Like everybody else, I like to live among people who like one another. That is hardly the situation in the country where I live now. Americans never despised one another so much for their political views. Such polarization is a common subject of talk. Nor is the situation any different in India, my land of birth.
 
“It pains me,” said Rabbi Goldberg, “to see young people in Israel marching with a sign saying Death to Arabs. Where do they get such hate?”
 
We were talking in a quiet Washington hotel lobby. He was in town to speak in a seminar on political divides and the hate it generates.
 
“So many of our poems and movies are about love,” he said. “Our religions talk a lot about love. One of them goes to the length of saying, ‘Three things last forever, faith, hope and love, and of these the greatest is love.’”
 
“But,” he continued, “what we seem to see much of the time is its opposite – hate. There is explicit, rabid hate or there is controlled and covert hate. It is hate all the same. Utter repulsion and rejection of the other person. Total aversion for the other side, their creed or country, their party or principles, their values or even their value as human beings. Some want to see them stamped out, eliminated.”

​The Rabbi was in his seventies, a tall, athletic man. A respected scholar, he spoke at a think tank briefing and later we lunched together. He had visited India in the sixties as a young student and heard horrid stories of Hindu-Muslim butchery during pre-partition violence. He had again visited India recently and visited the reopened Nariman House where Rabbi Holtzberg and his wife were killed by Islamic terrorists.
 
Rabbi Goldberg sipped his tea and said, “Of all types of hate, surely the most hateful is religious hate. For it is the most pretentious and hypocritical. We pretend to act on behalf of a loving God, but spew hatred against other children of God. We pretend to do good for society and we do the most abominable things. We pretend to stand up for noble principles and we do ignoble, unprincipled acts.”
 
Clearly, the terrorist violence in Mumbai bothered him, for he knows the city well and felt close to its Chabad center. He recounted the dozen coordinated bombs of 1993, the bombing of markets and bus stations in 2003 and the murderous railway bombs of 2006, all by Muslim groups. He understood the impatience of Indians who wanted strong punitive action, not only against Pakistan but against all groups in India they suspected of sympathy for such brutality. He mentioned the friends he had among people who had to leave their homes in West or East Pakistan and seek refuge on Indian soil – and restart life painfully.
 
“Where do we go from here? Are surgical or massive responses the answer?” he asked. He quoted the Hasidic leader Kotzker Rebbe: peace is only when you let it in.
 
He believed the divide between India and its biggest neighbor could be bridged and the initiative had to come from India. It had the resources and people and imagination to do it. And its history and tradition to back it.
 
I read Sanskrit and it amazed me that Rabbi Goldberg was such a master of the ancient Indian texts to which most Indians give lip service. He cited Gita’s 14th chapter that spoke in the same breath of charity and authority in the role of the warrior.
 
This is what the people of India had done in the past, accepted and absorbed other cultures and made them part of India’s magnificently varied culture. Occasionally hesitant, but fearless, it had broadened its repertoire of knowledge, art and statecraft, given home to different faiths.
 
Rabbi Goldberg said, “It pains me that there is a new air of intolerance. A new attitude, endorsed officially, to separate and discriminate against minority groups. A new mentality of Us and They. They can’t be trusted, must be cornered and punished for being different. Now, you draw attacks if you say the Ship of State is going the wrong way – a very dangerous way.”
 
He had been astonished to find that even young children were being brought up on ahistorical textbooks that denigrate ancient Emperors of a different religion or modern leaders who fought chauvinism and fanaticism in their time. He quoted Krishna’s famous diatribe to Arjuna against ‘demonic inheritance’ and said the country would make a mistake to take that hideous turn and move away from what Krishna had called a ‘divine inheritance.’
 
“This is not the India I had fallen in love with as a young man,” he said ruefully. “Such hate is a bigger threat to people than a terrorist waving an AK-47.”
 
Rabbi Goldberg took a last sip of his tea, shook my hand, smiled warmly and shuffled toward his room. I waved goodbye. The lobby was now getting noisier by the minute with the advent of tourists and tired executives on their way to the bar.
 
Dusk was approaching. I would have loved to have a drink too, but I knew I had to wend my way through heavy downtown traffic. As I drove slowly home, the shimmering last rays of the day seemed a sad reflection of the Rabbi’s forlorn words about love and a lot of hate.

We move a lot these days, and often beyond the borders of our countries. We need visas to do it. Mostly we need visas for short periods, known as non-immigrant visas.
 
For a while, I was a Consul issuing such visas for the US in a poor country. It was an unforgettable experience. People needed visas to enter the US to study, invest, receive training, transfer to a related company, transit to another country, be a part of a sports team or an entertainment group, do temporary work, and most of all visit for pleasure, business or a combination of both.
 
Some were savvy or had past experience. They gave crisp replies, presented relevant data or documents. Most had no idea and came with vacuous dreams or half-baked ideas. When they came for an ‘interview,’ they possibly expected a leisurely chat. They were taken aback to talk to a grim-faced interviewer, standing, through a thick plate of glass. They were discomfited by the direct, brusque style of the consular officer, eager to get it over in two minutes or less.

​When they said they wanted to study business administration in the US, they often could not say why they wanted to study the subject, let alone why in the US where it was expensive. If they claimed a business purpose, such as exports, they could not say how they planned to promote exports or which US companies they targeted. Even if it was just a pleasure trip, they had a hard time giving specifics of what they were going to see or do.
 
Many had curious assumptions about the procedure. Some assumed that the result depended on the consular officer or his mood. If rejected by one, they wished to try their luck with another officer or even another consulate, overlooking that all officers go by the same guidelines. A rejection was marked on the passport and the next officer would check the record. Some went to the length of getting a new passport, but the centralized record still showed the earlier rejection. Then there were the gullibles who trusted con artists among travel agents who promised fast processing and good results.
 
I sometimes felt sorry for the people who applied. They paid a lot for their applications to be processed, not to mention the huge time and effort they devoted to the act. Even when they got the visa, they often felt ill treated. Those who did not, were often mystified – a reason they wanted to try their luck again, essentially wasting their labor and money. No question that among the rejected were some who deserved a visa, who could not articulate their case quickly and well, and were shunted cavalierly aside.
 
I was, of course, on the other side, in the role of what ex-president George Bush called “the decider.” I sat on a high stool, on the other side of a thick glass divider, settling in minutes the fate of an applicant. I felt humble and uncomfortable in that role, knowing what I did not know about the person standing before me in hope and trepidation, and pretending to a certainty about my decision that I did not feel.
 
It did not help ease my discomfort that the other consular officers I knew were quite comfortable taking swift decisions and invincibly certain that their decisions were perfect. Most seemed to think the entire world was trying to gatecrash into the US, and it fell to them to resist those barbarians. Poorer people, which meant most people from poorer countries, they believed would lie, cheat and dissemble to enter the US and, once in, would never leave. They should keep saying No until they encountered the rare case where they had to say Yes.
 
The US Congress had laid the basis of that reaction when it decreed that anyone who applied for a nonimmigrant visa would be assumed to be an intending immigrant. The arrogant decree presumes the US to be the El Dorado where everyone in the world is trying to trespass. If a Japanese says he wants to see Disneyland or a cancer-stricken Peruvian to consult Sloan-Kettering, the presumption a US consul should start with is that he or she is feigning that interest to get into Los Angeles or New York – and stay there.
 
With this perverse presumption, if you want a nonimmigrant visa to the US you must prove what is impossible to prove: the negative proposition that one has no intention to stay on in the US. It is expressed of course in more plausible-sounding words: you must demonstrate links that will compel your return to your home country. It is in fact the basis on which a vast number of applications are denied.
 
Yet one has only to ponder the criterion for a moment to realize how laughable it is. What links can compel a return of the native? A wife and children, followed by old parents and siblings, seem most probable. Wrong. Thousands from poor countries live in exile for years; they feel they do better for their loved one by sending them money from abroad, rather than starve with them at home. A longing for one’s relatives, community or homeland may be real, but are hardly compelling, given the prospect of penury or violence.
 
If social circumstances are not compelling, far less are the economic circumstances. An executive in Chandigarh can earn more as a clerk in Chicago, a nurse in Colombo can do better as domestic caregiver in Columbus. A decent job in homeland is no incentive for a hurried return. A large bank balance is easily faked; short loans from friends and relations are easily obtained. A large house does not mean the owner will return to it; it can be easily sold in absentia and the money transmitted abroad. The compelling circumstances consuls delve into, the sheaves of documents they collect as evidence of domestic ties are no more than a joke, ridiculous make-work to display consular diligence rather than a reliable indicator of who will return home after a US visit.
 
Fortunately, issuing visas was a small and very temporary part of my work. It remains a telling reminder of how a country, especially a rich and powerful country, can remain oblivious to social and cultural aspects of other countries. In the process, it continues with a system that neither serves its purposes nor creates friends or friendly repercussions abroad.

I had just spent three pleasant days with an old friend, Dietrich, in his second-floor apartment in Chicago. We visited museums, splurged in restaurants, explored the streets and talked endlessly. Since he had to catch a flight very early the following day, Saturday, he suggested that I sleep longer, have a decent brunch somewhere and catch an evening shuttle back to Washington.
 
Saturday afternoon I dressed and packed, deciding to leave early for the airport. Suddenly there was a call from a cousin, whom I had met a day earlier, saying he had to come to the hospital after a car accident. I rushed out, took a taxi and went to see him. Fortunately, the doctor said he would be fine in a day or two. I returned to my friend’s apartment to pick up my suitcase and leave for the airport.

​No suitcase. I realized with a shock as I searched the apartment. I had left in such a rush that I could not recollect precisely what I had done with the suitcase. I hadn’t left it in the apartment surely; it would have been there otherwise, for I had the only key besides Dietrich. I must have rolled it out of the apartment into the foyer and absentmindedly left it unattended before rushing out to the hospital.
 
In that case, I reasoned, it must be with the building’s caretaker, who spotted an unattended suitcase and took charge of it. Or a resident reported the item to him and the caretaker gathered it. I felt sure that, in either case, it would be safely in storage, for it was a well-guarded apartment building. Then came the shattering discovery that it wasn’t in storage either. The caretaker searched high and low with me. No suitcase. I had to leave for the airport without the suitcase.
 
It was a disaster. The clothes I lost and the gifts I had bought for friends was a financial loss, no more. But the loss of a large number of documents and work papers was a major concern. It was professionally awkward and embarrassing. It took me more than two months and enormous expense to retrieve store cards, change credit cards, get a new passport, get an extra pair of glasses and sunglasses, order new suits and shirts, pajamas and shoes.
 
Ten weeks later I again had some work in Chicago and Dietrich invited me for a drink. He listened quietly when I told him of my misadventure and the mystery of the missing suitcase.
 
Pensively, he commented, “Since you are sure you didn’t take the suitcase with you to the hospital – why would you! – and it wasn’t in the apartment, it must have been left in the foyer. Yet the caretaker did not find it. An outsider cannot get in and certainly cannot leave with a large suitcase.”
 
He pondered with furrowed brows, “Where could the suitcase be, I wonder.”
 
I was about to say that it was a closed chapter when Dietrich stood up and beckoned me to follow. He walked out of the apartment into the foyer and looked at the entrance of the three other apartments on the floor. He thought for a few seconds, chose the nearest apartment and rang the bell.
 
A young woman opened the door ajar.
 
“Karen, this is my friend who stayed with me three months ago. He lost a suitcase on this floor, a black Samsonite. Any chance you could have seen it.”
 
Karen opened the door a little more to let us enter and then pointed to a corner, “This thing was blocking my way to the elevator. I pushed it there.”
 
It was my suitcase.
 
Dietrich’s jaws tightened, “It never occurred to you to report it to the caretaker? Not in three months! Do you realize the misery and loss you caused, quite unnecessarily, for my friend?”
 
We left brusquely as Karen kept muttering apologies.
 
I flew back home with the suitcase the next day. Three days later a note arrived by mail from Karen.
 
“I got your address from Dietrich. I am sorry for what I did. I know regrets are no use. Please try to forgive me. It may help you to do so if you know that a man I expected to marry for seven years told me that very morning that he was leaving me for another woman. I was not myself.”
 
I was not Sherlock Holmes but I could have said “Elementary” to Dr. Watson. The curious case of the missing suitcase was finally solved.

I was in downtown Washington to hear a lecture at Brookings and it was close to one when I came out. People were streaming out of their offices to grab a quick lunch. I wasn’t hungry and walked desultorily down 19th Street. It was a nostalgic jaunt because I had lived in an apartment on the street before I bought a house and moved out. The street had changed; several stores and restaurants I knew well had changed hands and names. I walked some more blocks and came to the Pennsylvania Avenue corner. I looked up at the large colonial-style building on the left. The two windows on the second floor belong to a large office room I occupied for some years.
 
“Manish!” I was startled to hear my name called out. friendship
 
I turned to see a tall, gaunt man in his fifties, chestnut hair graying at the temples, in an incongruous combination of dated khaki chinos and a fashionable blue blazer. His horn-rimmed glasses helped me place him, though his appearance hadn’t changed much beyond the color of his hair.
 
“Hugh!” I exclaimed happily. Hugh was always an interesting person.
 
“What are you doing at the scene of your crime?” he asked, in his typical jocular fashion, referring to the fact that we had both worked in the office I was looking at. This is something I like about Washington: one often encounters interesting people.
 
When I told Hugh that I was doing nothing of importance, Hugh promptly suggested that we have a drink together and celebrate our chance reunion. He led me to a small Peruvian restaurant where, it came back to me when I entered, I had dined a few times. I ordered what I always order in a Peruvian bar, Pisco Sour, and, when Hugh followed suit, we also asked for two plates of Lomo Saltado.
 
Hugh knew that I had joined diplomatic service and asked me what I had been doing. As I was talking, the waiter, a young Mexican, brought the food and drinks and placed them between us. When I finished, Hugh called the waiter and said he had served only one drink and one plate of food. I was taken aback, for, though I was not paying close attention, I thought I had seen him bring a pair of drinks and food. Hugh pleasantly suggested that the waiter might have absentmindedly left the other drink and plate on another table. The waiter came back in a moment and said apologetically that he had indeed left them on another table by mistake and served us both.

I was still confused and told Hugh that I had the vague impression that the waiter had initially brought the order correctly. Hugh then confused me further by saying that the waiter had indeed brought the order correctly in the first place. Hugh fixed a gaze on me and suggested that I check the order again. While I held my drink in my hand, I noticed that my plate of food had disappeared. I couldn’t believe my eyes and I said it.
 
Hugh said, “If you can’t believe your own eyes, I suggest you close them for a minute, then open them slowly and check what you find.” I did. When I looked, I saw two drinks and two plates of Lomo Saltado!
 
I sat speechless. I wondered if two sips of Pisco Sour had made a curious difference to my vision – or my mind.
 
Hugh sat in front of me with a benign smile. Then he said, “Let me tell you what I do these days. I do magic.”
 
I felt spellbound. I muttered, “How can it be? You didn’t even leave your seat once.”
 
Hugh offered a gentle reproof, “You didn’t notice. I got up to take off my coat and hang it up.”
 
I was still mystified beyond words. How could a whole plate of food appear and disappear, not to mention a glass of Pisco Sour! I didn’t ask Hugh how he did it, for by now I was even more fascinated by the question of how my friend, a competent economist, had turned himself into a skilled magician.
 
It was quite a story. Hugh had taken his young son some years back to a school event where a magician performed. The son was greatly intrigued and wanted to meet the magician. Hugh took his son backstage and met the Turkish magician who went by the name, The Magus. The conversation was spirited, and the magician invited Hugh to a performance in a nightclub. This time the repertoire was quite different from the fare that the magician had presented at the school. Hugh was impressed; in fact, he was hooked. Later, he had several drinks with the magician and broached the idea of taking lessons.
 
He performed with the magician in a few clubs and got a good reception. The Magus lived in California and preferred to perform on the west coast; he went to other cities rarely, only when the remuneration was attractive. He graciously invited Hugh to come to California and perform occasionally with him, but advised that Hugh should hone his skill independently in his own town.
 
That is what Hugh has been doing, apparently with notable success.
 
Hugh was always an interesting person, but now he had a huge collection of amusing anecdotes from his performances with a large variety of groups. We sat and drank for a long time and when we left Hugh made it a point to tip the Mexican waiter exorbitantly.
 
As we said goodbye, he asked how I intended to go home. I disclosed that I had a car in a nearby parking lot.
 
He smiled and said, “My friend, you can’t drive home unless you use your car key,” and placed the car key in my palm.
 
I had no idea how and when the key had moved from my pocket to his.