by Sonu Bhasin
But the border control officer would not let him enter without a proper visa. ‘I did not have a visa because I did not apply for one,’ said Kuldip. He argued with the officer but to no avail. ‘I was put into detention,’ said Kuldip. ‘Detention area before deporting,’ he continued.
At the detention centre, he met another Indian—Darshan Shah. The Shahs owned a cinema in Delhi, and Darshan was on a budget holiday to Europe. He did not have a visa either. Kuldip struck up a friendship with him and both friends decided to head to Paris.
The two boys may have been deported but they had not lost their spirit. Paris was their destination!
After living the good life in the romantic city for a while, they realized that they were running out of money. It was grape-picking time at the vineyards and there were plenty of jobs on offer. Grape-picking sounded attractive for a variety of reasons. ‘There would be other young people like us there. Accommodation and food would be provided by the vineyard owners,’ said Kuldip, adding with a smile ‘and I was sure wine would also be available.’
While they were pouring over the maps checking the various locations of the vineyards, Kuldip saw an advertisement that got him excited.
The ‘salespeople wanted’ ad was by an American company that published niche magazines for specific professions and hobbies. The company was looking for salespeople in Holland to sell subscriptions for the magazines. Tickets to travel to Holland as well as hotel rooms would be provided by the company. ‘The best thing was that the money was much better than what the grape-picking job was offering,’ said Kuldip.
He weighted the pros and cons of both and figured that there was also a sales-linked bonus in the magazine-selling job. The money decided it. ‘I had to earn the money as the time to go back home was coming near. So I chose the magazine-sales job even though I knew that we would have had more fun in the grape-picking job,’ said Kuldip. He convinced Darshan to do the same and both of them applied for the job.
‘Was it a scam or something?’ I asked a bit sceptically as selling magazine subscriptions seemed a bit dicey.
‘Not at all,’ said Kuldip. The publishers were genuine and so were the magazines. There were magazines for people who were interested in specific activities. ‘Jewellery, gardening, accounting, legal, horticulture, pottery—you name it and there was a magazine for it,’ said Kuldip.
The friends applied and got the job. They were handed their train tickets and the hotel vouchers for Holland.
It did not take long for Kuldip to find his sales rhythm. ‘The deal was that we had to sell subscriptions during the day. We would start early, immediately after breakfast, and would be dropped off in the territory by the supervisor. We had to go from door to door and introduce ourselves,’ explained Kuldip. It was a total cold-calling sales job. By any parameters cold calls generate very little sales. The market practice is that cold colds result in a mere 1 per cent sales conversion. But Kuldip was unfazed and delved right into the sales routine.
The magazine company, realizing that cold calls were difficult, had worked out a sales training for their salespeople. To make the introduction easier the salespeople were coached to say that they were students and doing a sales training. They were asked to say that there was a competition between all students to see who would sell more. They would speak in English but if the residents only understood Dutch, they were told to mug up the introduction in Dutch. ‘Ig bin mit ein student cruppen. We hebben een competitie tussen ons [I am a student and we sell magazines. We have a competition between us],’ Kuldip reeled off, with complete ease even after many years.
The salespeople had an incentive plan that was fairly lucrative. ‘If we sold three subscriptions before lunch, we got an extra cash incentive. And then if we sold a total of five subscriptions in a day we got a double bonus,’ said Kuldip.
Kuldip had never sold magazines before and did not know Dutch either. While the rest of the team needed to make six or seven calls before getting one sale, Kuldip, with his salesmanship, was able to get a sale much faster. Five sales in a day became the norm for him. He started earning a double bonus from the first day at his job. However, the double bonus was split between him and Darshan.
Darshan had not been very keen on the Holland job. He had preferred the grape-picking one. He came from a well-off family and was not working for the money. Kuldip, on the other hand, needed all the money he could earn. To make things easier for Darshan, Kuldip had told the supervisors that Darshan and he would work as a team. That meant that while the salaries would be paid separately, the incentives would be shared between the two friends. Darshan and the supervisor had agreed to this arrangement.
The Kuldip–Darshan team was working well, earning a double bonus every day. Even though Kuldip was doing most of the selling, both men were happy after splitting the earnings since the bonuses were good. ‘We anyway had hotel accommodation and breakfast was taken care of,’ said Kuldip.
Their supervisor soon started complaining and split the team. The logic used by him was that Darshan could not piggyback on Kuldip’s success and had to start generating his own revenue. Kuldip’s friend tried to sell subscriptions but found that he could not. He decided to quit and go back to grape-picking. ‘It would be back-breaking no doubt but at least he did not have to convince the grapes to be picked,’ laughed Kuldip.
Darshan told Kuldip to also quit and go grape-picking with him. ‘But I was enjoying myself and earning good money. And with Darshan gone, all the money would be mine. No splitting!’ beamed Kuldip.
The two friends hugged and promised to meet again soon and each went his own way.
Now that Kuldip was on his own, he was in his element. Selling came naturally to him. It also helped that he was a turbaned Sikh. ‘Sometimes the woman at home would call her husband at work and tell him, “There is a maharaja in our house.” Other times the people at home would invite me in and give me a cup of tea. Then they would ask if they could take a photo with me,’ said Kuldip.
He loved the mini-celebrity status. The more door bells he rang to sell, the better the salesman he became. Today people say that Kuldip can sell them anything. Little do they know that he cut his teeth doing door-to-door sales in Holland—selling magazine subscriptions in a foreign land to people who may not have spoken English.
Seeing a turbaned brown man in an all-white neighbourhood didn’t, however, delight everyone. One concerned woman called the police to complain that there was a ‘strange-looking man’ in the neighbourhood. The police arrived and politely asked him to accompany them to the police station.
As Kuldip told me the story I got the sense that he was less upset about going to the police station than about being called ‘strange-looking’!
The police asked Kuldip about his briefcase and the reason he was moving around in the neighbourhood. Kuldip whipped out the business card of his supervisor and told the police to call him for details. When the police asked about the magazines, Kuldip opened the briefcase and showed them the array of titles. ‘I think I sold one of the police guys a subscription as well,’ he said proudly.
Kuldip was living the good life in Holland. He was earning good money as well. ‘I was able to buy better shoes, some new clothes and even a warm coat,’ said Kuldip.
Life here was good but there was another life waiting for him in Amritsar. ‘Duty called,’ he said seriously. He had taken permission from Sohan Singh to be away for a couple of months and it had been almost six months. One part of his mind wondered if he could stay on longer but the other part quickly dismissed the notion.
His supervisor was very unhappy when Kuldip told him that he was leaving. ‘But you are my star performer!’ he exclaimed and continued, ‘We were going to promote you shortly.’
‘But duty is duty and I knew that my brother was waiting for me,’ said Kuldip as he politely turned down the offer to stay back. He headed for Paris to get some paperwork done for his travel back. The plan was to hitch-hike all the way b
ack to Istanbul and then Kabul. Pakistan did not allow Indians to travel through the country, so he would have to take a flight from Kabul to India.
Sixteen
‘We Asked the Policeman in Paris How to Go to India’
Once in France, Kuldip started planning his trip back home. Meanwhile, unknown to Kuldip, three young Frenchmen were planning to drive to India. Jean Claude, who was to become Kuldip’s business associate twenty years later, was one of them.
A friend of Jean Claude’s, an animal aficionado, worked in the local zoo and had decided that he wanted to go to Kaziranga to see the animals there. The animal lover’s friend owned a Volkswagen minivan and was agreeable to be part of the India trip. Jean Claude became the third person of the group.
In those days not many people travelled to India and that too by road. As part of the preparation they had to get maps and route plans. Google Maps did not exist in 1967!
‘So we had a lot of paper maps!’ Jean Claude exclaimed, indicating with his hands the thickness of the sheaves of paper maps. The minivan was readied for the three friends and a small paper that read ‘Paris to Calcutta’ was stuck on the back windscreen.
The three friends started from their city, and drove to Paris for the long drive to India. However, they promptly lost their way within the city.
‘We were not from Paris and did not know how to get out of Paris,’ said Jean Claude. Paris has many ring roads and the minivan took one road after another but could not find the right exit.
They saw a policeman at a junction. They stopped and asked the policeman if he could help them.
‘Where do you want to go?’ asked the policeman. ‘To India,’ said the boys.
‘What? Are you making fun of me?’ the policeman asked angrily.
‘We told him to look at the back of the van where we had our paper poster that said “Paris to Calcutta,”’ laughed Jean Claude.
The policeman was still not convinced and wanted to check their papers. Once he was convinced that the men were indeed going to India, he guided the van to the right exit out of Paris. ‘This is the first time someone has asked me directions to India,’ the policeman muttered to himself.
The van finally hit the highway. Soon they spotted a turbaned man on the highway, waiting to hitch a ride.
‘I remember it was raining. It was October. I saw this man with a blue turban,’ said Jean Claude. ‘I had not seen many people from India but I thought he might be an Indian. Maybe he would know the way to India!’
Jean Claude was joking, of course, as it was fairly improbable that a stray hitch-hiker would know the road route to India. ‘If not the way, he could perhaps give us information about India itself,’ clarified Jean Claude. The minivan stopped for the blue-turbaned hitch-hiker.
Kuldip, with this backpack, was waiting on the highway to start hitch-hiking to Istanbul. He was delighted that the minivan had stopped for him. A young Frenchman with a curly mop of hair and a thick French accent leaned out of the van.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Jean Claude.
Kuldip looked Jean Claude in the eye and said, ‘I am going to India.’
‘Ah, so are we. Hop in,’ said Jean Claude, with a straight face, even though he was surprised.
He chuckled as he told me the story. As if in tune with the story being told, the drizzle outside picked up and turned into a full-fledged pre-monsoon shower. The pitter-patter of the heavy rain provided the drumbeat to the story being related.
Back on the highway, it was still raining. Kuldip had difficulty believing that Jean Claude was really going to India. He stared at Jean Claude speechlessly.
‘Really! India? Who drives all the way to India?’ Kuldip asked. ‘They must be pulling my leg,’ he thought.
He nevertheless hopped into the minivan, settled down and waited for it to get off the main highway.
‘One hour passed, two hours and then three,’ said Jean Claude as he took a sip of hot coffee and continued, ‘and we were still on the highway, showing no signs of slowing down.’
With each passing hour Kuldip continued to ask, ‘But really, where are you going?’
‘He could not believe that we were really going to India,’ laughed Jean Claude. ‘Finally, we told him to look at the little poster on the back windshield,’ he said.
Kuldip swivelled and looked at it for a full minute. Then he looked at the three Frenchmen and laughed out loud, clapping his hands.
‘We became good friends—he and I,’ said Jean Claude.
The three Frenchmen found Kuldip’s presence very useful. He became their navigator as he had hitch-hiked the entire way a few months ago. ‘The best part was that I got a ride from Paris all the way to Istanbul and I did not have to wait to hitch-hike rides. It was like a private car but I did not have to pay a penny,’ said Kuldip.
In a week the minivan reached Istanbul. It was here that Kuldip bid goodbye to the three Frenchmen. Kuldip had some paperwork to complete in Istanbul and did not want to hold up the other travellers. ‘But he had given us his address in Amritsar and had told us that all of us had to come and stay with him and his family,’ said Jean Claude. ‘I had to organize some money in Istanbul as I had to take a flight from Kabul to India. My passport said that it was valid for all countries except South Africa and Pakistan. South Africa was under apartheid and Pakistan . . . you know the reason!’ Kuldip explained.
The minivan continued on its road journey to Kabul. On reaching, they went to the local camping site. It had been an arduous journey through the mountains and the arid landscape. The Frenchmen had been on the road for over ten days and had decided to spend a couple of days there before carrying on to Pakistan and then India.
‘One late evening when I returned to the campsite I saw a turbaned man hovering around our minivan,’ said Jean Claude. It was dusk, and the moon was not up yet. In the dim light, Jean Claude saw the man moving suspiciously, peering into the windows and testing the handle of the van to check if it was open. ‘Afghanistan was full of tall, well-built turbaned men, and I thought he might be a robber. I did not want trouble, but I wanted to draw the man’s attention. So I thought the best thing to do was to call out a name and act as if I thought the suspicious man was a friend,’ said Jean Claude. ‘I yelled, “Kuldip!”’
‘And guess what—It was Kuldip!’ said Jean Claude and burst out laughing.
Kuldip had hitch-hiked to Kabul after collecting his money, and had wanted to check if his friends were around before taking a flight to India. It was logical to go to the campsite.
The two friends hugged and slapped each other’s backs and spent some time together. Kuldip invited the three men once again to Amritsar and went to the airport.
‘I took a flight to India and went to Amritsar. Fun and games were over and I went back to work,’ he said in a tone of finality, drawing the curtain on the six months in which he became a man of the world.
1967–70
‘Our holidays are always about adventure and the outdoors. Horse riding, mo-bike riding, boating, mountain climbing—we do it all. Kuldip does not like being indoors’—Meeta Dhingra, Kuldip’s wife.
Seventeen
‘I Was a Shopkeeper in Amritsar’
Kuldip returned to Amritsar full of stories and gifts for the family.
‘My chacha came back from his Europe trip wearing a blue suit and carrying blue clothes for me,’ said Simran Dhingra Chandhok. ‘He thought I was a boy!’ she laughed.
Simran, Sohan Singh and Amrit Kaur’s third daughter, was born in Amritsar while Kuldip was in Iran, on his way back to India. Kuldip received the message that his elder brother was blessed with his third child. ‘He, for some reason, assumed I was a boy and came back bearing blue gifts,’ continued Simran. Gender confusion notwithstanding, of all Kuldip’s nieces and nephews, she is the closest to him. ‘We have a special bond—Kuldip chacha and I. I can talk to him about anything,’ she added.
Sohan Singh was very happy that he now had an
extra pair of hands to help. Gurbachan had joined college after finishing his school and continued to go to the factory after studies. ‘I had grown to like the factory work. Plus, I had literally seen the factory come up right before me and had an emotional connect with it,’ said Gurbachan. Kuldip would manage the shop and the front end of the business while Sohan and Gurbachan focused on the factory. This informal division of duties suited all the three brothers as both Kuldip and Gurbachan used their strengths. Sohan Singh was then free to plan better for the expansion of the business.
Kuldip took charge of the shop at Hall Bazaar. The older shop, called the 1898 shop by the Dhingras, was still managed by the working partners. The Hall Bazaar shop had only a junior manager who managed it with two experienced workers while Sohan Singh was at the factory. Now, with Kuldip back, the shop had a full-time owner-manager.
‘What was shopkeeping like?’ I asked out of curiosity. Shops and stores today are managed by people using computers to check stock, do the billing and even add the cash. I wondered how shopkeepers kept track of their business as there were no computers in 1967.
‘Oh it was completely different. Everything had to be done manually,’ Kuldip said. The stock register was kept next to the till and every time a sale was made Kuldip would open the register, take a pen and update the stock position. The same was done for the cash. Each sale transaction was entered manually. ‘We had a bahi—a register—in which all cash transactions of the day were made,’ he explained. The accountant would come once a week and check all the cash entries made in the bahi. Once he tallied the bahi with the stock register, the accounts would be updated in the khaata—the book of accounts. ‘It was a tedious process but it was effective,’ said Kuldip. In fact, there are large businesses that use the same concept of the bahi–khaata even today.
The shop by now had a multitude of products to sell. Before Kuldip told me about the various SKUs (stock-keeping units) in the shop, he gave me a tutorial about how paints were sold in the late 1960s.