Shortly after I began working at my new job, Jamal Akbar called an all-day meeting in our Islamabad office that involved twelve of the company's leading executives from various provinces of Pakistan. To my surprise, he also asked me to attend. I thought this was unusual, given that I was only a junior executive. The meeting involved an open discussion on issues related to Jamal's retiring. He wanted to hold a roundtable on how best to create a hierarchical management structure to keep the Pakistan operation strong after he left the company.
I was really worried about the meeting. I had zero experience in sales, marketing, or management. I would be among executives who were seasoned players.
The night before I departed for the meeting, I was browsing in a bookstore with my father, who had retired and moved back to Karachi. "When are you leaving for Islamabad?" he asked as we checked the books in the business section.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Are you ready for the meeting?" he said.
"No! I have no idea what my role will be."
"Take a look at this book. It's an interesting read," he said.
He handed me a book, titled Iacocca: An Autobiography. I had never heard of him.
"This is a great book," he said.
"Who's Iacocca?" I said.
"He's the guy who completely turned Chrysler around. You can learn a lot from this book." He then bought the book for me.
I began reading that evening, and I found Iacocca's story so riveting that I nearly completed it the same night. I read more the next day on the flight to Islamabad, and landed late at night. I was met by one of the sales directors from the Islamabad office. On the way to the hotel, we exchanged pleasantries and talked about the management meeting. I inquired if he knew why I was invited. He simply shrugged his shoulders.
The meeting started at 7 a.m. the next morning. Cushioned chairs were placed around the conference table, one for each executive, and there was a regular desk chair at one corner. I stood on the side as executives came in with tea and coffee and sat down. I quickly gathered that the chair in the corner was for me, and I took my seat.
A heated, four-hour discussion ensued about a host of issues and problems not open to easy resolution. What financial ramifications would arise if Jamal Akbar retired? Would the company have to adapt a cross-matrix management structure like Digital Equipment Corporation, a strong competitor of ours? Given Jamal's strong presence, what impact would his leaving have on the company? How would his retirement affect the sales and marketing groups? What would the management reporting structures in Karachi and Lahore look like? Should the company have a strong top management and weak middle management, or a weak top management and strong middle management? Executives spoke out, sometimes contradicting each other, sometimes agreeing.
Lunch at noon brought a pause in the proceedings, and the meeting reconvened at 1 p.m. Toward 3 p.m., Jamal wrote the two scenarios down on a white board. When asked which structure the executives preferred, most sided with a weak top management coupled with a strong middle management.
I was daydreaming at this point, my mind wandering from one thought to another. I couldn't comprehend what Jamal was talking about and didn't intend to offer my opinion. I felt it was not my place to say anything.
Suddenly, Jamal looked straight at me. "Razi, you've been sitting here all day and haven't said a word. Do you have anything to add to this meeting?" he said.
I froze and was at a loss for words. "Not really," I said.
"We started this meeting at seven this morning," he said, "and it's now three in the afternoon, and I haven't heard a word from you. Do you have anything to add to this discussion?"
"I really can't comment intelligently about the management issues facing our company," I said after a moment's hesitation.
"Why not? You've got to have an opinion. You should be able to say something."
With that, any side conversations came to an abrupt halt. The room fell silent. All eyes were on me.
"All right, Razi. Get to it. What do you know? I want to hear it," he said.
My mind went blank. The entire management team was looking at me, and I didn't know what to say. I was struggling to find the right words. I wanted to offer something of value. I cleared my throat. "Well . . . the one thing . . . the one thing we've..."
"Speak up so we can all hear you," Jamal said.
As a teacher knows when a student is daydreaming, he had caught me. The only thing on my mind was the book I was reading on Lee Iacocca. I mumbled a few words, unsure of how to respond. "One strong man saved Chrysler," I blurted out in my nervousness. "Iacocca's company was headed for failure, and his management changes saved the company, turned it around, and brought it out of bankruptcy," I said with child-like simplicity.
Some of the senior executives looked befuddled and wondered what I was talking about. "What did he say?" one executive asked. "Did he just say Chrysler?" another executive mumbled, "Iacocca? Who is he?"
Jamal interrupted. "What did you say, Razi? Are you talking about Lee Iacocca?"
"Yes. Lee Iacocca," I said.
"Are you familiar with his book?" Jamal asked.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I have it here. I just finished it," I said with an idiotic smile. I took the copy of Iacocca: An Autobiography from my briefcase and passed it around.
Jamal looked around the room. "How many of you here have read this book?" he asked.
Not a hand went up.
Jamal slowly looked around the room again. All eyes were on him. "Here we are in one of our most important management meetings, and one of the most profound books of the decade has come up, and you guys haven't read it. You haven't even heard of it. I'm deeply disappointed. And this kid—who has no reason to be here other than the fact that I invited him—has read it and summed it up as it applies to this meeting." He shook his head and paused. The situation was laughable and serious at the same time.
Jamal continued. "Gentlemen, I can tell you this. We're not going to go with a weak chain of command. Our company is going to have a strong hierarchy when I retire. Thank you, Razi," he said.
Everyone turned to me, some asking me to repeat the name of the book and the author.
"I want everyone on the management team to go out today, buy a copy of this book, and read it," Jamal said.
He then moved on with the rest of the meeting without probing me any further. I was relieved at not having to say another word.
Afterwards, a number of the senior executives crowded around and invited me to have dinner to talk about what I had garnered from the book but I ended up dining with Jamal Akbar.
That evening was one of the most memorable of my life. Attending the meeting, reading the book, and the whole experience for some reason awakened a Junoon. I had to get to the land of Lee Iacocca.
Through a coincidental turn of events, Jamal Akbar hired a marketing professional by the name of Saman Haqqi, the first person with an MBA hired at the Pakistani office of this American company. Saman had been working at the company's Lahore office and was now relocating with her family to Hyderabad, about ninety miles from Karachi. Given her proximity to Karachi, she requested to work in the marketing department there, and Jamal agreed.
Saman's and my background, education, and individual styles were a study in contrasts. She was soft-spoken and preferred to think things through logically—to analyze, plan, and work on projects one step at a time. An outstanding student throughout her schooling, she completed her graduate degree in business administration with a 4.2 grade average at Quaid-i-Azam University in Islamabad.
My style, on the other hand, was brash and ambitious—overly ambitious, Saman would say. Thus far, I had moved through life on my drive and had maneuvered myself to the level of success I now enjoyed at this company. At first, she didn't like me, and I didn't think much of her. But when we started working together, we energized each other. Her formal knowledge of marketing coupled with my ready-fire-aim style made us an unstoppable combination. In fact, Saman and I were voted the top two workers in a company-wide, employee survey. She ranked number one, and I ranked number two.
We formed an extraordinary team, a veritable right hand and left hand working together. We understood each other so well that we conveyed our thinking in simple words and looks, and completed each other's thoughts as we built the recognition of this American company in Pakistan.
Saman and I grew to be close friends and confidantes who talked often about everything from television shows, books, and music, to religious beliefs, people, and ideas. We shared our innermost thoughts and concerns. She told me of her life and her university studies, and that some day, she wanted to travel to the United States. She even mentioned that two years before, she had applied for, and was granted, a U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) scholarship, but had not sent a letter of acceptance. I couldn't believe the coincidence and told her of my own life-long desire to study in the United States. Saman and I grew even closer, and not long after, we were married.
We both agreed to travel to the United States when the time was right. She then reapplied for, and was granted, her USAID scholarship. In time, I applied for my visa at the American consulate in Karachi. I can still remember the day vividly.
At 4 a.m., the American consulate—bathed in the darkness of the early-morning hour—took on a gray appearance. Even at this hour, people were already in line ahead of me. Each time I glanced behind me, more visa seekers had added themselves. Before long, the line extended around the block. I knew that most of them would wait in vain, since the American consulate awarded visas to about 2 percent of applicants, maximum. Most would return home empty-handed. I hoped I would not be among them.
At 8 a.m., the consulate staff arrived, opened the doors, and signaled the start of the application process. The person inside signed off on my paperwork and directed me down a long corridor to an interview room that was the epitome of bureaucratic drabness. A guard inside instructed me to sit with other applicants in chairs along a wall just inside the door. The walls, painted in yellow mediocrity, enclosed the room, sparsely furnished with folding chairs uncomfortable to sit on for long periods. An American flag stood at one corner of the room, and on the wall a portrait of President Ronald Reagan. I felt hemmed in the way I had when I first descended into the hold of a containership in Kuwait harbor. Names of individual visa applicants were called periodically with instructions to proceed to numbered interview places. Every time an applicant was refused a visa, my anxiety went up.
"Mr. Imam. Mr. Razi Imam. Please come to window six."
My head went up abruptly on hearing my name. With papers in hand, I walked to window six, and stood on one side of a glass partition. The person who was to interview me—the holder of absolute power—sat on the other side. He looked about thirty years of age, had brown hair and brown eyes, and was dressed in a polo shirt and tan slacks. His face gave no indication of his mood. With his approval, I would enter the United States. Without it, I would not. It was as simple as that.
"Salam Alekum," he said.
His greeting me with "good morning" in my language surprised me. I responded in kind. "Salam Alekum."
He proceeded without pause into a series of questions as to why I wanted to study in America. In front of him sat two stamps: one for approval and the other for rejection. I noted that he gently tapped on both stamps, unsure of his decision. I can't remember what I said, but right in the middle of one of my sentences, he stopped me and said, "Okay. Your visa is approved." He stamped my visa application as accepted. "Come back at 4 p.m. today and you've got it."
I was numb. Exhausted. Dazed. It had happened. I had my visa. I thanked him, gathered my papers, and wobbled out.
On leaving, I noticed the consulate library next door and walked inside. I refreshed myself with a drink of water from a nearby fountain and sat down in an easy chair. The ambience brought on a sense of déjà vu. It was like being back at the Kuwait University library, a place dear to me. I peered at the stacks of books and reflected on the Dewey decimal system and how books were catalogued. At a pay telephone inside the library, I called Saman, and expressed the totality of my life and my world: "Guess what? We are going to America!"
At that moment, I wished that my friends at the dock—Omar, Rashid, and Karim; Linda who hired me at the Kuwait Library; and Chander who showed me the path to higher education—could have been there with me to share my joy.
I flew to the United States on January 12, 1988. My Junoon to come to the United States was fulfilled 15 years after I had first decided to study in America. Saman arrived in the United States two weeks later.