‘Ace of Blades’: From reselling scrap to building Topaz

That stunned me. How could someone jump from running hotels to manufacturing razor blades? But I then thought of something else. I held up my hand and said, “Wait a minute. I thought Grand Hotel belonged to Mohan Singh Oberoi.”

“It did. But back then, we were like one big family.” I cocked my head to the side.

RK noticed the puzzled expression on my face and decided to clarify the situation. “You see,” he began, “Kishan Lal’s wife was MS Oberoi’s cousin.” He paused, mulling over his father’s often-repeated views on KL, who was said to have little back then besides a penchant for drinks and a knack for being at the right place at the right time. “So, when MS offered him shares in the hotel, he grabbed the opportunity. And he was karta for our family so whatever he got, my father HL got too. That is what opened the door for Daddy to start dabbling in tents.”

Piecing together RK’s words, I began to fill in the gaps, carefully underlining his explanations in my mind to unravel the family’s business history. It dawned on me that HL’s position as the general manager of the Grand Hotel wasn’t just a stroke of luck. His elder brother’s connection to Oberoi had likely played a pivotal role in securing that position. At that time, the hotel was a popular spot for British army officers. HL, recognising an opportunity, skillfully utilised this environment to build a network among the army elite.

Leveraging these connections, he ventured beyond his hotel duties. He established rest and relaxation centres for army officers, strategically locating them around Dhakuria Lake. In those days, this area was the Lake District of Calcutta—a sought-after and prestigious location. This insight into HL’s strategic thinking and networking prowess offered a clearer understanding of the early foundations of our family’s business empire.

In due course, HL grew dissatisfied with his role in the hotel industry and disillusioned by his elder brother’s lack of ambition. He sold his shares in the Grand Hotel to KL and severed their business partnership. Subsequently, he used his connections in the army to establish the Bharat Construction Company, which produced tents for the British military. To understand why he chose that specific business, one has to remember the times back then. It was the 40s and the tail end of World War II. The British army had a high demand for tents and HL capitalised on this need. He didn’t stop there though and ventured into other endeavours.

RK went on to say, “You see, up until independence, there was barely any Indian consumer industry.” His words then picked up pace, tumbling out as if he could no longer hold them back. His eyes lit up, his face flushed and radiant with the fervour of his narrative. “Most of the consumer products in the market were imported. But you see, the newly formed Indian government was not interested in having their citizens continue to live a life dependent on foreigners. They began issuing incentives for Indians to start manufacturing consumer goods. It was our time to shine.”

I interrupted him, “So, why the dabbling then?”

“You had to dabble. How else would you know what you were eventually going to land on and what would work?”

As I listened to him, I picked up on familiar traits of the entrepreneurial mindset in his words and attitude. I knew them from my experience in Silicon Valley, where failure was so venerated that each failed idea added another bullet point to a person’s résumé rather than a black smudge to be disparaged. In that curious and cockeyed environment, failure was equated with success. Quite obviously, entrepreneurs have existed for millennia, and their unique approach to life has remained constant, regardless of generation, geography, or time. The Malhotras had carved out their own twisting path of trial and failure as they experimented with a varied range of unconnected businesses. Eventually, they stumbled upon razor blades as their calling.

Recognising the futility in seeking a linear logic behind the labyrinthine journey to their business empire, I knew it was a complex web with no straightforward path. Attempting to map out each twist and turn to find a clear, logical connection seemed an endless, perhaps pointless, quest. Yet, despite this realisation, my curiosity remained undimmed, compelling me to probe further into their past ventures. Giving in to this urge, I found myself asking, “What happened to Bharat Construction Company?”

“Well, after the War, there was no need for army tents, so Daddy went abroad and looked for jobs in construction, but that turned out to be more difficult than it seemed. He continued to dabble and decided to deal in paper goods as a way to get into consumer products.”

I rested a hand on RK’s arm, hoping to ease his excitement as he recounted tales of days gone by. “How old were you then?” He scrunched up his face, a telltale sign that he was attempting to recall an important detail from the past. “I do not remember exactly, although I was old enough to have a role in his plans. My first job was to go to garbage dumps in and around Calcutta left behind by British soldiers and their housing societies or cantonments. I would go rag-picking for things like tweezers, staplers, blades, and tape. Basically, any kind of scrap material that could be resold.”

I smiled. “Trading in its most rudimentary form.”

He nodded and smiled back. “Yes. And that was what got Daddy into consumer products. He was not allowed to just run around and do what he pleased though. It was true that he had separated from his family, but he was fully aware of his responsibilities to them, as well as what his wife and in-laws expected from him in terms of conforming to some level of tradition. The act of leaving the family was rebellious enough. He needed to offset it and balance things out.”

Information was coming at me faster than I could process it. RK had just divulged his biggest influence during his formative years—his father, HL, whom RK viewed as being dynamic. A man who got things done. He was an entrepreneur and always on the go. But HL had also voluntarily separated from his family, and that renegade behaviour would manifest itself in RK’s actions more than once.

RK clearly aspired to emulate his father’s legacy, harbouring a strong desire to make his own impact and carve his unique path in the world. His position as the youngest son in a traditional family played to his advantage in this regard. In such family structures, the youngest often receives less attention, and in his case, this meant more personal freedom. His elder brothers, Ved Prakash (VP) and Surinder Nath (SN), bore the brunt of familial expectations, compelled to adhere to predetermined paths despite their own initial aspirations. But RK was let off the hook, at least in the early days.

So, I had learned a few things. Initially, the Malhotra dynasty had its roots in a group of forward-thinking families that had left Punjab to set up shop in Calcutta, which was common in the 1940s before Partition and Independence. Families that stood out were the Chawlas, who sold radio equipment, and the Walias, who sold sports equipment. But at the top of the heap were the Thapars, who started in coal trading before diversifying into other areas.

The Thapars inspired RK most because they conducted business like the Marwari families of Calcutta. The term Marwari is applied loosely to a group of capitalists who had come to Calcutta from the Marwar region in western India. They were instrumental in bringing about the dramatic change in what defined an industrial entrepreneur in India after Independence. Their primary business was banking; but around the turn of the century, they began to diversify into commodity trading and share broking.

Before Independence, many Marwari families in India shared an inclination for industrialisation and started investing in modern industries. By the mid-1960s, many of them had risen to prominence almost entirely through the acquisition of British firms, which brought about an undisputed and deep transformation in Calcutta’s business culture.

As RK recalled, “The Marwaris had a business attitude that was something else. Each family would give their young men a lota, then tell them to go out and earn their daily partha.”

A lota is a water pot, the vessel that young Marwaris were given to collect their daily earnings. Over time, this rudimentary method of keeping track of money led to the more formal and accurate Marwari system of accounting called partha, which was like taking a daily single-page profit and loss snapshot.

For RK, it was how he came to understand that earning one’s keep was about keeping an eye on daily turnover. In his own words, “If your daily figures are healthy, then you can be confident about sustaining your business. Profits are secondary to that.”

Driven by his hands-on philosophy, RK kept a tight grip on his sales team, demanding daily reports that were the lifeblood of his operations. He scoffed at five or ten-year projections, embracing the Marwari accounting principles of his youth. RK was all about the present, planning for today and letting tomorrow take care of itself.

He watched in admiration as influential Marwari families snapped up British companies like James Findlay Textiles, Dunlop Rubber, and Brad and Company. RK saw the partha system as his ticket to joining the elite circle of India’s new oligarchs.

— Excerpted from ‘Ace of Blades: The Life Story of the Blade King of India’, with permission from the publisher