“Your name, please?” the sophisticated-looking receptionist asked the longhaired teenager standing in front of her.
“Kumar Hanaman,” came the confident reply.
The elegant young woman rolled her eyes and picked up the telephone. “There is a Mr. Kumar Hanaman her to see you, Mr. Nooshkatoor,” she said. She nodded as Nooshkatoor replied.
“Mr. Nooshkatoor is extremely busy at the moment. It will be at least an hour before he can see you,” she told Kumar.
“Then I will wait,” he replied.
One hour became two, and then three. Kumar asked to use a washroom, but otherwise continued to wait quietly. He saw other people come in, ask for Mr. Nooshkatoor, and be ushered down a wood paneled and dimly lit corridor. The receptionist never called him in. At 5 she advised Kumar that the office would be closing for the day, and that unfortunately, the very busy, very important Salim Nooshkatoor was not able to make time for the young Mr. Hanaman.
The following day, at 8:30 in the morning, Kumar once again strolled up to the receptionist on the ninth floor. He received another eye roll. Another telephone call. Another answer of “Mr. Nooshkatoor is oh-so-important don’t you know.” But Kumar continued to wait.
At 11, Salim Nooshkatoor caved in and asked the receptionist to usher the young man in. As he walked in, Kumar surveyed the teak-paneled corner office, the breathtaking view of downtown Karachi and the harbor, with the buildings, docks, cranes, and gantries of KSEW in the distance. He shook his head at the obvious show of wealth. Nooshkatoor simply smiled at the young man’s wide-eyed expression. He knew who Kumar was, and fully expected him to grovel and beg for a further extension in the redemption period; he thought the meeting would be good sport, if nothing else. The foreclosure would be finalized within a few days, and the property would revert back to KSEW. Nooshkatoor already had another buyer lined up for the property. He had used these same strategies to sell and re-sell various properties along the harborside over and over again. The Board loved it.
“So what brings you to my door?” asked the unctuous and overweight executive, surveying Kumar like a cobra eying its prey. “How can I help you?”
“Well, sir, it is about the foreclosure proceedings against my father’s property on the harborside,” began Kumar.
“I am very sorry about it,” said Nooshkatoor, with great compassion in his voice. “But a deal is a deal. I have a Board of Directors to report to.”
“But didn’t you promise my father that you would send a lot of work his way?”
“Well, we did speak of it, and I said I would do my best, which I did. But that was the extent of the deal. Anyway, a judge has ruled on it, and there is nothing I can do. The only way that the foreclosure can be stopped now is by payment of the interest, and the arrears, and the principal, and, of course, the court costs.”
“But this has destroyed my father’s health, and he is dying. You made a promise.”
“Again, my condolences. But my hands are tied. Now go away, little beggar. I have work to do.”
Kumar stood to leave. Before he turned, he looked the smirking executive directly in the eye and smiled. “One more thing, you fat pig. One more thing. Here’s the check. For everything. Certified. Now go fuck yourself. The property is mine.” He placed the check on the astounded man’s desk, turned, and strolled back out.
26
Some unexpected turbulence woke Yousseff from his dream. The Gulfstream was approaching Iceland and descending for refueling at Reykjavik. He glanced at the clock; things were still going according to schedule. He thought about the whitecaps of the frigid North Atlantic, no doubt cascading endlessly below him — they would be large enough to destroy anything that came into their path, he knew. Yousseff shuddered at the power of the body of water below him, remembering his experiences with the vast ocean.
What had he been dreaming about? Of course. That delicious tale that Kumar loved to tell, embellished a bit with the passing of years — telling the high and mighty Nooshkatoor to go fuck himself. Yes, it was a good tale, to be sure, but the miserable and arrogant bastard had continued to create his share of mayhem for the young company over the years…
Yousseff, at that time, had wondered if he had taken on more than he could handle. He had just mortgaged a lot of property and spent a lot of money, to buy an aging, dilapidated drydock company that had no employees, no customers, no organizational structure, no credit, and a lot of rusting iron. The only person who knew anything about the business was a teenager who would be away at school most of the time and the founder of the business, who was now dead. But Yousseff didn’t believe in entering new ventures to lose money. He wondered — had he acted on emotion, rather than reason? Was it anger at Mr. Hanaman’s situation that had led him to his purchase? No, he finally decided. Not at all. He bought the company to buy Kumar. And, as with Omar, and Marak, and the others, he was doing it to build his organization.
Omar also voiced concern over the purchase, at the start. He looked in doubt at the rusting iron, dilapidation, and ruin. “What is it about this dump we just bought?” he asked, motioning to the corroding wharf and gantries of the KDEC. “You just mortgaged a good chunk of your properties to buy this. What on earth are you going to do with it?” For once he thought that Yousseff had committed a serious mistake.
“Is it any worse than your father’s boat when I acquired it? I didn’t really want the boat, Omar. I wanted you. I wanted your father’s connections,” replied Yousseff.
“But look at it, Yousseff. It’s a pile of crap, and there is no ongoing business at all,” said Omar.
“We’re going to have to make it work. That kid, Kumar, he’s good. And now he’s part of my organization. You watch and see what he does.”
“But Yousseff, for God’s sake, the kid is only 15. Fifteen! And he’s not even going to be here. He’s off to school for the next five or six years. What about workers, even if we do get the work?”
Yousseff was getting irritated. “Look, Omar, you’re a pretty good mechanic and welder yourself. You kept the Janeeta running and watched after the Janeeta II. You know every good boat mechanic, welder, hydraulics man, engine overhauler, and metalworker on the river. You can pay them all cash. You can pay them all more than the going rate. It’s not going to be a problem. We are going to do this.”
And sure enough, it did work. Slowly, in bits and pieces, the work started to come in. Omar and Kumar, when he was not in school or studying, did a lot of the work. Omar started to complain that, for someone involved in the transportation of drugs, he had to work much too hard; it was a thought that struck Yousseff as profoundly funny. Yousseff himself never seemed to stop working or moving, chasing down opportunity after opportunity. He told Omar to be quiet and behave himself. After six months, they hired one employee; after three more months they hired another two. By the time a year had passed, there were a full 20 employees working at KDEC. After two years, the small boat yard, though fully overhauled, was too small to handle all the business coming in.
Omar and Yousseff also began to expand the river ferry business. They bought aging vessels and took them to Karachi, where KDEC repaired and refurbished them. Each was then returned to the ferrying business. Most had double hulls and secret compartments built into their frames. This generated additional work for KDEC and meant that more cash could be placed in legitimate enterprises. Within a year, Omar’s business owned three handsome and efficient riverboats, with half a dozen more in the drydock at KDEC, scheduled for repairs and improvements.