My money-belt business

An excerpt from chapter 32 of Chitbodhi’s memoir, One Life: A True Account

On the 28th of February 1987, I was on nightshift, 10 pm to 6 am, at the back gate. I loved this shift; every 30 minutes patrolling the road with my bamboo stick, otherwise just sitting on a high stool, watching the stars, the quietness of the night and, from a safe distance, the huge monster rats running past. The biggest rats I have ever seen, five times bigger than any rat here in Bali, about the size of those little lapdogs celebrities carry around nowadays.

In his discourses at night Osho used to answer two or three of our questions. I had never asked one, but that night a question popped into my head. I wrote it down and next morning after my shift I threw it into the ‘questions’ box… and then forgot all about it. He probably received 500 questions every day, no chance he would ever select one from me – a basically unknown, unimportant person.

That morning going to breakfast I was high, high with happiness and just feeling so good. And, as it always happens, when you are in this state you are somehow radiating and affecting everybody you meet.

I met Manisha, a small, beautiful German woman, in Poona for the first time, for a two-week holiday, and from the first moment chemistry happened between us. We arranged a dinner date for 7 pm that day. After dinner we went up to my room in the Dutch Palace for a beer – just for an hour before my guarding shift started at 10 pm.

Dutch Palace, really a funny name for a place like that. At some point in history, more than 80 years back, it must have been a palace. A huge garden and a big house, inside all done in wood and marble – now dirty, rundown, and empty. Probably 50 rooms, many never used in 50 years, without electricity and water. The owners had connected only five rooms upstairs to the public services and rented them out for almost nothing.

Marpa, a German sannyasin, stormed in while we were enjoying our Kingfisher beers, “Chitbodhi, he answered your question, they were looking for you at 6 pm, all over the ashram.” (Someone in Lao Tzu House, maybe it was Vimal, must have come to know that my question was ready on Osho’s clipboard and wanted to make sure that, as a guard, I was not stationed somewhere at a gate.) I was shocked. I had already forgotten that in the morning I had put in my question. And fuck, Marpa couldn’t tell me a thing about what Osho had said.

At 10 pm, when I arrived for my nightshift, everybody suddenly knew me, and came up to me, “You must be Chitbodhi, wow, he talked about you.” Every meter I was stopped by unknown people congratulating me, but no one could tell me what he had actually said. I had to wait a whole week until I got a tape recording and could actually listen to his answer.

Strange, right? Why is it so important when this guy with a beard and a long robe answers a question of mine? For any normal person it’s almost impossible to understand what this could have meant to me.

Then a very small love affair started with Manisha, just for her remaining seven days in Poona. She left, leaving me an address, in some small village I had never heard of, maybe for an open future that might come… or not.

Osho’s answer, if anyone is curious, can be read in the book, The Razor’s Edge. I don’t even remember what he said, just the idea that he answered my question felt so special. But it’s beautiful!

I was on a high in my life, riding a huge wave into the sunshine, my old longtime girlfriend Agnes forgotten, life unfolding in all its beauty.

One morning while walking to the ashram, I watched how the guy walking in front of me suddenly pulled out his leather belt, unzipped the inside pocket, took cash out and put the belt back into his jeans, all while he kept walking.

A thought hit me, “What a complicated way to secure your money while traveling.”

All travelers had the same problem. India is poor and filled with lots of people, slums wherever you look, people dying on the street sometimes right in front of you, desperate opportunists on all sides. Where do you put your money, your passport and your ticket so that they are safe from thieves?

“I should come up with a new design for a belt that is practical, easy and quick to use – and safe at the same time.”

In that moment the design was right in my head. The money belt was born, now seen and produced billions of times the world over. This idea grabbed me so strongly that I could not think of anything else. I just needed to make one to test how practical it would really be. I started right away.

A few hours later I was buying material in Centre Street, taking a rickshaw to the slums of Yerwada, across the river, and finding Marty, a young Indian tailor I knew from before.

Marty, already a “rich” poor guy, lived in the smelly, rat-infested slums but in one of the more luxurious shacks. Four walls nailed together from whatever he had found, a sewing machine, simple wooden frames as beds, and a simple temporary roof. He lived there with his wife and five-year-old daughter.

After listening to my idea he started right away to make the first belt. It took him three hours to make one while I sat excitedly by his side, watching my first belt come to completion.

I just loved it, and I knew I needed more for sure. Maybe I could even sell them?

Three days later he had already made me 30 money belts, all of the same practical shape, but all from different materials, from denim to corduroy, satin and silk, flashy for disco nights and plain black, matching anything one could be wearing.

I hadn’t told anybody about my project. I wanted to keep it a secret until I could show them a finished one. I did that one day in the smoking area of the ashram, which was always filled with the kind of people who enjoyed a cigarette and a chat.

When I walked in I spotted a friend, sat beside him, opened my bag and showed him my new product. A woman watched me curiously, and three bags got sold in the next minute.

Another guy walked in – I knew him by sight – he was Spanish I think, and also a frequent visitor for a smoke. He stops in front of me, stares at my belts, sits down opposite me and pulls out of his bag a bunch of money belts, exactly the same shape as mine, but in different materials, but as flashy as mine. Great ideas obviously don’t only hit one guy, but can come into existence at the same time!

We both started laughing and during the conversation that ensued it became clear that we both had this idea the very same day and about at the same time. We were both gripped by the uniqueness of a brilliant product, pursued the idea to the point of going into a first production, and then met at the same time while introducing our product to the small world of the smoking area.

It took just twenty minutes before we were both sold out. We had hit a goldmine! For sure we would not compete against each other, nor copy from each other, and would sell at the same price to anybody who wanted one. A money train started rolling now. We both were on it, first slowly, but gathering speed by the day.

I got another sewing machine, and two more tailors, and another machine, and another tailor. My day started at 7 am sitting with my tailors in their shack, having breakfast together. Then back to the smoking area with the next bunch ready to sell. Sold out within an hour. Another machine and one more tailor. The speed was increasing… I got so busy running between buying material, tailors and selling and taking in money: $6 for each belt, production price $1.80.

Four weeks into production, my output was at 80 a day, all sold the same day. That was when wholesale started.

Sannyasins leaving Poona were always broke, and wanted to come back quickly. They needed a quick way to make new money in their country. Somebody ordered 50 to take to London, another one 250 to take to Rome, 500 to Helsinki, 300 to Ibiza, 300 to Vienna, orders, orders. I could hardly keep up with the demand.

When I needed a small break, I went for a few days to Goa. I had heard from someone that Ecstasy was around and they pointed me to Martin and his girlfriend Sujita [names changed, ed.]. I knew both of them from the smoking area. They had already bought a belt from me, and for sure they would sell me an Ecstasy.

After four days alone in Goa, sitting all night on an empty beach under a full moon, I got back to Poona ready for action, pushing the production up to 100 and 120 a day, trying to keep up with the orders.

Martin invited me for breakfast in the luxury Regency Hotel. Of course I would never say no, the Regency being completely out of my league.

That’s where I met Bodhi [name changed, ed.]. It was him who had actually invited us. I knew him by sight; over the last six years we had exchanged a few words with each other – and now I found out that he was obviously quite rich.

Six days later I got another invitation for breakfast. But when I got to his room I realized that he had invited only me; I was alone with him. After an easy conversation about the explosion of my money-belt business, he suddenly changed the topic: “I have been watching you now for a few weeks. I really admire how you developed this business here in India. You have a great talent for organization. Really, I like that.”

I didn’t know what he was driving at, to come out all of a sudden with his honey talk, flattering me.

“I want to offer you a job. I can really use a guy like you in my organization, or maybe just help you. I have a lot of money.”

“What do you mean? What organization do you have?”

“I would need you as kind of my personal assistant, to organize my business. I can promise you lots of money. Within a year you can buy your own apartment in Munich and have a Porsche, and stay only in luxury hotels.”

What was he driving at? He was talking about lots of money. It must be in the hundreds of thousands a year at least.

“Bodhi, what are you talking about? Maybe you should get a little more specific about this organization of yours.”

“Ecstasy, and I promise you, you will never touch it. You will never be in the same apartment as the drugs. You would be arranging the deals for me, flying to Amsterdam, Sydney, Los Angeles and wherever I need you.”

I was stunned, actually speechless for a while. What an offer, out of the blue.

“I really don’t know what to say. A great offer, but for sure I need some days to think about it.”

“Sure, take all the time you need. Just let me know in a few days because I am leaving Poona in a week.”

When I left the hotel a little later, I knew 90% that my answer would be a NO. But what a development, and what a temptation – being offered all that money for just traveling around in luxury.

My little piece of rolling hashish at the border in Amritsar popped into my head. It was a clear warning to keep my hands off drugs.

Two days later we met again for breakfast. I had to tell him my answer was a clear NO, that that was what I felt inside.

Thinking this through for two days, I felt that if I became part of this business, I wouldn’t do myself a favor and I wouldn’t do him a favor either. Somehow I knew I would be caught sometime in the future, the incident in Amritsar a clear warning for the rest of my life. Better he does his business and I stay with mine.

We had a nice talk and he accepted my NO easily, but in this conversation a few times he would talk about ‘helping’ me. I don’t remember our conversation clearly, only that suddenly this thought popped up in my head, “Why is he always talking about helping me? Maybe he really wants to help me. Could I use his help? Sure, maybe I could. With some of his money I could push my money-belt business even faster into higher numbers of production per day.”

So I said, “If you really want to help me, I could use some money to invest in more tailors, buy the material wholesale in Bombay. But only if I never get pressured by you to pay it back – and it should be without interest. Just between friends, all open, and I have nothing to do with your business. And if all develops well I will pay it back, but on my terms. And in my time.

“Do you still want to help me?”

Bodhi was a nice guy and the few times I had met him before I always liked him, and the conversation was easy between us. We could just talk.

We sannyasins never talked about the past. We were all here to start anew, live in the moment, and what about the old Karl Ludwig? Now that was my past, but this guy has started to live a new life, kind of open-ended – whatever happens, happens.

Next morning he gave me 10,000 Deutschmarks, his free help on my terms. Instead of living from what I made day by day and reinvesting that, I could suddenly push my business. Build a second floor in Marty’s shack, top it with a corrugated iron roof, which would make space for five more sewing machines. And I could go with Marty to Bombay and buy enough material wholesale to last me for months.

A few weeks later – Bodhi had already left – it was probably middle of April, I had nine tailors who were working for me from 7 am to 11 pm, and I could push my output to almost 300 money belts a day.

My Spanish friend, who had the same business as mine, had developed his at the same speed. Money belts were now sold on the streets from Tokyo to Korea, the States and South America, in all big European cities… and then I got my biggest single order so far.

A Swedish couple, who had already sold 800 in Ibiza like hotcakes, ordered (by telegram and prearranged phone call) 4500 belts, to be produced as quickly as possible, and to be delivered to them in Cologne. They would drive up from Ibiza, and I had to bring the belts to Germany. They would have the cash with them, approximately $26,000.

I couldn’t possibly carry 4500 belts in my own luggage, so needed to find couriers who could take some in their luggage. I found them within a few days.

Vatayan, a guy I had never exchanged a word with in my whole life, took 600 to Vienna, with the promise to send them immediately on to my sister’s address in Germany. He was broke and welcomed my $150 for this favor. Martin and Sujita took 900 to Munich; another guy from Freiburg took 500, and I took the rest, 2,500 in my luggage, all set to soon get the big pay-off waiting for me in Cologne.

My money train now going at high speed, I booked my flight to Germany for the end of July. I would stay away for 14 days, enough time to collect everything, meet in Cologne and fly right back to Poona.

A simple plan, so easy, but life sometimes doesn’t play along as we wish, and can come up with the most outrageous complications…

Are you hooked now? If you want to hear about the shipment of the money bags, including Chitbodhi’s involuntary visit to an Austrian jail, you will definitely have to buy the book!

This is an edited except from chapter 32 of Chitbodhi’s One Life: A True Account