The Dream: How I Learned the Risks and Rewards of Entrepreneurship and Made Millions

by Gurbaksh Chahal

  I went back to my apartment in Fremont and waited for my noncompete agreement to expire. As I began to think about my next venture, I made a horrendous discovery: The team at ValueClick had purchased the balance of my shares at $3 a share, transferred them out of my account, and left me with the proceeds from the sale. This was bad enough, but it was only the beginning: Right on the heels of that transaction, the price of the stock began to climb. I didn’t understand it. I had signed an agreement in which I agreed to the possibility of selling my shares back to the company, but somebody had jumped the gun. Clearly this was a mistake. Was it possible the mistake had been mine?

  I called Sam to find out what was going on, but I didn’t hear back from him, and I kept calling without success. He ignored both my calls and my e-mails.

  In a matter of months, ValueClick hit $8 a share, and I was completely dumbfounded. Since I wasn’t getting answers from Sam and the team, I hired a lawyer and sued them for securities fraud. I was the second largest shareholder in the company, and the company had a fiduciary responsibility to me. Even if the mistake had been mine, the situation didn’t add up. As you might imagine, the whole thing was incredibly depressing. Every time the stock went up a point, I despaired a little more.

  My father tried to comfort me, quoting from a scripture: “Hatred finds a place in hell; forgiveness is where He is.”

  A month later, while the lawyers were still battling it out, I left Fremont and took a high-end apartment in Santana Row, an upscale development just outside San Jose. The area had dozens of restaurants and bars and chic stores, and I liked the fact that I could walk to all of them.

  I spent Christmas with my family, as always. Christmas is not a Sikh tradition, but we celebrate in our own small way. When I was younger, we’d save our money and our parents would drive us to McFrugal’s or to the 99-cent store, and we’d buy presents for each other—presents that actually meant something. A little teacup for my mother, say. Or a pocket comb for my father’s flowing beard. I was older now, and I could afford more, but I still put plenty of thought into the presents. My dad got a Rolex. My mother got several cashmere sweaters. And my grandmother got a beautiful cane because she was having trouble walking. She was deteriorating in other ways, too. By this point, she was so physically weak that she’d sit at the table, immobile, and we had to remind her to eat. It was painful for me. I thought back to the way she had comforted us as kids, and I wanted to do the same for her: I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay, but of course it wasn’t going to be okay, and it broke my heart. This was the woman who had hidden my bad report cards from my parents, who had let me sleep in her bed when I was afraid of the boogeyman, who had comforted me when I was reluctant to go to my own parents for comforting, and Alzheimer’s was slowly and surely turning her into a stranger. She was the pillar of the Chahal family, so it was the one sour note in an otherwise pleasant Christmas.

  As 2003 got under way, Taj and I decided to buy some property. He was still living at home and figured it was time to move out, and much as I loved my Santana Row apartment I was throwing my money away on rent.

  We went to look at a couple of houses at The Ranch on Silver Creek, an upscale country club development on the outskirts of San Jose, and ended up buying unfinished homes right next to each other. For the next six months I spent a lot of time and money fixing up my place. It was a 5,000-square-foot house, and I installed built-ins, and miles of marble, and a state-of-the-art sound system. Every room in the house was wired, including the bathrooms. But whenever I was over there, checking on the workmen, I would look out at the sweeping, golf course views and wonder what I’d been thinking. I didn’t play golf and I had no interest in playing golf. The whole place—the idea of the place—was way too Zen for me. I like action and adrenaline, and golf seemed to be the antithesis of that.

  During this period I started dating again and met a few interesting women, but nothing serious developed. Part of it was my problem, admittedly. Most of the women knew who I was, and it was hard to tell whether their interest was genuine. I think I erred on the side of paranoia.

  I had similar problems with friends. I was close to guys like Troy and Krishna, who wanted nothing from me except friendship, but a lot of other people seemed to be forever on the make. They wanted a deal or a job or a loan or a free dinner. Regarding the dinner business, these lesser friends always stuck me with the tab. The check would arrive, and they’d sit there as if they’d suddenly lost the use of their arms, and I’d find myself reaching for my credit card. I understood their thinking, of course—they figured a day’s worth of interest on my money added up to more than I could spend in a month—but that wasn’t the point. It would have been nice if they had reached for the tab from time to time, if only as a gesture, but they never did, and I eventually stopped seeing them. I take friendship seriously, and I have since learned how to spend my time wisely surrounded only by genuine people. It’s funny, because I’d already learned this lesson—the notion that you need to surround yourself with people who want you to succeed—but I couldn’t always put it into practice. I like people. I like having friends. And sometimes I’m a little too forgiving. But at the end of the day I had to learn to watch my back, because sometimes staying on top is harder than getting there. Never lose sight of the definition and presence of the word “real.”

  Later that same year I discovered Las Vegas. Troy was about to get married, and he had his bachelor party in Sin City. I was among the half dozen friends he asked along, and I fell in love with the place almost immediately. I liked the energy. I liked the restaurants. I liked the night life. Most of all, I liked the anonymity. Back in San Jose, where information was only a mouse click away, people knew way too much about me, most of it wrong. But in Vegas, where I didn’t even have to share my name, I could be whoever I wanted to be.

  The funny thing is, when I first started going to Vegas, I felt like a kid in a candy store. Before long I figured it out: I hadn’t really had much of an adolescence; I was having fun for the first time in my life. But in time I realized there was another component, and that’s this: Vegas is a culture where identity doesn’t really matter. You can be whomever you want to be. You can even be nobody—it’s a level playing field—and sometimes being nobody is a pretty good thing.

  In October, Taj and I went to Maui for Troy’s wedding. We stayed at the Grand Hyatt Wailea, which was pretty plush. There were a lot of honeymooning couples around and not a single girl anywhere in sight, but Taj and I made the most of it. We partied with the other guests, ate well, and slept with the windows wide open, listening to the surf and enjoying the ocean breezes.

  The day before the wedding, Troy came up to me and said, “I’m nervous about my speech. How’s your speech coming?”

  “Speech?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  And he said, “Dude, you’re the best man. You’re supposed to give a speech.”

  “I thought I was supposed to hand you the rings. You didn’t say anything about a speech.”

  “It’s traditional, man!”

  “Not in India,” I replied.

  Now he was doubly nervous. He was nervous about his speech and even more nervous about my nonspeech. But I told him not to worry. I’d work something out.

  After he left, I sat down and made a few notes about Troy and about our friendship, and for the rest of the day I was in a state of anxiety. The ceremony took place outdoors, within view of the beach, in front of about fifty people, and I was probably more nervous than Troy. When it was time, I got to my feet and looked at the expectant crowd, all of whom were clearly waiting to be wowed by humor, heartfelt words, and wisdom. I was reminded of my speech at Accel some years earlier, on Viagra, and I thought that that was somehow appropriate, given that this was Troy’s Big Night, and for a moment I thought it might be amusing to deliver that speech. But no. I took a deep breath, looked at Troy and his bride, and plunged in. I told Troy he was like a brother
to me and that in marrying Zena she was becoming part of my family. “Both of you are amazing people, and when I look at you I realize that what they say is true: There are some couples who do complete each other.

  “I am honored to be your friend. If there’s anything you need, ever, anytime, you know where to find me.”

  I think the speech was well received. People were clapping and crying. Nobody threw anything at me. I raised my glass in a toast to the bride and groom, and the guests toasted them with me. I remember thinking that I was glad I hadn’t blown it. I also remember thinking that public speaking wasn’t all that hard.

  My brother and I watched people dance for a couple of hours. There were a number of attractive women in the wedding party, but most of them were married, and as I watched them waltz with their significant others, I began to entertain a crazy fantasy: One day I would meet the perfect woman, and she would fall madly in love with me before she found out I was rich.

  When I got back to San Jose, still entertaining that crazy fantasy, I got marginally better at approaching women in bars and restaurants, and at asking them out, and at making conversation—but I still found myself questioning their motivations. It may well have been my own paranoia, but that didn’t invalidate my principal worry: Was it me they liked, or was it my money?

  This was a lesson I hadn’t expected to learn: Money brings huge rewards, but it also introduces you to a whole new set of problems.

  That year, with my noncompete agreement close to expiring, and with my fantasy as yet unfulfilled, I began to think about getting back into the business of business, but I got sidetracked by The Apprentice. The show was preparing for another season on NBC, and it was looking for potential candidates. I was a businessman and an entrepreneur, and several of my friends convinced me that I was the perfect candidate, so I went ahead and filled out an application. I included some details about Click Agents, about my time with ValueClick, and I even cut a DVD in which I said that I’d always been curious about Hollywood, that I liked to be challenged, and that I would welcome an opportunity to audition for the show.

  A month later, I received an e-mail: “Congratulations! You are one of the finalists.” Not long after, I was summoned to the Clift Hotel, in San Francisco, for a meeting with the casting department. I waited in the lobby with a number of other candidates, and at last a young woman showed up, called my name from the long list on her clipboard, and led me away. I followed her into the elevator and down a corridor, and eventually I found myself in the suite where the auditions were being held. There were two people in the room, both of whom greeted me quite effusively, and I took a seat. That’s when I saw the cameraman, and I guess they noticed my discomfort.

  “Any objections?”

  “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

  As soon as the camera started rolling, the questions began, and they were fairly personal in nature. Nobody had ever asked me for so much detail about my dating habits, my relationship with my parents, my friendships, my hobbies, and so on—and certainly not on camera. I was so nervous that my own voice sounded alien to me.

  When it was over, the same young lady walked me back to the lobby, telling me that several thousand people had applied for a spot on the show and that only a few hundred made the cut. “You did great,” she said.

  I didn’t believe her. After that performance, I was pretty sure I was not ready for prime time, and in short order my suspicions were confirmed: I got a very nice form letter telling me that I would not be going toe to toe with the Donald.

  Some weeks later, when my noncompete finally expired, I decided to forget about show business and get back to my first love. I had a few ideas about the kind of business I wanted to start, but all I knew for sure was that it would be another ad network. Still, that was all I needed to know. Most people think they need to know exactly what they want to do when they start a business, but they’re wrong. If you go into something with a very specific plan, you might be so focused on your goal that you won’t see the promising opportunities that present themselves as you make your way along. Take the blinders off. Look around. Don’t be afraid to go off on all sorts of unusual directions, since that’s where you might just find the most interesting—and promising—opportunities.

  I knew only two specific things about my future company: One, it would do much the same thing Click Agents had done, but it would do it better. And two, the focus would be on innovation, particularly as it related to behavioral targeting. On this latter point, I wanted to figure out what the consumer wanted, then give it to him or her, and I had some ideas on how to do that—but I wasn’t there yet.

  On January 12, 2004, the uncertainties notwithstanding, I launched my next company. I rehired my brother and sister, along with several of my former star employees, and settled into new offices in downtown San Jose. They were cheap, because I’m cheap. When it comes to spending money I always repeat that familiar mantra: need versus necessity. Do I really need a $5,000 couch in the lobby, or will a used one do? I think you know the answer to that.

  But take note: Being cheap is good for the company and for the shareholders, but don’t be too cheap. Never be cheap with your employees, for example. If one of them is a rock star, pay him or her a rock-star salary. This is very important. When staffing a company, you should always hire people who are smarter than you. I may be a dictator, but I’m a benevolent dictator, and I’m not intimidated by intelligence. On the contrary, I want people around me who are smart enough to question what I’m doing. (Within reason, of course.) I want to fill every slot in my company with the best possible candidate. Think of it this way: An orchestra conductor always hires the most talented musicians available. Why? Because when they’re working together as a team, under his direction, he knows he is going to get the most magnificent possible sound. Well, that’s what I wanted for my company: beautiful music.

  At that point, almost reluctantly, I called my friend Krishna. Years earlier, I had promised to call him if I ever launched a new company, and I was keeping my word. Still, it was tough. He had just been accepted into medical school, and I didn’t want him to get sidetracked. “I don’t want to be a doctor,” he said, repeating what he had told me years earlier. “I was doing this for my parents. My first love is the Internet.”

  Needless to say, his parents weren’t very happy with me. They had their hearts set on seeing their son in medical scrubs, and they didn’t understand why I had meddled in his life. I felt badly about this, of course, but Krishna was an adult, and I figured he could make up his own mind.

  For the first couple of weeks, as we settled into the new offices, the company didn’t even have a name, and it was getting pretty frustrating. We spent days trying to figure out what we were going to call ourselves. Anything with the word “click” was already taken, and the good domain names were either taken or for sale at exorbitant prices. Domain names, with which I’d had some experience in my youth, are something of a commodity, and companies have been known to spend a fortune on them. Computer.com, for example, sold for $8.5 million. Diamond.com sold for $10 million. Sex.com sold for $20 million. That’s the nature of the beast. You spend the money because the name becomes an instant brand. It sticks. It resonates. And it takes consumers to your site.

  One evening, I was out at Dave & Buster’s with Taj and Krishna, still brainstorming over a damn name. We wanted it to be a little different but not too different. Some of the elements in the periodic table had pretty cool names, and I had brought a copy to the bar with me. Titanium. Platinum. Tungsten. Chromium.

  There were names that weren’t cool. Helium was laughable. Berylium sounded like a girl’s name, but the kind of girl you wouldn’t take on a second date. Silicon—no, that was taken by Silicon Valley. Dubnium sounded like the first name of a Russian mobster, and argon sounded like a poison in a superhero movie.

  As we were sitting there, growing increasingly frustrated, the bartender came over with three shots of Hypnotic, a blue, vodka
-based concoction that was the cool drink back then (at least in San Jose). As it happened, I looked down at the periodic table as the drinks arrived, and the word “lithium” seemed to jump out at me. “Blue lithium,” I said out loud. From the looks on their faces, it was clear that that was the name we’d been looking for: BlueLithium. It didn’t mean anything, but it sounded like it might, and—at the end of the day—it was cool.

  Like Click Agents, BlueLithium was going to go into the business of Internet advertising, but more from the behavioral targeting end of things. Let me explain: In traditional advertising, the key to success lies, primarily, in targeting the right demographic. If you have a product to sell, you’re going to want to put your ad in front of people who might actually buy it. If there’s a football game on TV, for example, you’re going to see commercials for beer, pizza, and rugged trucks, because clearly there are plenty of football-watching guys who like beer, pizza, and rugged trucks. An ad for an anti-wrinkle cream, though, wouldn’t do well during a football game. Similarly, if you’re reading Outdoor Life magazine, you’re likely to find plenty of ads for guns and crossbows and not many ads for air fresheners or toilet bowl cleaners.

  The goal for the advertiser, then, is as simple as it is selfevident: Where do I go to get the biggest return? Where am I likely to make the most sales?

  That’s where technology came into the picture, and it was changing every day—pretty dramatically at times. In the advertising world, it’s all about making the ads more effective—about getting the right ads in front of the right eyeballs—and advertisers were beginning to figure out how to track the habits and tastes of online consumers. I’ll give you an example you might be able to relate to: When you buy a book from Amazon, you might receive an e-mail from the company a week or two later, with a suggestion on another book, based on the book you bought, and even on the interests of other people who also bought that first book. Or if you have TiVo and you watch certain types of shows, it won’t be long before the system is making suggestions about other shows it thinks you might enjoy. It’s that simple. The computer keeps track of your tastes, creating a profile, and it starts steering you toward products and services it believes you will respond to.