At my meeting with the president and other management for the leather company, they led me on a tour of the facility, threw open their books to me, and gave me a good picture of their business.
Two brothers had started the company more than 50 years ago, manufacturing fine leather for gloves and purses from sheep and goat skins. A few years before, the surviving brother, by then in his eighties, sold the company to a conglomerate for $8,000,000 in cash. Within months of the sale, the cost of raw materials started to rise and was now 11 times more than what it had been two years before. No one, including the original owners, had anticipated that rise in prices. The profits started to slide precipitously before the ink on the contract could dry. Now the entire business had stalled, with practically no production and sales.
I made a proposal. The president loved it and scheduled a meeting for us with the group vice president at their offices in New York. There, he introduced me as a man who could grasp their problems in one day, when people who had worked at the company for 30 years couldn’t figure it out.
I explained the problem. Their company had a good product, and customers were loyal. They had an excellent team of experienced and honest people managing the company. Their fault line was in the supply chain. Their raw materials were sheep and goat hides, semi-processed in wet condition. These skins came from one country, Iran, and the price of hides at the source had gone up drastically. To compound the problem, they had one single broker procuring those materials for them. They needed to diversify their supply chain, and it needed to be done fast because the business was choking.
The boss asked how I could help them.
I told them their need was for someone to travel to other countries where sheep and goat skins were available, to line up other suppliers. It could not be done by mail or telephone calls. One would have to examine their supply capabilities. That could be done by one of their experienced people, or by me.
The question of my fees came up and I quoted the figure, as I held my heart in my hands.
Before the meeting, I had consulted a good friend. His advice was, “be bold, be bold, and forever be bold.” He knew I was desperate for cash flow and would settle for practically anything at that time. He said my clients would not respect me and my work if my price was not high. He said I needed steel in my backbone.
I quoted an amount that was twice the median yearly income of an average American at that time, plus my travel expenses, for two months of my time. No guarantee of any results—they would have to depend on my best efforts.
The contract was signed with one modification. It read first-class travel. I had them change it to economy class. The look of disbelief on the face of the executive assistant making the change was priceless.
There was urgency for me to make some income. I did not have the luxury of a long recovery period.
I was able to get an appointment with the president of a large manufacturer of a private label for men’s suits in Baltimore. After explaining my situation, I told him what I had gone through as a small manufacturer. He resonated with what I had to say because they were facing the same issue, but on a much larger scale. I offered to help get some of his products produced overseas. I had the necessary knowledge and skills. However, his was a family business that had been acquired by a large conglomerate. The new, young president of the conglomerate was overwhelmed. My host did not believe the home office would approve of such strategic steps.
However, there was a leather manufacturing unit of the company that was also in trouble, he said. My help might be of value to them. By the end of the afternoon, he called the president of the leather company and introduced me.
Although I had considerable insight when it came to men’s clothing, I did not have one iota of knowledge about leather manufacturing. I checked Chicago’s yellow pages and randomly picked the name of one leather tanning company and asked to speak with the president. I told him my situation as honestly as I could. I asked if I could visit his operation and get some idea about the leather industry.
He listened patiently and when I stopped talking, there was a long silence.
“You have to be dumb as hell to ask me to help you to help my competitor. Why would I be so stupid?” his voice roared over the phone.
“Outsourcing is killing our business,” he said. “Did you know I am the president of our industrial association and we exist to fight people just like you. Do you think I am that stupid?”
His harangue went on for several long minutes. I realized that my random call had landed me straight in the heart of a hornets’ nest. I told him so and we both laughed.
His voice dropped to a lower pitch.
“Hey, listen, if you are ever in Chicago, come and see me. I might learn something from you. I will buy you lunch.”
I suggested a date and time and showed up at his office as scheduled. He was a tall man with a firm handshake, who talked loud and fast. His whole persona exuded energy. After some perfunctory chatter, he offered to show me his plant.
Immediately upon entering the plant, I smelled an awful odor. I realized that smell did not just attack my nose, it permeated my whole being. On the spot, I decided I would not have anything to do with that industry. No money was worth it. But I was there and had to live through it.
Step by step, he started to show me the manufacturing process—how the hides are unloaded, stocked, processed etc. At one point, I reminded him I did not want to take advantage of our friendship and acquire any trade secrets. He leaned his back on a large piece of machinery and told me that after talking to me, he had checked the company I was going to visit. They were not his competitors, he said. Since he dealt in cow hides and they processed sheep and goat skins for glove manufacturing, he did not mind sharing the information with me.
He told me his business had been run the same way since his grandfather started it after he emigrated from Europe. Now, because of effluent problems, the industry was being forced to transform. He wanted to learn from people like me about what others might be doing.
“I’m learning, too,” he said.
We broke for lunch at a nearby deli. He confided that after our first conversation, he had made up his mind to help me if I showed up.
Two years after we were married, our first child, Tara Amy, was born. Tara, meaning “star” in Hindi, was a name first given to Treva by my mother, and Amy was to honor the woman in whose attic I lived upon reaching Wichita.
The gift business had morphed into promoting tailor-made suits as sales incentives for insurance companies. In the beginning, the suits were tailored in Hong Kong. Then we opened a manufacturing plant in Independence, a small town in Kansas, to produce our own suits. I got my airplane pilot’s license and was working long hours, flying myself back and forth between Wichita and Independence.
At the end of the 1960s, the clothing industry went into a tailspin. Almost overnight, people started to wear casual clothing instead of suits. Our business was in the red and the future trends looked bleak. I called upon a friend in Chicago for guidance. He was a prominent psychologist whose business was to interview candidates for key positions for large corporations. He was old and wise. Over dinner, I told him I was no longer having fun in my business. It had become work. I felt like taking a vacation.
My friend knew me well. He did not have to ask any questions. He nodded his head in affirmation. That was to be expected, he said, because my talents and capabilities were being restricted by my work. He compared me to a tree whose roots were being contained in a pot too small. I needed a large, open space to grow further. He gave another example. If I were an artist, I was painting on a small canvas.
“You need a very large canvas to paint on,” he said, stretching his arms wide.
My wise friend’s statement hit its mark. I needed no further prompting. In 1971, after our second child, a son, Keir , was born, we took a $400,000 loss, laying off 80 workers and declaring corporate bankruptcy.
In my parting talk to the employees, I told them I was going to bounce back and remake myself. I encouraged them to do the same. I declared that I would earn $80,000 in the coming year, at that time a large sum. It sounded like bragging. I had no idea how that might take shape. I only had a target.
The next day, Treva bought a new coat. She showed off her purchase like a model might.
“After all, my husband is going to make $80,000 this year,” she said, blushing.
There was an innocent sincerity in her statement. She was not teasing. Treva was pretty, but at that moment, she was even prettier. I loved that coat and I loved it even more with Treva in it. At least one person did not think that my declaration was an empty boast. She had faith in me.
When I first arrived in the United States, I intended to stay for only two or three years before returning home permanently and getting married. I took it for granted that my parents would choose my bride. Even though my parents’ marriage was a “love marriage”, that was unusual, because 99 percent of marriages in India were arranged by family members. Like my parents, I had a sense of firm commitment that I would do my best to make the marriage work, no matter what woman they chose for me.
When I visited India in March 1962, I was neither ready to return permanently, nor to get married. I had started two businesses and I was totally enmeshed in them. My bread and butter came from my import business. Over and above that, I was putting my energies into developing the two-seater car for poor countries and bringing the idea to fruition. I was working non-stop, 10-12 hours a day. My dreams were big.
I had gone to India as part of my trip around the world to explore the potential of this car. My mother saw the perfect opportunity to get me married while I was there. From her perspective, I was of marriageable age at 26, and I should marry an Indian woman to maintain my connection with my country.
Without telling me, my mother advertised for my bride in three newspapers with national distribution, a common thing to do at that time. Since I had made my way to the United States, I was a “hot commodity.” In the 1950s and early 1960s, very few Indians were permitted to emigrate to the United States. At that time, the annual quota for Indian immigrants in the USA was only a few hundred. Mother was inundated with more than a hundred proposals. She and my younger sister, herself of marrying age, labored to screen the number down to 15 or 20. For example, one of the prospects was a dentist, while another was from a wealthy family that promised a large dowry. Many people relied on family connections because that was the proven way to end up in long-lasting marriages.
My father, who had retired as an officer in the Indian Army, was too ill with diabetes to participate in any of these activities. Treatment for diabetes in India during those days was not as effective as it is today. Being diagnosed with diabetes was tantamount to a slow death sentence.
All of my mother’s efforts to select a bride came to an abrupt halt in April 1962 when, a few weeks into my stay, my father died. We were overtaken by sadness and a myriad of activities to settle his estate. During this gloomy and numbing period, some of my family suggested I expedite my permanent return to India to be with my mother. Even though I loved my parents, my returning to India was not a consideration. Instead of a bride, I returned to Kansas with my 12-year-old sister, who planned to attend a school in Wichita.
On the way back to the United States, we befriended an Indian couple in Rome.
“How did they let you escape from India without getting you married?” the husband asked.
“I was just not ready,” I told them.
“How will you find an Indian wife in the USA?” the wife asked, looking aghast.
“Nationality does not make a difference to me,” I said. “When I am ready, I will take a trip around the world and find a wife.”
As it turned out, I didn’t have to leave Wichita. In the summer of 1965, when I was 29, I met Treva June Brown at a post-graduate gathering sponsored by a local church. She was 24 and had just returned home after volunteering two years with a peace and social justice program, which had assigned her to serve in Germany. At a bowling social one night, I offered to drive her home. We started dating soon after that.
Treva was reserved and very private with her feelings. I had a hard time telling how she felt about me. At one point, I started to doubt whether she liked me and I decided to break it off.
I went to her house for that purpose. When I sat down, she surprised me.
“So, you have come to break up with me today,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” I stammered, both shocked and impressed.
“Just a woman’s intuition,” she said.
“No, no, no!” I protested, lying. “That’s not the case.”
I didn’t have the courage to tell her what was on my mind, and now I thank my stars for that.
She was so different from me. She was an American, I was from India. She was a Christian, I was a Hindu. I loved exotic, spicy food, she was a meat and potatoes person who did not use salt and had never tasted spicy foods. I was a swashbuckling adventurer with an endless lust for life, she was an elegant lady who did not use makeup or wear jewelry and made few demands on life. While cooking was a mirthful, adventurous production for me, she used recipes. She was highly organized and kept everything neatly in order. Let’s just say, I was not! Our upbringings were poles apart.
Yet, there was something in common. Even though our religions had different theologies and mythology, we had no difference in our understanding of what it means to be a human being.. We both had a strong sense of loyalty and duty, and each of our strengths was complementary to the other’s weaknesses. We enjoyed each other and, more than anything else, we trusted each other. There was some sort of chemistry, recognition, memory.
Once, before I met Treva, I was given an impromptu question at a Toastmasters Club: “Your son wants your advice on what type of woman to marry. What will your advice be and why?” I answered without hesitation. “Their values must be in common. Everything else can be adjusted. Not values.”
That provoked a debate within myself. As a single man, how would I know the values of the person I marry? And to be able to judge her values, I would need to know my own. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I could not make such a decision based on cold logic. It would have to be a gut decision. It would come through knowing, not reasoning. I would know when the time came. I would have to trust myself.
During the18 months of our courtship before we were married, Treva and I had several honest discussions. I had envisioned a house full of children, grandchildren, friends, and guests at all hours of the day. I wanted 12 children. Treva wanted no children. That was an unbridgeable gap for me. It was at that juncture I came across Margaret Mead’s statement that men want many children because of their ego. I read this statement in a hotel room when I was out of town. I got up from the couch and looked at myself. Literally. In the mirror. I could not drive fast enough the 300 miles back to Wichita to admit to Treva that my need for several children was not a part of my values system, but rather stemmed from my ego. We decided to plan a family with two children.
“I am not an 8-to-5 person, wanting to have a steady job like a banker,” I told her. “I seek adventure. I like to explore. I like to do things. I keep a rather hectic pace and you may not be able to keep up with me.”
“Oh, I think I can,” she answered with confidence.
She said I was doing negative selling on the idea of marriage, but I was being very honest. Little did we know at the time how true those statements would prove to be, in ways we never imagined.
If there is a metaphor to describe what quickly became evident about us, Treva is a deep-rooted tree, and I am the wind, and we would build our lives dancing together through all sorts of weather.
Treva’s mother (L), Balbir and Treva greet Treva’s grandparents, Harlow and Cora Brown.
After experiencing the excesses of elaborate weddings in India that caused an unnecessary burden on the bride’s family, I had vowed to have the simplest wedding possible. I suggested a civil wedding ceremony, conducted by a justice of the peace. Treva said her grandparents would be disappointed with such a decision. Realizing I was no longer in India and the weddings in America were simpler, I relented. She made me promise not to surprise her with a diamond ring. She was not the type.
The local newspaper published an article on Wichita’s first known wedding that included one ceremony in the Vedic tradition, to be followed by the other in the Christian tradition. Some people predicted a disaster. Many others kept their opinions to themselves. The minister received a nasty letter implying he would burn in hell for allowing such a dastardly thing in the church. On our wedding night, December 28, 1966, the ground was covered with ice and snow. There was a blizzard that evening, and the city was shivering with record low temperatures. But the church was filled, standing room only. Even a stranger called to request an invitation.
My two sisters dressed Treva as an Indian bride in a sari sent by my mother. We walked around the fire seven times as we took our wedding vows. Treva had never seen an Indian wedding, but she walked as if she had been born and brought up in India. No foreigner could have acquired that gait. At that instant, I knew I was marrying someone with whom I shared common values. A mischievous smile flickered across my face.
I had hit the jackpot.
Balbir’s sisters Indira (L) and Shakti (R) help Treva prepare for the wedding.
As I write this, Treva and I have been married for 55 years. We have a daughter, Tara Amy, and she and her husband, Mauricio Franco, have a daughter, Izel Sushila. Our son, Keir Kumar, has a daughter, Ariana Daylene.
During our married years, we have experienced the full spectrum of joys and tensions that come from the union of two strong personalities from two totally different cultures. Those joys and strains became the warp and weft that wove our lives together. Nay, they created a mysterious rhythm to which we continue to dance.
At the age of 86, I wonder how I was able to find such a person amongst the billions of people on this earth. I believe I have to thank my stars.
Just months after my brush with deportation, I was driving in upstate New York in the fall. The leaves on the trees were turning, and the colors were dazzling. The ground was a thick plush carpet of vibrant colors. The leaves were lazily floating on bodies of water, even small puddles. Every leaf I picked up was different and yet a masterpiece.
It was as if I had stepped into an art gallery. There were masterpieces for hundreds and hundreds of miles, in whichever direction I turned my eyes. Each winding road led to a still more striking mountain of colors. One could not see all the beauty in a hundred lifetimes.
I had never seen such a display in my life.
The colors spoke to me. The language was familiar, as if it were my native tongue. What was being said was unimportant. The mere fact that I could hear it was priceless. I felt enveloped by beauty. I was in the lap of love.
I have no idea if I snapped out of the blues, or if they just slithered away. But somewhere in my dream, the movie had changed from a dark horror show to a multi-colored musical. There was something powerful in the air. I sang loudly in the privacy of my car. I shouted, “I love you!” at every passing car. I danced a jig amid those beautiful trees.
I was a warrior who was now ready to jump into the next battle. I was a lover who was ready for the next dance.
I received a notice giving me ten days to leave the country.
Tom Salter, my retired engineer friend who had become my chief mentor by this time, advised that the only alternative for me to beat deportation would be to take the political route. Politicians, he told me, respond to pressure from their key constituents.
My network came in handy. Within 24 hours, the Kansas congressional delegation received dozens of telegrams from some of the best-known people in Wichita.
I received a call from the political assistant to Kansas Senator Frank Carlson. She said, “We are receiving all these telegrams, and we don’t even know who you are.” It just so happened that Senator Carlson was going to be in Wichita within the next few days, so she arranged for me to meet with him. He was going to address a large meeting, and I was to meet him at the exit door of the convention hall.
When I met Senator Carlson, he invited me to jump in the car and drive with him to his next destination, which was not too far away. In those few, brief moments, he assured me that he would take the necessary action to prevent my deportation. I thanked him and reminded him that I only had a few days until I would have to leave the country.
Senator Frank Carlson
That was Friday morning. On Monday, I got a call that Senator Carlson had introduced a bill in the U.S. Senate on my behalf.
A bill in the U.S. Senate on my behalf!
Senator Carlson received several more letters and phone calls from people in Wichita, thanking him. His assistant and I became friends on the phone. She said, “Man, you have lots of friends.” She marveled that they included both Republicans and Democrats.
When things calmed down a little, she told me that the bill was introduced in the Senate to gain time to work things out with the immigration authorities. Those types of bills are never allowed to get to the Senate floor for a vote.
Meanwhile, a letter arrived telling me that an immigration officer would interview me at the courthouse in Wichita. Again, I worked my constituency. About 20 of the most influential people in Wichita went to the courthouse to show support. The immigration officer was surprised, but told the delegation of supporters that he was sent from Kansas City just to get facts; he was not a decision-maker. He informed us that the decision would be made by his boss in Kansas City. This officer was very courteous. He laughed, complimented me for all the friends I had, and thanked them for coming. Then he took me to the private room for fingerprinting.
A few weeks later, I received another summons, this time to meet with the chief immigration officer in Kansas City. I marshaled four prominent citizens of Wichita to go with me. We left at 6 a.m. for the 200-mile trip to Kansas City.
The chief immigration officer insisted on meeting with me alone. The others were not allowed to see him. Sternly, the officer told me that I should prepare to leave the country. He said none of these political actions were going to have any effect on his decision.
While we drove back to Wichita, my friends suggested I contact an attorney. I could not see what good it would do. A deep sense of darkness enveloped me, with no signs of hope. All doors were being shut, no openings left.
One of the leading and most well-known attorneys in town had bought a carpet from us and had become our friend, so I approached him. He became incensed at the very thought that the chief immigration officer in Kansas City had refused to meet with the top citizens of our city. He called his secretary and dictated a rather harsh letter to the head of immigration in Washington, D.C.
I tried to stop him. “Please don’t do that. We don’t want to antagonize the chief in Kansas City any more,” I said.
“Now it is between him and me,” he said, waving me off. His determination was reflected on his face. The lawyer signed the letter and it was mailed that day, with copies to Kansas Senator Carlson and the ex-Senator Andrew Schoeppel, who had been a partner in his law firm.
A few days later, I was at our shop with a saleslady, and she got a call from the lawyer saying, “Tell Balbir not to leave the shop. I’m coming with an urgent legal matter.”
I said, “Hold on, let me talk to him.” But she said he had already hung up.
I left the floor for a few minutes to use the bathroom. When I returned, the saleslady said the lawyer had come by and was very angry that I had not stayed there. He left instructions for me to come to the Lassen Hotel restaurant next door immediately.
When I got to the restaurant, he was waiting for me with another lawyer. “You better sit down,” he said. When I was seated, he continued. “I’m afraid we have bad news. They have refused your appeal, because you clearly violated your student visa.”
My heart sank and my throat went dry. My worst nightmare was coming true.
Then the lawyer pulled out an envelope. “Instead, they sent you this.” He opened the envelope, took out a small card, and handed it to me. The card had official-looking insignias and writing on it, and at first I didn’t know what to make of it. Then it dawned on me that the title at the top said, “United States of America Permanent Resident.” It was my green card!
I had no idea how this twist had come into things, but somehow his letter had resulted in them granting me permanent residency in the U.S.
This whole experience was harrowing, yet magical. I had the feeling that something, somewhere, somehow was making all this happen. Indeed, I had contacts and friends. But they were cultivated simply as friends, not for any purpose or personal gain. This was beyond all of that. I felt as if someone had taken me on my first roller coaster ride.
Within a month of my arrival in Wichita, I saw a go-cart for sale at a local store. I could not take my eyes off it.
As a four-year-old child, I had dreamed of a basic form of transportation powered by an engine. Here was transportation at its very essence. It had a minimal frame on small wheels and a small engine but was sufficient to transport one person.
In India, I had to ride a bike for several miles a day, and I knew how much it took out of me. A small, motorized vehicle, covered with a minimal body to protect passengers from mud and rain, could be the next step above the bicycle.
The go-cart concept could provide cheap transportation for developing countries. We don’t need big, expensive cars, I thought. We need something simple. This is as simple as it gets.
Immediately, my mind started to work on how a small and simple vehicle could be made for distribution in India. My roommate and business associate, Ken Holmes, was dating a woman whose father taught engineering at the university. I shared the idea with the professor and he, in turn, gave me the name of a man who had just retired as chief engineer of Cessna Aircraft. The professor talked of this engineer reverentially and called him a practical genius. His name was Tom Salter.
Within minutes, I made the call to Tom. “I have just retired and have all the time in the world,” Tom told me.
Immediately after the call, I made a beeline to his house. Tom’s reputation was not exaggerated—he was a genius. Looking back, I consider him to be my teacher, guide, and guru, and he treated me as one of his children.
Tom and Barbara Salter
A team of designers along with several prominent businessmen joined us in this effort. The chief designer of Boeing Aircraft helped us design the exterior of the vehicle. It used a five-horsepower Briggs and Stratton engine. We calculated that the entire thing could be assembled for less than $200 on a production line in a developing country. We established a corporation under the name Pushpa Yan Company (PYCO). In Hindi, pushpa yan meant “light-as-a-flower vehicle” and played on a mythological name, Pushpak Viman.
In 1962, about three years after my arrival in the U.S., I traveled around the world to test the potential market for this small vehicle. I went to Japan, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore, India, and Israel. On the way back, I stopped in Italy, France, and England. One of the board members of our company was the vice president of Beechcraft, and he wrote letters of introduction that opened many doors for me on my trip. I was given the royal treatment wherever I went.
The trip gave me a huge amount of self-confidence in my business skills as well as my ability to deal with people. However, I also learned that the vehicle, as it was designed, would not satisfy the needs of the market.
The small wheels did not allow for enough clearance to go over the potholes on the roads of developing countries. A five-horsepower engine would not suffice, because people did not want mere transportation, they wanted power and speed.
These problems could be solved, but to keep the cost of the vehicle down, the engine had to be produced in large quantities, and that could not be done in developing countries at that time. These countries did not have the foreign exchange to import the steel or the engine for such a vehicle. In addition, we would need an array of permits which would take years and many expensive bribes. I was neither capable nor emotionally ready to undertake such a task.
It was my first face-to-face encounter with what I termed a failure. My capabilities and resources did not match my dream. I felt crushed.
*******
Going to school, earning a living, and running two businesses was taking a toll on me. I was working endless hours. Something had to give, and that was my health. I became dispirited and uncharacteristically quiet. I was no fun to be around. I felt as if I were in a dark womb, unable to get out—but anticipating a new birth, knowing something was germinating in that darkness.
My grades plummeted. I decided I didn’t need another degree, so I quit my studies at Wichita University to focus on my business. Since I had come to the U.S. on a student visa, I was now in violation.
That’s when the U.S. Department of Immigration served me with a notice of deportation.
On the day of my arrival at my boarding house, I met fellow boarder, Ken Holmes. He was a freshman at Wichita University from a small town in Kansas, and we became instant friends. He was the first stockholder in my newly-formed company and remained a business partner in all that I did for a very long time. He became like a younger brother to me.
While looking for exporters of handicrafts, Ken and I saw an advertisement posted by an exporter of hand-woven carpets. The carpets were woven in a village near my hometown in India. However, carpets would not fit in the space we were being provided at the Innes department store. So, Ken and I formed a partnership, Mathur and Holmes, and ordered $340 worth of carpets that we planned to sell to our friends.
When the shipment landed at the port in New Orleans, papers were sent to us requesting payment. What I read in those documents made me break out in a cold sweat. I didn’t know how, but I had ordered carpets worth $3,400! I looked at the papers over and over again, unable to believe I had made such a major blunder. Later, I understood that this problem was the result of a difference in the way numbers are written in the USA and India as well as a mistake by the person who filled out the papers. At that time in India, they used a comma between dollars and cents instead of a decimal point. Normally, they would have written thirty-four dollars as $34,00 but they had written $3,400 by mistake. When I saw that, I thought that the carpets were selling at $3.40 per square foot, when in fact they were selling for $34 per square foot!
The carpet exporter, however, had also made a serious mistake. He sent the original documents to us, rather than sending them to the bank. This meant that Ken and I could retrieve the carpets without making any payment to the seller. But we did not wish to take advantage of anyone. If we did that, we asked ourselves, how would we be any different from the New York taxi driver who took advantage of me? This was the first business dilemma of our lives, and we wanted to practice the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
First, we had to find a way to get the money. After lots of soul searching and some prodding from Ken, I called my new cattleman friend in Ashland, Kansas, remembering his words to me: “Son, if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to call me.”
When I called, without hesitation he asked me, “How much money do you need?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” I told him. I did not have the courage to ask for the entire sum. He told me to meet him at his bank the next day, where he cosigned a loan for me.
With the money and documents in hand, I went to a local bank in Wichita and requested a loan for the remaining $2,500. The banker understood that, based on the exporter’s mistake, we already had the necessary papers to get the carpets without making any payment. He was impressed by our commitment not to cash in on the supplier’s mistake, and he loaned me the money.
Ken and I were now in debt and delighted with our accomplishment. But we had no time to celebrate. We had no experience selling carpets, so we had to learn fast.
We decided to start at the top and went to the most prestigious carpet shop in town. The owner not only gave us good advice, but he also gave us space to display our carpets in his showroom at no charge, and his sales staff offered to help us sell the carpets.
For the next several weeks, we worked every evening making calls peddling those carpets. In three months, we paid off the loans.
Now we were debt-free, with profit in our pockets. But that was not the end of the story. After we paid off our loan, we delivered one of the carpets to the cattleman who loaned us the money. While he was reluctant at first, he did graciously accept this token of our gratitude.
When the summer vacation of 1959 arrived, my sponsor, Mr. Graham, offered me a summer job. It was to promote his business, Private Enterprise, Inc., to the Wichita community. In this venture, he was offering to invest half the capital required for entrepreneurs in foreign countries to start a business. They would be able to buy him out after they had doubled Graham’s portion of the investment. Graham was seeking investors in his business, and I was an ideal “show-and-tell” person.
I was provided with a list of “who’s who in Wichita.” My salary for the summer was to be $300, which disappointed me because other friends were going to make that much per month. I reminded myself that my first task was to learn, and here was the opportunity. I bought a light summer suit and a necktie.
As it turned out, this job was made for me. Somehow, most of the people on the list agreed to see me. They knew Bill Graham but were interested to know about me. And I was interested in asking them about the secret of their success.
Each one had a slightly different take. Several shared the intricacies and histories of their businesses. One spoke of the importance of never compromising on the quality of the product. Another one spoke of the importance of integrity. Another talked of solving the human problem first. Others talked about factoring inflation into your calculation, how to calculate how much to gamble in business, and the importance of persistence—you have to be the last one standing. Yet another spoke of the importance of faith, saying a mustard seed of faith will move mountains. I felt as if they were seeing their own son in me, and they were bequeathing the secrets of their being.
Balbir in 1959
Most of them became my friends, and some became my mentors. Several invited me to lunches to meet their friends and associates. Some invited me to their homes to meet their families. Others invited me to their churches to talk to their Sunday schools or to give talks at their social clubs. One person took it upon himself to organize a speaking tour of social clubs and churches in Wichita. Since I did not have a car, he personally drove me to most of the speaking engagements, even to some towns outside of Wichita.
One weekend, I was hosted by a family who lived on a ranch in Ashland, Kansas. On Sunday, they invited me to join them at their Methodist church, where the minister heard me participating in the Sunday school class. “Would you like to give the sermon today?” he asked.
Nonchalantly, I raised my shoulders to indicate, “Why not?”
In between the class and the church service, my hostess came up to me. “We will be sitting in the front row,” she said. “You can sit with us.”
“The minister has asked me to sit with him,” I said. “He’s asked me to give the sermon.”
“No! No!” she said, horrified. “You don’t even know what a sermon is.” She turned around and went over to the minister. I saw her jaw drop as the minister confirmed the news.
In my sermon, I told the congregation that the world had shrunk. “Christ told us to love our neighbors. In this shrinking world, our neighbors are no longer just people living in our communities. Our neighbors are also people in India and China,” I said. “This is what Christ is calling us to do now.”
My hostess was still looking at me with shock on her face. She was nervous like a mother, afraid of her son making a fool of himself. I could not help but smile.
Afterward, the minister asked me to greet people at the door and shake hands. My hostess came out, bubbly, chirping like a bird. She was so relieved. Her rancher husband tipped his hat to me. “You have done it, boy,” he said.
Later, on the drive home in their car, the husband said, “Son, if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to call me.”
The wife expanded on her husband’s statement. “We went to college during the Depression,” she said. “It was hard. We do not wish our children to suffer through anything like that, and the same goes for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, hoping that day would never come.
Within two days of my arrival in Wichita, I walked along Broadway Street and saw Innes Department Store. I had never been to a department store before. All stores in India were small, mostly mom-and-pop stores. As I looked around Innes, all that merchandise in one place dazzled me. No one living amid so much merchandise could go hungry, I thought.
Instantly, I had a plan. I requested to see the owner of the store. Very politely and patiently, a store clerk explained to me that there was a general manager, but no owner. That was good enough for me.
Before seeing the manager, I went to seek the help of a newfound friend in the office of my sponsor, Mr. Graham. My ears were still not tuned to American English, and I needed help to decipher what was being said. Together, we went to see the manager of Innes. I tried to explain that I would like to import some merchandise from my native country to sell from his store. He told me his store was part of the Macy’s chain, and they had an import department to buy merchandise for all the stores collectively.
“But I will be wearing my Indian clothes,” I said. “I will be the attraction. The merchandise will sell like hotcakes.”
I did not understand most of the manager’s answer. My friend explained to me that the manager had just agreed to give me six months of free space at Innes. That was totally unexpected.
Years later, I called upon the general manager to thank him for giving me my first start in business. By then he was the general manager of another store in Iowa. He told me that during our first meeting he had not understood most of what I said, except the word hotcakes. “If a kid just off the boat had already learned our colloquial hotcakes,” he laughed, “I figured he would do alright.”
Now that I had the space at the department store, I needed merchandise. I approached all of the dozen or so foreign students at the university, asking if they would like to get some native handicrafts from their homelands to sell at the store. I offered that I would trade them for stock in my new business. Only one of them agreed, a student from China, because she already had some merchandise available to sell. That was enough for the vision to be upgraded to merchandise from around the world, not just from India. Another newly-minted friend suggested the name International Bazaar, which stuck.
At the same time, I contacted most of the people I had met during my short time in Wichita to see if they would like to buy stock in International Bazaar. Practically everyone laughed at first but then joined. Some of them also introduced me to their friends.
A man I had just met that day told me he would join only after I proved I could raise the rest of the funds. “I will not need you by then,” I told him, bluntly. He wrote his check for $200 on the spot and said he wished his children who were my age would have the same guts. He was now the largest stockholder and helped me up my ante with other prospects. Later, I found out he was a wealthy man and a shrewd investor. After that first meeting in 1958, he took an interest in everything I did and invested in my business pursuits. He told me it was a cheap way for him to buy a front-row seat to vicariously experience my adventures.
Within a week, I had raised $1,800. That, to me, was a huge amount. Happily, I announced the stock sale was closed.
Right away, I sent a check for $800 to my father in India, asking him to send me some handicrafts. In an import-export flyer, I found names of people from various countries who wanted to connect with buyers in America. I sent a $50 cashier’s check to several of them. Fully believing that it would soon be a corporation, I explained what “we, a group of students” were doing and requested them to send us a shipment of their best merchandise as samples for future business. It was an act of faith to send the money with my letters. All complied, though a few took a long time to respond.
I did not know how to type, but typed anyway, using two fingers. It would take me a whole evening to type one letter because it was important for me to send only letters that were perfect. My little attic room was my office, even though I used Mr. Graham’s Broadway office as my mailing address.
It was not long before I realized that $1,800 was not as much as I had thought. Additional capital was needed. Television came to mind. I had seen television for the first time when I moved to Wichita. What a powerful means of communication! I thought. The medium fascinated me with its potential.
I went to one of the local TV stations, met with the president, and told him my story. He said it would be a great story if the general manager of Innes would tell it. Immediately, I went to the general manager, who laughed when I told him it was an “opportunity for free advertisement on TV.” He summoned his secretary to place a call to the TV station’s president.
When the story was aired live, the TV host asked me how I intended to raise the money. “I am asking people now to buy stock in my company,” I said.
The next day, it was pointed out to me that I had sold stock illegally because it was not registered. I approached my law professor, and he set up a corporation and became a member of the board. Now I had a small team to work with. “I” became “We.”
The TV show host invited me to appear once a week on his program to do “show and tell” stories about merchandise from various countries. Even though I could not hammer a nail, I was a good storyteller.
Sales area at the Innes Department Store
The Chinese student who had some merchandise to sell became the symbol of our new venture. Dressed in her native Chinese brocade outfit, she made a striking impression. Innes ran a full-page advertisement with her picture to announce our arrival.
Ultimately, Innes gave us a year and a half of free space, and we expanded to two other locations.
balbirmathur.com 