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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.

As a newly appointed recruit, I had no idea of the snake pit I had walked into.

The Odeon Cinema was not just one of the five theaters in New Delhi that belonged to the chain, but it was also the corporate office. I had not only the captain of the ship to please, but I was also under the microscope of the admiral and his entire crew.

Several people hated me because I had replaced the fired assistant manager, their long-time cohort. And, practically everyone perceived me as the owner’s eyes and ears. Not a happy prospect.

After a month, the owner called me and told me that my predecessor would soon be returning, having used up his vacation days. “He will tell you a bunch of lies and try to win you over,” the owner said. “I don’t want you to have anything to do with him. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Each day after that, the fired assistant manager was the first person to come to the office. He was always dressed in a spotless, well-pressed white safari suit, spoke to no one, and ate his tiffin (sack lunch) at his desk. He did not even bring anything to read except the daily newspaper. He just sat there all day, staring off into space, and then dutifully left a few minutes after 5 p.m.

No one greeted him or talked to him. Total ostracism was in force. Though he had spent a good part of his life there, he was now a living ghost in this place where his best friends could not even smile at him. To me, this shunning seemed inhumane, even beneath animal behavior.

Soon I got my opportunity. One afternoon, he and I were the only two on the floor. I listened for any nearby sounds. There was pin-drop silence. I looked all around to make sure no one was there, and then I quickly walked into the assistant manager’s office. I drew up a chair and introduced myself. 

“I know who you are,” he retorted solemnly.

I had seen him many times, but this was the first time I heard his voice. It was calm, calculated, and firm.

I explained to him that I had not known the circumstances under which I was hired. I was sincerely sorry that his misfortune had to be the cause of my good fortune. I would gladly resign, if it could get him his job back. I was sorry that circumstances did not permit us to be friends. It was simply a role we had to play, not my desire, I said. I told him I would smile at him each time our paths crossed, so he would know the respect I held for him as a human being.

I told him I was at his mercy since he had been there for a long time, while I was anari (a total amateur). He and his friends could destroy me without him even lifting a finger.

He thanked me for coming to talk to him. He understood that it took a lot of courage on my part. Then he acknowledged my youth and inexperience and proceeded to provide me with some sage advice.

“Trust no one here,” he said. “Even those who are nice to your face will be holding a dagger behind their backs. The walls have eyes and ears. Watch your back.”  

We shook hands and parted.

As soon as I slipped back into my office, fear gripped me, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. Standing at the door, I looked around. There was not a single soul on the floor. I kept listening for any sounds … not a squeak. My secret was safe—or so I thought.

The next morning, the summons came. Seth Sahib’s chaprasi (office boy) came to fetch me. From his tone, I could tell there was something wrong.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked the office boy.

“Bahut (much),” he whispered under his breath.

Seth Sahib, the cinema owner, greeted me with fiery eyes and crossed arms. “You promised me you would not have anything to do with the assistant manager. You disobeyed my command and went against my wishes—an unforgivable act!”

“Yes, Sir,” I confirmed without apology.

“What transpired in that meeting?” he sternly demanded.

All my senses were on full alert. I felt alive. With my head held high, I told him exactly what I had shared—except that I did not tell him about the warning, “Even the walls have eyes and ears.” I was now experiencing the truth of those words.

“Why?!” Seth Sahib roared.

“Sir, you have hired me as a manager. In giving me that title, you have assigned me the responsibility to make decisions in your absence. In a way, you have asked me to protect your interests. I shall do exactly that. My job is to clear your path, not to become a thorn instead. By not talking to my predecessor, outsiders may have perceived that there was hostility between us. Even though, on the surface, it may seem that I was not following your instructions, I believe I am doing what you have really hired me to do.”

Those words came to me spontaneously, from somewhere or something I still do not comprehend. Whatever it was, it was powerful. I could only catch a glimpse of it.

Seth Sahib just sat there, looking at me. We had both experienced something. Whatever it was, it was real and deserved attention, including mine. I believe something beyond words took place in that moment. Seth Sahib was staring at me, and I was totally comfortable with his look because it had nothing to do with me.

After a few moments he said, “Thank you, I understand.” Then he nodded his head, a sign that the meeting was over.

As I opened the door, I surprised his office boy, who was sitting on a wooden stool with his ear glued to the door. From the look on his face, I don’t think he expected me to come out alive.

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 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.

My experience with the British soldiers left me with an ongoing, burning question: “Why are my people so powerless?”

That question led me to seek the formula of power. I became an avid student of history. Throughout high school and college, I read voraciously and studied the lives of powerful individuals. I wanted to know how they could capitalize on the tide of the future—catch hold of the coattails of time—and influence the world in such a powerful way. I studied the lives of conquerors, revolutionaries, captains of industry, political leaders, philosophers, and religious leaders. I was not interested in their theories, but rather their practical formulas. I had to be objective, without taking sides. I studied the life of Christ as well as Karl Marx.

In the summer of 1954, while going to college at the University of Allahabad, I read an essay stating that human development can be divided into two important eras: the first being an age in which humans used motion to create fire (rubbing sticks together), and the second being an age in which fire has been used to create motion (the steam engine). The author concluded that access to the proper tools is essential to allow a group in society to acquire power.

This idea hit me like a thunderbolt. It shook me up. Stunned by this understanding, I walked around the compound of our family home in Allahabad, gazing at the stars. It brought me to a realization: Much of India was in the first of these two stages, still using motion to create fire. If my people were to gain power, they had to be able to use fire to create motion.

I saw that the conquerors in history could use tools more successfully than the losers. In 1954, machines were the tools. I realized my people would be poor and powerless as long as they did not have machines. If I were going to lend my hands to empower them, I had to help them industrialize. And, since steel was the bedrock of industrialization, India would need more steel. 

Today, the idea does not seem revolutionary or even original. But at that moment, it had the power of having sprung from some depth I did not know. I had a feeling that the idea was imparted all at once for me to decipher. I had found the “pivot” on which my life could spring into action. I felt the power of a hundred men within me. The cobra of my life was coiled and ready to strike.

Not being an engineer, I knew that my strength would lie in human relations rather than technical abilities. I therefore decided to learn about the marketing and management of steel production. In order to do so, I needed to study with the masters. I was clear about my next step: I had to go to the United States.

My family had no money for such a trip, but my commitment was so strong that it did not allow for me to see any obstacles. I did not tell many people about my plans, including hitchhiking if need be, because the odds were so heavily stacked against me that any mention of it would evoke justifiable laughter. Those few who were told would look at me incredulously and ask, “Going to America?! How do you plan to hitchhike across the ocean?” I would smile and reply, “Haven’t you ever heard of walking on water?”

The fact that I did not know how I would make this move did not matter. I knew it would happen, and, in fact, it had already happened, even though I had not yet experienced it.

With that certainty, I earnestly started to prepare myself for the hike. I knew that there would be many days during which I would not have any food to eat, so I started eating only one meal a day and a handful of peanuts for the second meal. I started to walk ten miles a day to gain strength and stamina. I began sleeping on the floor with no bedding in order to prepare for such an eventuality.

I made a decision that if someone were to give me a ride or a place to stay, I would give them something in return, so that they would remember their act of kindness long after it had passed.  I planned to keep some red tissue paper and wire in my knapsack so that I could provide my hosts with a red paper rose, or a bouquet of roses, as a thank-you gift. To entertain my hosts, I also learned a few magic tricks, how to draw cartoons, and palmistry.

All my friends thought I was making things up and that such a plan would never come to be. The one person who knew the depth of my commitment was my mother. “Son, I know you,” she said with motherly concern. “When you make up your mind, you make things happen. What you are doing is so big, and I am afraid that in order for you to make this happen, you may get hurt.”

Hearing her express these concerns and the tone of her voice confirmed for me that my trip to the United States was already written in the stars.