958. I learned much later that a man I never met spurred Graham to write the letter to me. He was a young Marine serving as the helicopter pilot for President Dwight Eisenhower when Graham met him in the lobby of the White House on a visit there. Graham knew this Marine’s father, who was an admiral. Graham told the Marine to call when he got out of the military, and he would give him a job. Graham kept his word. Part of the young man’s job was to go through the files, and he found a stack of letters from me. I had written nearly every day, with no reply. The Marine went to Graham and said, “We need to do something.” And that’s why the three-line sponsorship letter finally came. Soon after I arrived in Wichita, the young marine moved to Pakistan to start a chain of Dairy Queens. He died two or three months later of cholera.

On September 17, 1958, six days after receiving Graham’s letter, I boarded an Air France flight to keep my date with destiny.

Naturally, after hearing the unwelcome news that I would need a reserve of $5,000 in order to obtain a visa, I had a tough night. Not a wink of sleep came my way. Obstacle or no obstacle, I was not ready to give up. I decided to bypass the bank and go directly for clearance from the Foreign Reserves Office. I would only talk to Mr. Mukherjee, the head of the office. This idea was insane, so I decided not to tell anyone, including my uncle.

First thing the next morning, I was at the office of the head of the Foreign Reserves section of the Government of India. There were a handful of people already waiting to see him. On a small piece of scratch paper, I wrote Balbir Singh, Assistant Manager, Odeon Cinema, and handed it to the office boy. I was prepared to wait my turn all day long—and for several days, if necessary. I was only interested in meeting with the head man, the decision-maker, and no one else.

To my utter surprise, I was called in to meet with Mr. Mukherjee within a few minutes. Everyone else in the lobby stared at me. As I entered the office, I saw a massive wooden desk with stacks of files piled on it. Without getting up, Mr. Mukherjee signaled me to take a chair and said, “So, what can I do for you?”

I sat down and simply froze. Suddenly, my throat was dry. No words would come out. Without warning, uncontrollable tears started to roll down my cheeks, and my nose started to run. I stared at him in disbelief. Sitting in front of me was the very same tall, well-dressed man I had saved from the rowdy ticket line and helped to obtain four tickets at the Odeon Cinema!**

He rang a bell, and instantly his assistant appeared from the adjoining room. Softly, he motioned for him to bring me a glass of water. I gulped down the entire glass but still could not talk. His assistant brought me chai. By this time, I was extremely self-conscious—aware of the importance of the man in front of me and the precious time ticking by. I drank the hot tea as rapidly as I could. Then I shared my problem with him.

“Sir, a businessman from America has offered to sponsor my studies there. I have all the necessary requirements. The U.S. Embassy has also assured me that if I can get my Foreign Exchange Reserves Bank clearance, I would be a good candidate to receive a visa. My uncle will be willing to put up my plane fare; however, I do not have any possible way to obtain the required reserve funds or get the clearance certificate. My father is retired, and I do not have any money. My career is at stake,” I pleaded.

“What will you study in the U.S.?” he inquired. I told him exactly what I had told Graham several months ago.

“Who is the American sponsoring you?” he asked. I showed him the letter from Graham. His eyes narrowed, and a quizzical look crossed his face. “Is he the same Graham who was in New Delhi a few months ago?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“He also had a couple of friends with him?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“I know him,” he mused.

“What?” I asked, surprised. “How do you know him?”

He said he had met Graham and his associates several months before at a dinner at the home of Mohan Singh, the managing director of the Punjab National Bank.

“The director and I are long-time friends,” he said. “He called me one day and said he was having some Americans at his home for dinner and invited us over. My wife and I did not have anything else going that evening, so we joined them.”

“Was it a big party?” I asked.

“No, just those three Americans and us. We were the only friends he invited.”

“It was I who suggested Mohan Singh’s name to Mr. Graham!” I said, sharing my utter amazement.

“Ah, that solves the mystery,” he said. “Graham told us some young person recommended that he call the director. We all tried to think who you might be. They told us your name, but none of us knew you.” He seemed pleased to have solved the puzzle. He called his assistant and asked him to bring certain forms.

“Your friend just left for America,” he informed me.

 “Who?” I asked, puzzled.

“Vipan,” he said.

”Vipan?” I asked.

He explained that he was referring to the bank director’s son.

“I do not know him, Sir.” I said.

“You are not Vipan’s friend?” he asked me. “We presumed you must be one of his friends. Graham gave good business to Punjab National Bank and sponsored Vipan also. He just left a few days ago . . . Where is it that Graham lives?” he asked.

“Weecheetah,” I told him. 

“Yes, that’s right. I had never heard of that city before. Funny name,” he mused. 

He asked his assistant to help fill out the necessary forms and bring them back for his signature. “I am clearing your papers because I know you, and I know Graham. You are both honest people. I feel confident in this case.”

Pointing to his assistant, he told me, “Go with him. He will fill out the form and then go down to the Registrar’s office and file it. You will need 15 rupees to pay for the stamp fee.” There was a slight hesitation in his voice. Then he asked me, “Can you manage 15 rupees?”

He was not only being my guarantor; he was even offering to pay for my filing fees! Involuntarily, my eyes closed, squeezed shut to prevent further tears. I nodded my head. I was choked up, and again words would not come out.

The forms were filled out in practically no time. Mr. Mukherjee’s office boy took me down to the Registrar’s office, and my papers were cleared ahead of everyone else.

In less than an hour since I had walked in, I held the Foreign Reserves clearance certificate in my hands.

** See From “Nobody” to “Somebody”

Soon after meeting Graham, I applied to Harvard University. A letter came back saying that my transcripts should have been enclosed with my application. I had enclosed my transcripts, but I sent them another copy. Silence.

Graham had promised to send me the necessary sponsorship papers soon after he arrived home in the USA. Every day I checked my mail. Nothing.

In February 1958, I received a letter from Graham suggesting I also apply to Wichita University in Wichita, Kansas. Promptly, I acquired the application for Wichita University and mailed it to them. To my surprise, I got the same answer from them: my transcripts were missing. Again, I sent them a duplicate. No answer.

I had been sending copies of all my correspondence to Graham, but there was no answer from him either. In the February letter, Graham had mentioned that he would be in India for three months during the summer, but that was four anxious months away. 

When I hadn’t heard from Graham by mid-summer, I wrote to his office in the United States to inquire about his trip. I was informed that Graham had been to India already. He had to cut his trip short and was back in the States.

Suddenly, nothing seemed to be going my way, and my anxiety level started to rise. Almost daily, someone was sure to ask me, “When do you leave for America?” Many people who thought Graham was a figment of my imagination started to have fun at my expense.

“You have to be doing something wrong,” I was told by my friends. “The Americans are very efficient, and they do not make such mistakes.”

I did not lose faith. Once in a while, something would remind me that I was indeed going to America. I kept alive my original plan to hitchhike and was ready to do so if this plan with Graham failed.

In August, by the time I had chewed my nails down to the cuticles, I received several letters in quick succession. Someone from Graham’s office explained that they had solved the mystery of my transcripts. My letters were being filed under “S” for Singh, as I was signing my letters, and my transcripts were being filed under “M” for Mathur.

The mistake was understandable. I had always used my middle name as my last name, because in my youth I had been involved in what we called the “Freedom Fight.” In India, last names are like zip codes—or more than that, as they tell not only what province you are from, but also your language, religion, family, and likely your wife’s family. That isolated people into their groups, and we young people were trying to break that system by not using our last name. But in high school, that meant that two of us had the same name: Balbir Singh. To avoid confusion, we two decided to use our last names on our transcripts. That decision had come back to haunt me at this critical hour.

The next letter I received was from Harvard University. They had found my transcripts, but it was too late to apply for that year. They said I should try again next year.

The third letter was from Wichita University, telling me that they had given me a “tentative” admission.

I wrote back to Graham’s office, saying I needed a letter of confirmed admission at Wichita University and a letter of sponsorship from Graham to proceed further. Finally, on September 11, the sponsorship letter from Graham arrived. I jumped up and down exuberantly, yelling, “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!”

“Graham’s letter is conditional. It is the weakest sponsorship letter I have ever seen,” he said. “How would anyone know who he is, what he does, or if he can even afford to sponsor you? I work with the American Embassy and know how they operate. I am 100 percent sure they will not give you a visa based on this letter. No one will.” He was fuming.

To his credit, my uncle immediately called the American Consul General, whom he happened to know because my uncle was one of the physicians for the Embassy. He told the Consul that he needed to see him in regard to his nephew’s trip to the USA. He was invited to come right over.

Listlessly, I stood on the balcony of his second-floor office and watched him leave. I remained there until I saw him return and park his lime-green car. He got out of the car and gave me a thumbs-up, and his legs had a spring in them that had been missing when he left.

The Consul had told my uncle that he met Graham when he was in India. He believed that Graham was a reputable businessman and that this letter would suffice to justify a visa. The Consul also provided a list of all the papers I needed to submit along with the visa application. The application was to be taken back to the Consul directly, bypassing the normal channels. 

My uncle had also shared his other concern with the Consul, namely that the school session had already started, and the university might not admit his nephew at this late date. “Never mind,” the Consul assured him, “let your nephew get there first.”

“This is most unusual,” my uncle told me. “I have never experienced any such thing before. Someone is watching out for you.” He was well aware of how long it could normally take to get an American visa.

Then my uncle’s mood changed. He became grim and said, “But there is one more problem, which may be even more serious than the visa itself.” At this point, I did not want to hear of any more problems. He continued: “You have to submit proof that you or your guarantor has Rs. 15,000 ($5,000) in the bank. This proof has to be certified by the Foreign Reserves Office of the Indian government, saying they can access these funds in case you do not perform and have to be deported back to India. The U.S. government wants to be assured that you will not become a burden on the U.S. taxpayers.”

Indeed, this would be an impossible hurdle to get over. I had to raise $2,500 for my one-way ticket to the United States, and that was a nearly-impossible proposition to begin with. The need for an additional $5,000 that would be tied up until I returned from the States would be a deal-breaker. More than that, getting clearance from the Foreign Exchange Reserves Office could take months.

Only a few minutes before, I had been flying high with hope. Now I felt like a deflated balloon lying flat on the ground. The heat of hard realities had evaporated the effervescence of good news.

One of my daily tasks at the Odeon Cinema was to look at the three newspapers that were delivered to the general manager’s desk, to make sure our advertisements were correct.

I had been working at the Odeon for a couple of months when I noticed a brief news article about an American oil man, William Graham, who was traveling through India seeking business partners. It was a small news item buried inside one of the newspapers.

I immediately picked up the phone and called the Imperial Hotel, where I thought he might be staying as it was the best hotel in town. He was there, and my call was put right through to him. I told Graham that I was a businessman and would like to discuss a business proposition with him. He invited me to come over. I told him I was busy in the morning, so we decided to meet at 1 p.m., which happened to be my lunch hour.

Before the scheduled time, I rushed to my cousin’s house to borrow his double-breasted suit. Then I rushed to the hotel and up to the room. Graham himself opened the door. He had two other people from the U.S. traveling with him, and they also stood to greet their expected guest. All three were obviously surprised to see a young person walk in instead of a businessman.

They all remained standing as Graham asked me what I had to propose. I thanked them for inviting me to visit with them and then went straight to business.

“India is on a rapid path to industrialization and will need a large amount of steel,” I told them. “Because of this, India is sending several hundred young engineers to Germany, America, the U.K., and Russia for advanced training. But, we will also need sophisticated marketing people. I have a plan to go to the U.S. to learn marketing at Harvard University and then come back and become one of the major steel industrialists in India. For this purpose, I need to borrow the first semester’s tuition. If you choose to invest in me, you will get your investment back in more ways than one.”

There was what seemed like a long silence. Then Graham broke out in laughter. “We were expecting a businessman to do business with! … You know that!? … Do you know any rich people in town?”

That was a totally unexpected response, and I was caught off-guard. I was not from New Delhi and did not have any contacts with people whom the Americans might consider wealthy. For a moment, my mind went blank.

Then, in that blank space appeared an article from the morning newspaper that had quoted Mohan Singh, the managing director of the Punjab National Bank. I assumed that, as managing director of a bank, he must be a wealthy man. I blurted out his name.

“Do you have his phone number?” Graham asked.

“Not on me, but I can get it for you.” I reached for a telephone book, found the number for the bank, and handed it to Graham. “His office number,” I said.

Graham laughed out loud: “Son of a gun! You sure are a pistol. I think you will do well in the States. Tell you what. We will loan you your first semester tuition at Harvard, if you can find your way there.” He was almost bent over with laughter, his red, polka-dot bow tie highlighting his face. Slapping his thighs, he turned to the others. They all were vocal with their consent.

I was then asked to bring my father to meet them, so they could confirm that my family would cover my travel expenses. I informed them that he was in Allahabad, a town 400 miles away. I told them I could ask my uncle, who lived in New Delhi, to come and meet them.

I ran all the way to my uncle Sant Ram’s pathology lab. It was on the second floor of the building, and I flew up the steps two at a time. My uncle was giving instructions to his assistant when I burst in.

“Uncle, please come!” I shouted breathlessly. “I am going to America!” 

He asked me to calm down and tell him what was going on. To my uncle’s great credit, he left with me immediately.

Back in Graham’s suite at the hotel, we were invited to take a seat, and my uncle was introduced around the room. One of the Americans took me to an adjoining room and quizzed me in detail about my background, education, and grades. Later, my uncle told me that the others were simultaneously asking him about what type of person I was, my capabilities, my family, my dealings with people, relationships, my uncle’s income, and if he would be willing to pay for my passage to the United States.

The deal was made.

The rest of the day, I told anyone and everyone I saw, “I am going to America!” I even told the pebbles I kicked as I danced down the road.

It was a bright, sunny day in November 1957.

In due time, my situation at the Odeon Cinema started to improve. Not too long after my meeting with the fired assistant manager, he found a more suitable job and left. The news of my meeting with him and my subsequent meeting with the owner spread through the grapevine. People came to realize that I was not the boss’s spy.

The general manager was soon fired also, after being charged with complicity in thefts of certain expensive materials from the theater. I was never given his title, and did not want it, but I became the sole occupier of the manager’s office.

Television had not yet arrived in India. Movies were the main form of entertainment for the masses, and we were the prime theater for Hindi movies. Most of the seats sold out a week in advance, as soon as the box office opened. A substantial portion were grabbed by black marketers. But, four seats were always held back until the last minute, to be sold at the discretion of the manager on duty. For that reason, everyone wanted to be in good favor with the manager. The moment I received my appointment, I was transformed from “nobody” to “somebody.”

During the 11 months I worked at the Odeon Cinema, I helped several people get the highly-sought-after tickets, even to the point of paying for the tickets myself when people did not have enough funds for their family. But I never used my position to benefit myself or favor my friends or family.

For example, one day, I stepped onto the balcony outside my office and looked down at the lobby. It was full of people waiting to buy tickets at half-price for the next Sunday matinee. I watched the inevitable drama: people stood in line, the ticket booth opened, pandemonium broke out, and the black marketers muscled their way to the front of the line.

I noticed one person standing there in the broken line looking totally bewildered. He was the tallest person in the crowd, with a large frame more than six feet tall. He was dressed in a well-pressed, light gray Nehru suit and polished shoes. It was obvious that he was not used to standing in line to buy tickets.

Instinctively, I walked down and introduced myself to him. I offered to procure tickets for him if he would pick them up the next day. He said he needed four tickets for his family and offered to pay me in advance. I told him he could pay me when he came back to pick up his tickets. 

The next morning, he showed up at the appointed time and picked up his four tickets. He handed me Rs. 2.50 (80 cents) and offered to pay me something extra for my effort.

“I am simply doing my duty,” I told him. “I am well compensated for my work.”

The stranger asked for my name and said, “Maybe I can be of help to you someday.”

I just smiled. It was a part of my job that I certainly enjoyed. We shook hands, and then, like so many other people I had encountered, he melted back into the universe.