Worth More Than Money

Zurich, late-1960s. A smart boutique—glass gleaming, silence thick.

Dadu walked in, dark-skinned and impeccably dressed, drawn to a handsome leather belt. “I’d like to see that one,” he said.

The clerk didn’t bother hiding his disdain. “That costs four hundred Swiss francs,” he sniffed—naming a price meant to bruise, not sell.

Dadu’s expression never flickered. He opened his wallet—fat, orderly, and unmistakably full—fanned out a wad worth several times the sum, let the bills breathe in the clerk’s face, then slid them back inside.

“Not worth it,” he said, voice calm as still water.

Wallet away, chin level, he turned and walked out—leaving the belt, the francs, and the prejudice behind him.

That was his signature move: quiet confidence, no theatrics. The same presence that later eased him alongside presidents and prime ministers, guided him as Consul General for South Africa, and steered chambers of commerce—all without diluting who he was.

He never proved his worth. He let the world feel it.

-Prateek