Sid Mittra
Ph.D., Economics
Emeritus Professor, OU, Michigan
A year ago, my eight-year-old granddaughter asked me an innocent question: “Grandpa, have you ever lied about something and then justified it?” Hearing this, I felt like someone had dropped a ton of bricks on my head. After recovering from the shock, I promised to get back to her if I ever recalled such an incident.
In this blog I present seven lies (and there are more) that involve lies I have told over the years. I share these incidents with you in hopes that you will find them entertaining, but also to ask your honest opinion as to whether you find any of the lies described below to be justifiable.
EPISODE #1
One day back in India, there was a loud knock at our front door. When I answered the door, there was my school mate and best friend, Amman, a Muslim. He blurted out: “Mittra Bhai (brother Mittra), please save me. They are coming to kill me.” I looked past him but didn’t see anyone coming after him. So I asked: “What are you talking about? Who is trying to kill you?” Amman pushed me aside in his rush to get inside our home, and then closed the door behind him.
Amman’s loud knocking and his frightful announcement had scared me, and I stared at him as he was panting for breath and looking terribly afraid. Amman took a deep breath and said: “This morning when I went to the vegetable market, I overheard someone saying that the RSS group (a Hindu nationalist paramilitary volunteer organization) was coming to our neighborhood with their knives and sickles to ‘take care of us.’ I ran home, but found our door locked and no one at home. I couldn’t think of anyone else but you who could help me, so I came running. Please don’t let these hoodlums kill me.”
Suddenly an idea came to mind that I thought would work. There was a narrow interior passageway between our house and the house next door. No one even remembered that it was there. The door to this passageway was always locked because it wasn’t a usable space. There was, however, an exit door from the passageway to Chili Int Street, on which our house was located. My idea was to unlock the door to the passageway and let Amman go into the narrow passageway and lock the door behind him. Then, when I felt it was safe for Amman to come out of the passageway, I could open the door and let him back into our house. Amman agreed with my idea, so I let him enter the passageway and locked the door behind him. After about half an hour — which seemed like an eternity — there was another knock on the front door. When I opened it, I found a bunch of strangers looking directly at me, carrying knives and sickles.
I asked them nervously: “What can I do for you?”
A young boy demanded to know: “Did anyone come to see you this morning?”
I responded: “No, no one has come here this morning. I have been here all morning, studying for my class.”
The boy persisted: “Are you telling us the truth?”
Before I could answer, another young boy turned to the group and said: “Look, these people rent this house from the well-respected Bagchi Hindu Brahmins (the highest caste), who would never rent the house to a Muslim lover.”
The first boy agreed and apologized, saying: “Forgive us for disturbing you.”
And then the group left.
After waiting awhile to make sure that the group did not return, I unlocked the passageway door and let Amman back into the house. I felt that I had managed to save his life. But there was no denying that, in the process, I had lied.
Our home on Chili Int Street
The arrow points to the Passageway I used to hide Amman
EPISODE # 2
One summer when I was living in Michigan, I decided to visit my daughter in Rochester, New York. The most convenient route was for me to cross into Canada at Port Huron, Michigan, and then return to the U.S. at the border crossing in Buffalo, New York. I was familiar with that route and anticipated no problem.
But when I approached the Port Huron border crossing, a security guard with a gun pointed at me ordered me to put my hands up and get out of the car without touching anything. I followed the order. The guard then asked me to move to a nearby building. Naturally, I obliged.
At this point, I remembered that, on the previous day, I had visited my cardiologist, who had injected me with a strong narcotic medicine to protect my heart valve. He had assured me, however, that it was non-detectable and harmless to others. So I surmised that the sensitive equipment used by Border Patrol had detected foreign material in my body and suspected that I was a suicide bomber who was planning to blow myself up, and kill a bunch of innocent bystanders in the process.
Once inside the building, the guard asked me if I had injected myself with any strong narcotic medicine. Fearing that telling the truth would get me into serious trouble I vehemently denied having done so. After he was done questioning me, the guard ordered me to sit in an empty room for four hours just to make sure that I was harmless. Naturally I obliged, realizing that I had lied to him to get out of this mess.
When my four hour isolation was over, the guard reappeared and said that I was free to leave. But as I was about to leave, the guard turned around and said, with a smile on his face: “Dr. Mittra, I got a 4.0 in your Econ 200 class. But damn it, I still can’t explain marginal utility.”
Port Huron Border Crossing
EPISODE # 3
In 1965, while working in Thailand as a consultant for the United Nations, I met Colonel Amit Mitra (name spelled with one “t”), who turned out to be a distant cousin of mine. He was the Indian Military Attaché posted in Burma, and he invited me to spend time with him before returning to the U.S.
During my time with the Colonel, I was given the rare opportunity to take video pictures of anything I liked, so long as Col. Mitra was with me. One afternoon, he drove me to downtown Rangoon and let me venture out on my own with my video camera. Well, I got so engrossed with taking pictures that I didn’t realize I had lost track of him.
As I was taking videos, I suddenly felt a big thud on my back. Turning around, I found a military officer pointing a gun at me as he asked: “Where is your permit to take pictures in Burma?” Nervously, I told him that I was working for the United Nations and was visiting my cousin, Col. Amit Mitra. He told me it was okay to take pictures so long as my cousin was with me. Hearing that, the officer asked me where Col. Mitra was. I looked around and did not see my cousin anywhere. So I nervously replied: “He is here somewhere and will show up shortly. Please believe me.”
The officer was not convinced and responded: “I think you are an Indian spy, taking pictures of our country without a permit. For spying you can be thrown in jail for 30 years.” I nearly collapsed, especially since I had known about the atrocities inflicted on Burmese prisoners. But as I was considering how to respond, the officer spoke again: “I know Col. Mitra and I will do this for him. If you sign this paper admitting that you are a foreign spy taking pictures without a permit, your jail sentence will be reduced to one day. After that I will call Col. Mitra and allow him to take you home.”
Imagine my predicament. I was asked to lie by signing a paper admitting that I was a foreign spy, illegally taking pictures in this country. That admission might be sufficient to get me a 30-year jail sentence. I prayed – oh God, please save me.
Since I had no choice, I signed the paper. At that point the officer, ignoring my one-day jail sentence, called Col. Mitra. Fortunately, he showed up almost immediately and took me home. Realizing the potential great danger I faced, my cousin arranged for me a return flight to India the next day, and promised not to leave me alone until I had boarded the plane.
The next day, when the plane took off, I bade goodbye to Rangoon, promising never to return to a country that possessed my false confession to being a foreign spy.
EPISODE # 4
While working for the United Nations in Bangkok, one of my favorite outings was to visit Thip Samai, which was Bangkok’s famous and best Pad Thai restaurant. Visiting the restaurant was never a problem, since every taxi driver knew of the place. But returning home in a taxi was another story. Even when I wrote down my apartment address for them, the drivers could neither understand me nor read the address. Fortunately, one day a Thai colleague taught me how to pronounce my address in Thai: Soi Sip Ha Kruna. I trusted my colleague, which led to a scene I will never forget.
The next time I visited the restaurant, after my sumptuous dinner, I hired a taxi to take me to (you guessed it) Soi Sip Ha Kruna. But guess what? Instead of taking me home, the taxi driver drove me to a gated address; and when I tried to stop him from entering when the large gate opened, he didn’t listen, but drove on in.
At that point I panicked, suspecting that the establishment behind the gate was some type of fancy private night club. But as I was contemplating my next move, a lady appeared at the taxi and said to me in broken English: “Every visitor who enters our gates must buy at least one basic service for $15. We have many other services, but they cost more money. What is your wish?
Panicked, I said: “I don’t want your services. The cab driver drove me here instead of taking me home. Please let me go back to my apartment, PLEASE.”
The lady thought for a moment and then replied: “Okay, I understand you made a mistake. But at least you must pay $15 for our basic service, because that is the rule. Also, for $10 more we will get you a different taxi that will take you home. Is that okay?”
I was greatly relieved to hear her offer and agreed to it. But then something happened that blew me away. As I was taking $25 out of my billfold, the lady dropped another bombshell: “Sign this official document acknowledging that you used our basic service.”
Paying money to get out of a jam is one thing. But signing a document lying about having used their services? That really stunk. I nevertheless signed the document and got home safely. But to this day, it bugs me that in the archives of a Bangkok night club there exists a document containing my written confession that I used their basic service for money.
Replica of the Bangkok Night Club Gate House
EPISODE # 5
In April 1965, on my way to the U.S. from India, I vacationed a few days in London. On the night before my departure for New York, I discovered that my passport was missing. Without a valid passport there would be no way for me to enter the U.S. The next morning, I sprinted over to the Indian Embassy, seeking a new passport. I was told that since I had misplaced my passport they would have to wait two weeks before issuing me a new one. I felt totally lost.
Then, something miraculous happened. The Immigration Officer, speaking in Bengali (my native Indian language), proposed an idea to me that I was cautioned not to share with anyone. After I promised not to do so, he explained that the two-week waiting period was strictly applied in the case of lost passports; but that if I guaranteed in writing that my passport was stolen – by a hotel staff member for instance – he could cancel my original passport immediately and issue me a new one within 24 hours. I willingly agreed to report that my passport had been stolen.
It’s been over half a century since this incident occurred, but I still feel ashamed of having told such a blatant lie. I left London the next day with my new passport in hand. As the plane took off, I looked out the window and saw nothing but a thick blanket of shame covering the city.
Replica of the room where I met with the Immigration Officer
EPISODE # 6
This is by far the most troublesome episode. Here’s why.
In 1957, I was awarded a fellowship by the University of Florida, and I planned to leave India for the U.S. in August of that year. At that time, India was under strict exchange control regulations, which prohibited anyone traveling abroad on non-official business from carrying more than $8.00 (this is not a typo). There were reportedly no exceptions to this rule, and that certainly applied to me. So, I was puzzled when in June, Mr. D (his actual name was Satyapadi Dharuwala, but everyone called him Mr. D), the Chief Administrative Officer for the Reserve Bank, summoned me to an urgent meeting with him. Naturally I showed up on time, somewhat concerned.
Mr. D began by saying that he was aware of the $8.00 limit, but that he had followed my career for some time and was very impressed. He was experienced with foreign travel and was convinced that I would not make it to the U.S. with only $8.00. He therefore advised me that, to avoid that impending disaster, I should reject the fellowship offer.
I responded by saying that my mind was made up and that I would even take the risk of dying penniless somewhere in Europe if it came to that. Mr. D was startled with my brash response.
After five minutes of silence, which seemed like an eternity, Mr. D spoke again: “Mr. Mittra (in India no one called anyone by their first name), I am amazed at your tenacity. During all the years that I have been the Chief Administrative Officer, I have never met anyone quite like you. So, I am going to make an unusual offer that hopefully will save your life. But if you accept this offer, you will have to live with your decision.”
The gist of the offer was that, if I submitted to the Reserve Bank a signed document stating that the University of Florida required a payment of $50 prior to my admission – which, of course, was not true – then he would be authorized to give me an additional $50. However, he made it clear that, if he did that, he would also be obligated to contact the University to make sure that, upon my arrival there, I paid $50 to the university. I knew that the University would deny having received the $50 because it had no such admission requirement. By that time, however, I would be out of India, which was my goal. Mr. D assured me that, if after getting my degree, I repaid the $50 to the Reserve Bank, everything would be okay.
Mr. D ended the meeting by saying that I had 24 hours to respond to his offer. If I accepted it, I would be on my own and that he would deny any knowledge of our arrangement. I leave it to your imagination as to how I felt leaving his office. Needless to say, I accepted his offer.
On August 10, 1957, I sailed from Bombay to France. I had $8.00 in my billfold; but I also had the extra $50 in another envelop, so tightly taped that it seemed permanently sealed. The ending of this incident is just as dramatic as the beginning. I made it to the U.S. with $8.00 (I have detailed in a previous blog how I survived the trip by spending my $8.00 so I will skip repeating it here), and did not have the courage to open the other envelop until I graduated five years later. Subsequently, I repaid the Reserve Bank far more than $50 in the form of lectures I was invited to deliver – which were worth several hundred dollars – but which I delivered free of charge.
Mr. D in his office at the Reserve Bank
EPISODE # 7
This episode is different from the rest in that here I did not directly tell a lie. But I unintentionally cheated a small business out of its just compensation.
Early in the 1980s, I visited Rome to attend a financial planning meeting. It was a valuable experience. After the meeting I decided to make a short visit to Venice, Italy’s unique canal city. Once I got there, I discovered that the hotels facing the canal were pricey, so I decided to stay at a nearby family-owned Bed and Breakfast hotel. My three days there went by very fast, as I was mesmerized by the beauty and grandeur of the city and its surroundings.
On the evening prior to my departure, which was early the next morning, I decided to settle my account with the hotel manager. But he turned me down because their rules did not allow him to accept payment until I was ready to leave. He assured me, however, that he offered 24 hour service, and that I should have no trouble paying my bill just before leaving the next morning.
Well, no one was around when I was ready to leave at 4:00 a.m. My screaming and banging on the front desk did not arouse anybody. So, I had no alternative but to leave without paying my bill of more than $600. I did, however, pick up one of the hotel’s self-addressed envelopes before leaving.
Upon my return to the U.S. I mailed a $600 check to the hotel with a note indicating that I would gladly pay any additional amount due. I then forgot all about the incident.
My story did not end there. After six months, my bank informed me that since the check had not been cashed, they had voided it. I realized then that, albeit unintentionally, I had cheated a small family-owned Bed and Breakfast hotel in Venice out of at least $600. Can there be anything more shameful than that?
Replica of my Bed and Breakfast hotel room in Venice
BOTTOM LINE
In this blog I have shared with you seven of my randomly selected lies for a special reason. Thus far I have not responded to my granddaughter’s question because I can’t decide which of these lies I can claim to be justifiable. Won’t you please take a moment to give me your unbiased opinion about how I should respond, so that I can put this matter to rest?
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Travis Smith provided technical support for this article. Charles Gauck professionally edited this blog and made valuable suggestions for improvement. However, the author takes full responsibility for the contents of this blog.
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