Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  One early Sunday morning in May 1985, I heard popping noises in the living room. Subhash and Christopher also heard them, and we all ran into the living room to see what was going on. The television was clicking on and off and so was the VCR. At the same time, Raj noticed the A/C had stopped running. Perplexed at what was going on, I scratched my head and tried inspecting the plug-ins. Just then, we heard popping noises coming from outside. Looking out the window, I saw people running toward our house, shouting “Fire! Fire!”

  We all hurried outside and saw the electric meter inside the garage had caught on fire and was making popping sounds. Raj, the kids, and I rushed to the street as people gathered around us, wanting to be helpful but unsure of what to do. Several people brought buckets of water, but I said, “No, do not use water on an electrical fire!” Others began picking up dirt and throwing it on the meter board, but the fire kept burning. Having just moved to India, we were not aware of any fire department and never thought we would need to know. Even if there was a fire department, it might have taken half an hour for them to get to our house. Either way, no one on our street was calling the fire department, which indicated to me that perhaps there wasn’t one in that area.

  Shouts filled the air as the crowd continued throwing dirt at the fire. Finally, after a few minutes, the fire went out. The meter board was burnt badly, but since there was no other combustible material around the meter board, the fire did not spread. Luckily, the fire did not spread inside the house through the wires either. After the chaos died down, we called the electrician and he came to check the burned meter and to repair it. After the repair, we entered the house cautiously and found that the TV, computer, several A/Cs, the microwave, and VCR all were electrically burned beyond repair. It was heartbreaking to see such loss, but nothing could have been done.

  In all honesty, I wanted to cry. The troubles with the hospital filled my head, and now this. I didn’t know how much more I could take, but I knew one thing for sure—I must keep a cheerful attitude for the sake of Raj and the children. If I broke down in front of them, what was there to keep us all together? Instead, I took a deep breath and smiled down at my three sons. Rajan was nearly in tears, and Subhash and Christopher stared sadly at the burned appliances and electronics.

  Life was tough in India. School was difficult at times. The boys did not know the language, culture, or living amenities, and because they grew up in the US, they were different from the other Indian students. Coming to India for a visit was one thing, but living in India was a culture shock. Christopher came home from school one day and told us the teacher slapped him on the cheek. Also, the kids sometimes bullied the boys, especially Rajan, because of his short stature. These were situations unknown to them from their experience of school in the US. Then, there was the constant heat and now this electrical fire. We were thankful we were safe and the fire had not caused any structural damage, but it put one more damper on our experience in India. Staying calm and wearing a cheerful face was the only way I knew to instill a sense of equilibrium in our lives.

  In the meantime, I received word that Z.M. Goel had completely washed his hands of the hospital project. G.B. Goel took over, and during meetings, he would insult the colonel, calling him a dummy and other names. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and I disliked the way G.B. Goel was overseeing the project and conducting meetings in his office. The colonel also became fed up with his behavior. He had held a high-level construction managerial position in Sri Lanka, and now here he was on a dead-end project being called names. One day, he finally turned in his thirty-day notice.

  The summer of 1985, I experienced a new challenge. During a much needed vacation to the US with my family, I experienced a herniated disc in my lower back. At the time, I was having so much fun visiting old friends across the country that I didn’t realize the physical stress our travels put on my body. At first, I didn’t know why pain was radiating down my leg. On our way back to India, our flight landed in London, and my friend Mr. Luthra introduced me to several individuals who claimed they could heal my “slipped disc.” Blinded by the pain, I naively went along with their methods, hoping it would be so simple. One older man used a tall stick to balance himself as he walked across my back. Another man brushed my back with a bundle of peacock feathers while chanting mantras. Yet another friend of Mr. Luthra’s told me to tie a string to my big toe while sitting cross-legged in a chair. Desperate to be rid of the pain before leaving London, I complied with each suggestion, but to no avail. The pain was relentless and ruthless as a hot poker sticking me again and again. On the flight back to India, I lay down in the back of the plane, the only position that gave any relief. To my great irritation, a stewardess scolded me for lying down when the plane ran into some turbulence. I refused to sit up and put on my seat-belt, even when she threatened to tell the captain.

  Back at our home in India, I spent the next few months undergoing traction therapy with the guidance of my sister-in-law, Usha, and a trusted doctor. The traction, using bricks tied to a rope which was tied to my waist over a pulley, would lengthen my spine and allow the disc to slip back into place. Since the hospital project was at a standstill until the Goels provided more funds, it did not matter if I lay in bed all day. Standing even for a few minutes to brush my teeth, shower, or go to the bathroom was too painful. Raj tended to my needs, and our servant placed the bricks throughout the day, alternately increasing and decreasing the weight as instructed by the doctor. At one time, our servant tied ten bricks tied to the rope. In this way, my body slowly returned to normal over a four-month period.

  After three months of bed rest, getting up only to use the bathroom and do physiotherapy exercises my doctor prescribed me, we began reducing the number of bricks little by little according to the doctor’s recommendations.

  During this time, the Goels continued to pay me, and they also paid for my medical expenses. Once I began feeling better, I was able to socialize, enjoying a drink and a good meal with relatives and friends. It took me almost four months to rehabilitate myself and get on my feet again.

  Before leaving for India, I had put the contract for the sale of the Boudnot apartment complex property in the care of Mr. Jones, a lawyer referred to me by Mr. Gilreath. One evening, I called him to see if he had collected the money owed to me according to the contract the buyers had signed, agreeing to pay the full amount at the end of five years. Now, five and a half years later, and I looked forward to good news. My share was seventy percent and totaled $85,000. R.P. Singh, my limited partner, would receive the other thirty percent.

  To my surprise, when I inquired in late 1988, Mr. Jones informed me that the men had not made any payments because they knew I was out of the country. I was in shock. How could they go against the contract like that? Just because I was thousands of miles away didn’t mean I wouldn’t do anything about it. Remembering that one of the men was a doctor who would not want his reputation ruined, I instructed Mr. Jones to prepare legal action against the men.

  Mr. Jones informed me I needed to pay him $3,000 up front before he would do anything. Not having this money on hand, I called R.P. Singh and persuaded him to help out with this amount. After all, if we didn’t do anything, we both would be out of a large sum of money.

  A few months later, Mr. Jones informed me by letter that he had recovered the money. I wrote back, instructing him to give thirty percent to R.P. Singh and to put the remainder in a trust account. In the back of my mind, I thought, If I return to America, this chunk of money will create a good cushion to fall back on as my family and I transition to life in the States. I could not put my relief into words. It seemed to be the one thing going right when the past few years had only brought me financial frustration.

  At the same time, I asked Mr. Jones to settle a matter with the IRS that had plagued me the past few years. In 1984, I received letters stating I owed the IRS more than $8,000. An investment shown in my tax returns had been disqualified for a deduction, and I now
owed them that amount plus interest. Later, in 1985, I learned that the accountant who had calculated the figures in my tax return was wanted by the FBI for fraud. He and his wife had fled to Florida after the IRS audited him for fraudulent filing of tax returns. At the time, I did not have $8000 to pay the IRS, so I did nothing, hoping the matter would go away after a few years.

  Now that I had the money from the Boudnot properties, I told Mr. Jones to settle the matter with the IRS. After some time, Mr. Jones informed me that he had paid the amount which had gone up to $12,000. Relieved that this issue was taken care of, I insisted that Mr. Jones obtain a letter from the IRS stating the matter was resolved. I felt it was necessary to have something in writing to prove I was in good standing with the IRS. A short time later, Mr. Jones mailed me a copy of the letter written and signed by the IRS. I tucked it away into my files, thankful this issue would no longer haunt me.

  Chapter 23

  Near the end of 1985, Satish persuaded me to become a partner in his television manufacturing business. At first, feeling reluctant, I finally agreed to run the factory he planned to open in Indore, state of Madhya Pradesh. There is a word in the Punjabi language, rozgari, meaning one should not pass up any opportunity that could provide income for his family. Maybe God has created this opportunity through Satish, so I can have a prestigious income-producing business in India, I thought to myself. Since the proposed 500-bed hospital had been reduced to 125 beds, and the Goels still could not get a loan, I did not have anything to do at the hospital.

  Although I knew nothing about the television manufacturing business, Satish assured me I would learn easily due to my management experience and education. Satish’s marketing associate, Girish Bhatt, accompanied me to Indore where we found a rental space to open the factory. While my family stayed in New Delhi to finish out the school year, I checked into the Shree Maya hotel in Indore and threw myself headfirst into opening the factory and running a successful enterprise. I had spent two weeks in Satish’s factory in Noida, near New Delhi, learning everything I needed to know, and with a newfound confidence, I told myself this would be a successful venture.

  I named the company, Suny Electronics, and after six months, we were manufacturing and selling close to three thousand televisions a month. However, Mr. Bhatt and I began running into problems with a certain distributor who was complaining about the dealers he sold the televisions to. There were cash flow problems, and Mr. Bhatt, displeased with this distributor, gave him two weeks notice. We switched to a new distributor. The old one became angry at us for canceling with him on such short notice, and the news spread all across Madhya Pradesh.

  In the meantime, Raj called to tell me Christopher had fallen off his bike and broken his tooth. The neighbor took Raj and Christopher to see a dentist who had returned from England. The dentist said, “If you can find the broken tooth, I may be able to put it back in place. If you do find it, place it in cold water and keep it in the water until you can bring Christopher in to see me.”

  After returning home, Subhash, Rajan, our driver, and a servant went to the site of the bicycle accident and looked for the tooth in the dirt. After sifting through the dirt for several minutes, one of them found it. Raj cleaned the tooth and kept it in water just as the dentist said. The next day, she and Christopher returned to the dentist. He placed the tooth where it broke off and, according to Christopher, used a regular hammer to pound the tooth back into place. Although in great pain, Christopher did not scream or protest. The dentist told Raj this tooth would be good for fifteen years, and then Christopher would need to get an implant.

  Christopher told us later that as he sat in the dentist’s chair, he thought, Here I am in a dentist’s office, where this dentist is using a hammer to put back my tooth that was in the dirt for several hours! This was a very different picture from the dentist’s office in the US where we had taken Subhash for his dental check-ups.

  When I heard stories like this from my wife and sons, I wished with all my heart for different circumstances. How could I have known that the Goel hospital would never be built? I left New Delhi without any prior notification to Arun Mangal or Z.M. Goel. No one objected, since there was no progress on the project, and Z.M. Goel had stepped out. Now G.B. Goel was pursuing the project just for the sake of it. They continued paying me until February 1986, and in late 1986, I discussed the matter with Mr. Mangal, claiming that my contract was for three years, and they needed to continue paying me. As of that moment, it had only been two years and three months. Feeling bad since he had been the one to interview me and show me the good side of the Goels’ organization, Mr. Mangal said he would see what he could do. He discussed the matter with D.P. Bakhsi, who did not wish to give me any money, but in the end, Z.M. Goel approved paying me for the remainder of my contract period. It did not take much persuasion, since he also felt guilty for bringing me into their mess. The way I left the Goel organization was unusual and unprofessional, but under the circumstances, it was the best way for me to depart at the time.

  After three years of running the television factory, I didn’t know how much more I could take. I am in a prison, I said to myself one day. The distributors are telling me what to do instead of the other way around. The five distributors in the state had me by the tail, and the dealers who sold the televisions were dancing around me, knowing I was helpless to do anything. Although I felt trapped, I still tried to talk sense into the dealers. For months, Mr. Bhatt and I traveled from city to city to learn their problems and answer their concerns. We hoped they would pay, but no one offered to repay the money they owed. Suny Electronics, running on five months of credit, could not survive much longer without payment. The amount owed to us was thirty lakh rupees, the equivalent of $150,000.

  As a last resort, I refused to send the distributors more televisions unless they paid first. In one case, a distributor finally agreed and gave us a bank draft number and draft amount over the phone, saying the draft was in the mail. Then, as soon as Suny Electronics sent the shipment, he canceled the draft, depositing the money back into his account.

  Even when Satish invited the distributors to meet with him at a hotel and discuss their complaints and concerns, there was no change in their behavior. Not even the owner’s presence could push them to do the right thing. Furthermore, Mr. Bhatt took a passive stance with his responsibilities, only acting if I told him to. He did not like asking me for approval of the marketing promotions as I requested. Later on, I learned he had been selling a different brand of cheaper televisions under the table to our distributors. Infuriated, I informed Satish. When Satish confronted Mr. Bhatt about the matter, the man broke into tears, saying he was having trouble communicating with me and could barely keep up with the marketing pressures to maintain sales.

  Satish decided to bring Mr. Bhatt back to New Delhi, since he had previously been a loyal employee for many years, and he promised to assign his best marketing man to my factory. In the meantime, the distributors took advantage of my lack of marketing experience. They formed a group to share with each other their complaints about the Indore factory, and they refused to pay any old amounts until we sent them new material.

  Each night, I returned home to have dinner with my family, and even though I was mentally exhausted, I kept my chin up for the sake of Raj and the kids. At night, I cried myself to sleep because even though I was the owner of a television factory, I felt like a prisoner locked in a small, dark room.

  In April 1989, Satish informed me of his decision to move my factory to Pithampur due to the end of the seven percent sales tax exemption in Indore. In Pithampur, we would have advantage over the competition because the city was in a Special Economic Zone, meaning it was also sales tax exempt. Moving to a new building would reduce our operating costs by $5,000 a month. While still running the Indore factory, I traveled fifty kilometers back and forth to Pithampur to make preparations. I put in sixteen-hour days, and by the time I reached home, poured a drink, and sat down to eat, I
had never felt so exhausted.

  I was sad about so many things at the time. The Indore factory I put so much work into was coming to a close, and even the name, “Suny Electronics,” was scrapped for a new one. I was sad because out of the eighty employees at the Indore factory, I could keep only twelve. Telling so many people they no longer had work took a toll on my heart.

  I felt like I did not belong in this environment. I did not fit in with the people in the television manufacturing industry who thought nothing of ignoring their debts while telling you they would pay. What they said never matched what they thought or what they actually did. I based my entire profession in the States on honesty and straightforwardness, telling my colleagues and the employees working for me exactly what I thought. There was no hidden meaning, no dealings under the table. Here, you couldn’t trust anyone.

  And it is strange how even the smallest, least significant things can make you sad. As I left the Indore factory for the last time, my tears overflowed at the sight of the flowers and the mango trees I had so carefully chosen for the landscaping around the factory. They were a touch of love and beauty I hoped to give to a cold and unfeeling place.

  In June 1990, I received the accounting report for the fiscal year 1989. I shut the door to my office and sat at my desk, staring at the impossible figure. Suny Electronics had made a net profit of only fifty thousand rupees, the equivalent of $2,500. My share totaled a whopping $625. I could have cried, knowing my yearly share equaled one-eighth of my monthly salary in America. I had worked for next to nothing day in and day out, year after year, with no assets to show for it—no house, car, or household furniture to call my own.