Toughness
Fresh out of MBA school, I landed a great job with the Patel Group, an import-export company based in Chicago. The company was family owned. It began in India, where the family once lived. The current president, Aresh Patel, was the grandson of the founder. My job was to work closely with Mr. Patel as he made business agreements with new clients. He did the negotiating; I was responsible for handling the details. Mr. Patel was an imposing man, tall, well built, with a dark complexion and a deep voice. He could be charming with clients, but he was demanding on those of us who worked for him. His cardinal rule was no excuses.
I had been working for the company for three months when Mr. Patel told me he wanted me to attend a business dinner with him and a potential client from India. He told me to be prepared to answer questions about our contract procedures if asked. He must have sensed I was a little nervous about the assignment. The night of the dinner, I wore my best suit and met Mr. Patel at an expensive downtown restaurant. After I had been introduced to two men from India, both out-going and self-confident, I sat silent at the table hoping I would have any information requested from me. Near the end of the dinner, Mr. Patel asked me to describe the most recent contract we had with a foreign company. I was able to do this, but felt I was coming across as a bit of a scared kid.
When the dinner ended and we were alone in the restaurant lobby, Mr. Patel told me he was going to spend the night in the company condominium, located a few blocks away. He wanted me to join him for a discussion of the meeting. The condominium was on a high floor with a view of Lake Michigan. I excused myself to use the bathroom. When I returned, Mr. Patel was seated in a chair. He had removed his jacket and tie and loosened several buttons on his white shirt, exposing his dark chest hair. He motioned me to a chair beside him. On the table between us was a cigar humidor. Mr. Patel took a cigar and offered one to me. I declined, since I do not smoke. As we talked about the meeting, I smelled the aroma of the cigar and thought what a masculine figure Mr. Patel made as he sat and smoked.
When we had finished going over the dinner meeting, I expected Mr. Patel to invite me to leave. Instead, he looked directly at me and said something I did not expect.
?You need to be tougher if you are going to make it in the business world. I am satisfied with your work, but you need to be more aggressive, more of your own man. Let me tell you how I learned to be tough when I was a boy. Did your father ever beat you??
?No, sir,? I said, ?Iwas not punished in that way.?
?Idid not think you had been. Most American boys of your background are not beaten. That may be why you lack toughness. I grew up in India. I was a good boy, but like all boys, I got into mischief. My father loved me, but he could not punish me, could not beat me, as was our custom. So, he sent me to my grandfather, the man who started the company you now work for. My grandfather was a tough man. Hard work has made him strong. When I first appeared at his house with a note that I was to be punished, he gave me a stern look but said nothing. He took me roughly by the arm and we went to his study. I was ten years old at the time. My grandfather ordered me to remove all my clothing. He went to a closet and returned with a thin strip of wood, a punishment cane. My grandfather ordered me to place my hands on his desk. He told me not to move or the punishment would increase. Standing behind me and gave me ten strokes with the cane. The pain took me by surprise, and I was crying when the punishment was over but I did not move. My grandfather told me to dress and return home. As I was leaving, he spoke. ?This is what will happen whenever you come to me with such a note.??
I was astonished that Mr. Patel was telling me this. We were both silent for a few moments. The smoke from his cigar filled the space between us.
?From that time forward, I was sent to my grandfather with a note whenever I misbehaved. The number of strokes with the cane increased as I grew older. Once I had reached puberty, removing my clothing embarrassed me, but I said nothing. Few words passed between us when my grandfather beat me. I knew he expected me to endure the pain without complaint. I learned that this is what men do. As I grew older, my grandfather stopped using the cane and beat me with a leather strap. The last time I was sent to my grandfather with a note I was twenty years old. My infraction involved a secret meeting with a woman. This time my grandfather told me to remove only my shirt. He said that I was a man now and that men were not beaten on their buttocks. He ordered me to stand straight, still, and clasp my arms across my chest. My grandfather then lashed my naked back with the strap. He was furious with me and the strapping went on for a long time, leaving a number of welts. I endured the beating without flinching, but I resolved never again to do anything that would cause me to be sent to my grandfather with a note.?
Again, there was a period of silence. I knew Mr. Patel had a purpose in telling me this story, but I did not yet fathom its meaning.
?You are a good worker and I would like to see you advance in our organization. This is why I have told you this story and why I am offering to teach you toughness the way my grandfather taught me. I am willing to give you a beating. You have never experienced physical pain, let alone learned how to accept it without complaint. You do not even know if you can endure pain. I assure you your decision in this matter is entirely your own and will have no effect on your position. Do you want me to beat you? Take a moment and then give me your answer.?
Dumbfounded as I was by this turn of events, I knew there was truth in what Mr. Patel told me. I needed to be more aggressive at work. If I knew I could take pain without flinching, maybe I could be more firm with others. Mr. Patel had mesmerized me with his story. I decided to accept his offer.
?Good. The hour is late, so let us begin. Remove all your clothing. I will treat you like a boy until we know how you react to your lesson. When you are ready, stand in front of that couch. Bend over and rest your arms on the back. Stay in position or the beating will begin again.?
As I was stripping, I noticed Mr. Patel remove the belt from his trousers. He then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing strong forearms covered with dark hair. I got into position. My nakedness seemed appropriate as I submitted my body to this older, stronger man.
The first slash of the belt caused me to gasp and bolt up from the couch. I got back in position determined not to move again. The pain was intense, like lines of fire across my ass. Mr. Patel applied the belt with force and speed. I lost track of the lashes after the first ten. I did not know how much more I could take, and then, suddenly, the beating was over. I stayed in position, trying to regain my composure.
?Stand up when you are ready and get dressed. I gave you twenty, more than I received in my first beating. You took the beating well. In the days ahead, you can decide if you need another lesson. If so, bring me a note.?
While I dressed, Mr. Patel returned to his cigar. He walked me to the door. I looked him straight in the eye and extended my hand.
?Thank you, sir.?
As he shook my hand, Mr. Patel gave me a piece of advice.
?Learn how to smoke a cigar. It is rude to decline a cigar offered by a man who is your superior or by a client you wish to impress. Good night.?
I nodded in agreement.