SIkander

by M. Salahuddin Khan

  Jamil took note of Sikander’s inquiries, though with little concern that this might be any more than an exploratory conversation. Regardless, it was intriguing.

  “Well,” said Sikander, “I imagine there’ll be a time when it becomes interesting. If Javelin was to acquire a national distributor in the U.S. we could use our Chinese sources and buy in much greater volume than we can support here in Pakistan, but the lower costs would also benefit our competitiveness in the Pakistani market.”

  “Sikander, if you’d like I can keep an eye out for an opportunity, but it’s such a big place—any particular area of the country?”

  Sikander pondered. “Los Angeles might be a good choice for Chinese imports, or New York, perhaps. After that I don’t know, maybe Chicago? Houston? Detroit?”

  “I can certainly look into those places, but let me begin with North Carolina or Virginia. At least I’m familiar with the area.”

  Rabia, Kausar, and Sofie were asleep in the car as they headed back across Peshawar to Hayatabad, late that evening.

  “Were you serious about investing in the U.S., Sikander bhai?” asked Jamil.

  “Reasonably. I mean, thanks to you, we’ve some of the best information systems and lowest cost of operations in our business, so the focus has to be on product costs and that’s what you heard me describe to Salman.”

  “Sikander bhai, the logic’s fine, but I’d say it’s down to execution risks—you know, hidden problems we might not see in a company we end up buying? But are you sure you want to do this in America and not Europe? I mean…with your—”

  “My ‘experience?’ Huh! No, Jamil, I’m not sure,” smiled Sikander, “but it’s worth considering further, don’t you think? It’s just one possibility, but I like it because it’s a single, large market in many ways, so even if we only bought a regional wholesaler instead of a national distributor, we’d still be able to expand across the country more quickly than across several European ones.”

  Months passed and nothing came of Sikander’s thoughts about a presence in America, but he worked diligently on the supply side to conclude more lucrative deals for product sourcing, particularly in China. He traveled to Shanghai on more than one occasion and was impressed with the pace of development there. It reminded him of the transformation he had seen take place in Dubai over the last twenty years.

  Shanghai’s gleaming architecture and pristine highways, stirred in Sikander’s mind thoughts of what education and human development could accomplish. Ayesha was already crawling, and his concern for providing the best opportunity for his children was frequently at the forefront of his mind. In this he had no argument from Rabia. On several occasions, they discussed setting up in the United States and although neither of them could imagine a place of greater opportunity for the children, Rabia couldn’t conceal her apprehension about him risking his freedom again.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I do still have the State Department letter.” Sikander reminded her. “Dianne said it would make clear to the people in Islamabad that they should issue me a visa or, at the very least, they should ignore that I’d been wrongly held in Guantanamo. But then again, who knows what it actually says?”

  “If you think it’s the right way to build Javelin, then you should do it and trust in Allah to clear away the obstacles,” Rabia offered. “I certainly like the idea of the children getting their schooling in America or England, but if America’s the right place for business, then bismillah! I’m with you.”

  Over the next two years, Javelin grew substantially. When customers were interested in large purchases, Sikander would occasionally get involved, and in one or two cases he came across buyers who spoke Urdu or English in strange accents. He had kept the business card that Dianne had given him and dutifully called the number if he suspected the proposed buyers to be nefarious. He passed on whatever information he had to a contact person—with the obviously fictitious name of Mr. Flintstone—who took down the particulars each time, never failing to thank Sikander.

  Javelin acquired or opened smaller outlets in the NWFP area, as well as moving aggressively to expand beyond its established cities to add several more nationally. The company grew the diversity of its imports. It also acquired a few local manufacturers. The latter gave them significant cost advantages where customers weren’t looking for international name-brand products, but for the lowest price. The combination of Sikander’s risk-taking and the meticulously cautious approach of Jamil worked extremely well.

  By the start of 2006, Javelin was on target to generate revenue of $9 million and had been floated on the Karachi stock exchange as the nation’s premier wholesaler in its class. Having floated 40% of the company, the family grossed $16 million.

  Flush with this cash, on top of a meaningful stockpile from years of successful operations, the brothers agreed that Salman should now pursue his search for acquisition targets more seriously. Sikander’s lawyers provided him with the conditions of the E-2 visa for the United States, which would be easy to fulfill, and Salman found a counterpart attorney in Durham who would handle the immigration process once a company had been earmarked.

  In mid-March, after two months of searching, Salman finally called with news.

  “There’s a regional distributor based in Henderson, not far from where we are,” he explained. “They’re called Carolectric Corporation, with about ninety million dollars in sales. The company has three hundred and fifty people on payroll and is looking for cash because an eighteen-million-dollar bond is maturing soon. Gordon Elmer’s the owner. He’s seventy-two, and none of his three children wants to buy his company from him or run it. Huh! They’d rather inherit the sale proceeds when he dies!”

  “How much is he looking for?”

  “Honestly, I think he’ll settle at around seventy-two million for the company’s stock; he owns it all. At his age, net of taxes, it’ll still mean a handy retirement figure. With the company in your hands, you’ll need to put in an additional eighteen million to cover the maturing bond, and for that, you’d issue yourself new stock. Oh, and one more thing, Elmer doesn’t want to act on this until at least September.”

  The men agreed on a plan of action. Sikander discussed it with Jamil, who concurred subject to careful review of the numbers. A new U.S. corporation—capitalized with $15 million in cash transferred from Javelin—would be created. That would provide the necessary U.S. balance sheet for bank financiers or private equity firms to come in with $75 million in financing. From the resulting $90 million, the new U.S. company would pay Carolectric’s owner $72 million to acquire it and drop the remaining $18 million directly into Carolectric, which would authorize additional shares and issue them to its new parent in exchange for the added cash. That would then go to paying the bond at maturity. Salman was to arrange the new company formation, while Sikander and Jamil would coordinate the financing.

  April came and Sikander proposed that the family travel to America. Getting firsthand experience of the place was long overdue, and soon, Sikander was finalizing plans for a trip in late July, after Ayub and Qayyum’s school term was over. Dianne’s letter was finally to be put to use. He filled out and submitted their visa applications, adding a note saying he had a sealed letter from the U.S. State Department. He included a photocopy of the envelope showing the State Department seal and indicated that he would make it available in person should the application make it as far as an interview. Not surprisingly, it did.

  Sikander and Rabia were interviewed and by June, they and the children were the proud holders of U.S. visas. Excitement in the family mounted until finally, on July 20, they boarded a PIA flight from Islamabad to Jeddah, transferring to Saudi Arabian Airlines, bound for Washington, D.C. the next day. Their month-long tour of America was about to begin.

  The family traveled first-class on the eleven-hour flight out of Jeddah. For Sikander, sitting by a window, with pampering service, the contrast between this flight and the one out of Afghanistan, bound, h
ooded, and shackled in the back of a USAF Starlifter, couldn’t have been greater.

  It was two-thirty in the afternoon, Washington time, when the aircraft began its descent. Sikander watched eagerly, wanting to catch his first glimpse of the country. He still couldn’t explain why his yearning to visit America survived unabated.

  The approach to Dulles on that clear July afternoon enabled Sikander to see the Washington Monument and the Capitol in the distance, while down below, vehicles streamed along neatly manicured highways, going about their business. Order was everywhere.

  The view, combining the icons of American power and ordinary lives being led, gave the scene an emblematic quality to Sikander. All those people down there, all that civilization, he thought. These are the people that Bin Laden is trying to annihilate and these are the people doing their level best to direct their resources to annihilating him and his cronies.

  The family breezed through customs and immigration. Before long, they were in the terminal looking for their luggage, a currency exchange, and a rental car. Sikander was surprised at how effortless each experience was. It contrasted sharply with the obstacles that, absent a bribe or two, seemed to be in the path of any endeavor in Pakistan, but especially one involving civil institutions.

  Their first stop was to be with Salman’s family in Durham. The route out of Dulles led them around the periphery of Washington south on I-95 through verdant rolling woodlands and the farm country of eastern Virginia.

  Sikander’s focus was consumed by the novelty of sitting in the left seat and paying attention to the GPS system negotiating the highway interchanges at the outskirts of Washington. Rabia and Ayesha were soon asleep. But Ayub and Qayyum gawked at just about everything, delighting in beating each other to the punch in shouting out new and interesting sights, particularly the brands and models of vehicles unknown to them in Pakistan. Two hours out of Dulles, the low sun to their right reflected off a beautifully calm James River as the Range Rover crossed it in Richmond. Another two hours passed, and with a few twists and turns off the highway, they were in one of Durham’s pricier suburbs when the navigation system made its final and welcome pronouncement: “You have arrived.” By now, everyone but Sikander was asleep, but stirred reluctantly to endure the task of piling out of the vehicle.

  The tired family was warmly received by Salman, his wife, and their three children, each of comparable ages to Ayub, Qayyum and Ayesha. Finding a second wind, mostly from confused body clocks, it didn’t take long for Rabia and the children to lose all sense of drowsiness. A few, mostly local friends had been invited that evening to meet the new arrivals. After a light meal and small talk about the state of Pakistan and America, the friends left and Sikander, Rabia, Salman, and Sabrina unwound in the family room. Ayub and Qayyum occupied themselves with unfamiliar but engaging games and toys to which they had been introduced upon their arrival. A final evening cup of green tea was served and the four adults chatted idly for a while. Not being much of one for TV shows and movies, and therefore having never heard a French accent, Rabia found Sabrina’s melodic tones enchanting.

  Rabia was also fascinated by the home’s décor. Her eyes darted busily from one thing to another and her head swiveled a little more noticeably than normal, as she processed the possibilities for how her home in Hayatabad might benefit from similar design ideas. Her curiosity caught Sabrina’s eye.

  “Why don’t I give you a tour, Rabia,” she offered, and in a heartbeat, the two of them were on their way. The house was not small, and Rabia had much to take in and ask about, so it took a while for them to return. While they were away, the two men chatted about Carolectric.

  “I spoke to Gordon Elmer this morning. He’s eager to meet with you on Monday. Still seems hung up about not wanting his life’s work to be destroyed by someone looking for a short-term gain. You really need to focus on how you’re going to take it forward when you meet him, Sikander. And it wouldn’t hurt to tell him you’ll keep the name.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem, Salman. Not after he and I have looked each other in the eye.”

  Sikander and Salman chatted about a variety of other non-business related topics and before long their wives were walking back into the family room.

  “…they’re cherry, which is a popular wood in this country, Rabia,” explained Sabrina as the two of them ambled out of the kitchen. The tour was complete.

  Salman noticed that Sikander was flagging. “You can rest up this weekend. I can introduce you to friends or we can go sightseeing. You don’t have to decide right now.”

  The family was shown to their rooms. Rabia and Sikander caught up on a day’s worth of delayed prayers. Ayub and Qayyum shared a bedroom with Salman and Sabrina’s son, Isa, who was already asleep. Ayesha slept in her parents’ room.

  “Impressive home, isn’t it, Rabia?” Sikander remarked, as he lay next to her.

  “Certainly is. I especially like the bathroom. It must be nice and bright in the daylight. There’s a window in the ceiling.”

  “Hmmm…” said Sikander, dozing off.

  The weekend was a perfect break for them all. Salman and Sabrina set up a brunch buffet in the kitchen and invited more guests over. The conversations were warm and friendly.

  Sikander could see much of the allure of living in this country and the genteel nature of the people he met. What was it, he wondered, about conflicts that heightened people’s inclination to see otherness as a simple caricature of reality—demon or human? Whether it was al-Qaeda’s zealots, soldiers in Afghanistan, interrogators in Guantanamo, or everyday Americans, as here, it was always the human “we” against the demon “other”. We would always be textured and complex. The other was always simple and one-dimensional, composed entirely of the evil that propelled it to seek our annihilation. And in the case of these Americans, what was it that made such individually kind-hearted people like these fuse into a militarily collective intent with often such heartless results? Constantly prowling Sikander’s psyche, these thoughts always gained ascendancy upon his experiencing positive images of America.

  The conversations were polite and generally the neighbors, who were all white Caucasians except for one African American couple, exhibited concern for the state of things in Pakistan, such as poverty, and lack of access to good education or health care. Their opinions, though loosely valid, seemed informed largely by TV and the popular press, and lacked the nuances that might bring the conversations beyond the polite pleasantries that they were. Still, to Sikander their concern did seem genuine.

  On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, bringing lunch with them, the two families went to the Eno River State Park to unwind. They ate and took a stroll. Whenever they reached a high enough clearing, a vast, emerald carpet of treetops seemed to stretch to the horizon, reflecting perfectly the contours of the hills in which the trees were rooted.

  “Can we live here?” Ayub asked.

  “You’d like that eh, Ayub?” asked Sikander as Ayub nodded fiercely.

  “Me too Abba-jee. Are we moving here?” chimed in Qayyum.

  “We’ll see. Maybe…” replied Sikander in classic parentspeak.

  “It’s so silent. Not even a hint of traffic,” Sikander said.

  “Yes, and so beautiful! So many trees, they go on and on!” Rabia declared.

  “So? Would you like to live here, Rabia?”

  “America, you mean? Or Durham?”

  “Well, I know we haven’t seen much of anything else, but I meant the country.”

  “Umm…let’s ask that question after trip’s over. I must say, though, I’ve found the people to be a lot more friendly and pleasant than I’d imagined. And the whole place seems so well organized.”

  Rabia had come to America with her own notions of American anti-Afghan and anti-Muslim sentiments and, in her hijab, had half expected to be pilloried for allowing herself to be “oppressed” from the moment others laid eyes upon her. Though there might have been such sentiments, people gene
rally left them alone or were outright pleasant. She was also pleased to see Sikander absorbing the environment and the novelty of the experience. Perhaps finally, she hoped, this trip might put some of his demons to rest.

  “I have similar feelings about the people but we have to wait and see. I’ve experienced a much darker side and this is helpful for me,” Sikander replied. “SubhanAllah, though, Rabia!” he exclaimed, “The beauty here is breathtaking. I’m reminded of the feelings I had when I was in Scotland. I’d still love to take you there someday.”

  The following morning, Salman drove Sikander to the Carolectric offices in Henderson. They were welcomed into the reception area and ushered into a well-appointed conference room where Gordon Elmer and Glen Seymour, the CFO, awaited their arrival. Elmer warmly shook hands with Salman, whom he had met previously, and then with Sikander. Seymour did the same, following which was the ritual exchange of business cards. The men were shown to two of the several leather-backed seats punctuating the periphery of a large elliptical table, beautifully finished in a Carpathian elm burl veneer. A video projector hung from white ceiling panels.

  “Khan and…Khan?” Elmer said. “I know it’s a common last name, but are you two related?”

  “Actually we are, but not as closely as you might imagine, Mr. Elmer,” responded Salman. “My mother and Sikander’s mother are cousins, and before you ask the next question, their maiden names were also Khan and each of their husbands’ last names is Khan. So it’s not a really functional last name,” he explained chuckling. “In fact, Mr. Elmer, it’s really not a name—more a designation of ethnic origin. Sikander and I are Pathans, which virtually automatically means we’re Khans. With migration into western culture, it’s kind of become a last name.”