The Pursuit of Bollyness-II : Wagging the Dog

Continued from P of B Part-I…

For the next couple of weeks things got so hectic that there was no time to worry about the promise made to Mr. Prakash and the next meeting due.

A scene I was beginning to picture increasingly with graphic images of dangling Damocles' swords and me as the hapless Damocles. Uneasy, however, did not seem to lie our modern day Dionysius' head. At least, to all outward appearance.

I tried calling Karan Sabjan for his opinion on whether the Big M would be interested. Sabjan thanked me for adding years to his life by giving him his best laugh of the month.

This was one situation where I had nothing further to contribute. Either one knew how to get to Amibath Machchan or didn’t. I didn’t.

Feeling a bit like Pandora, with thoughts leaning increasingly towards aftermaths of usual Greek tragedies, I decided to broach the subject with LL.

As the days went by, this was not easy though. Surely he wasn't avoiding me?

With the next meeting just a couple of days away, I redoubled my efforts to corner LL and ask him for strategic guidance*.

*This is polite subordinate to boss management-speak for: Hey, you got us into this mess, and this time, you've gotta get us out.

"Get me Prakash", said LL.

Having got him on phone, LL proceeded to tell him how his father had an urgent though minor surgical procedure due on the very same morning of the next meeting scheduled and could we reschedule it? Mr. P was fortunately off to Denmark and so the next meeting was fixed up to be a whole two and a half weeks away.

Admiring this adroit manoeuvre; I admit it freely, would have never thought of it - we heaved collective sighs of relief, but I felt the figurative dangling thread fray a bit, and the sword inch closer.

But LL had thought of something.

There were only two possible approaches as advised by LL's role model Confucius:
One - Man who run in front of car get tired.
Conversely, also known as - Man who run behind car get exhausted.
Two - He who will not economize will agonize.

Next meeting, Mr. Prakash walked in fully expecting to see Machchan ensconced in our humble office abode. In his best suit and tie too. Mr. P, I mean.

LL informed him that we had contacted the Big M and that he had quoted an astronomical rate similar to his Badur contract.

I adjusted my expression accordingly so as to try look like we were the sort of people who had Machchan on call.

Knowing fully well Mr. Prakash would have never been able to loosen his purse strings to this extent, LL then commenced upon a severe campaign against using celebrities in advertising. Having embarked upon the celebrity route once, you are stuck with them forever. You've got to continue using a well known face else all will be lost. The fickle customer would move on. The astronomical fees you pay would have to be permanently budgeted for.

In short, hiring a celebrity for advertising would be like riding a tiger. You couldn't ever get off.

And what if the celebrity you've chosen lost popularity suddenly? Made a racist slur or in a drunken haze drive over a number of innocent people on the footpath. It would rub off negatively on your brand. A dreadful fate indeed.

Having made this convincing argument, LL decided to hammer the final nail in the coffin.

Amibath Machchan, while shooting in a rural, drought prone area for his next film, had insisted on a truckload of mineral water bottles. No, not for distributing amongst the thirsty populace as you may be excused for imagining. The popular brand of bottled water was used by him - wait for it - to bathe.

As LL would have it, this generated a lot of controversy and criticism for the Big M. In reality, it was soon forgotten.

This same region incidentally was an important one for Mr. Prakash's brands, generating a substantial amount of sales. As LL drew an eloquent picture as to what would have happened had we paid so many millions for the Big M; Mr. Prakash's disillusionment was complete.

Having reacted true to type, he now thanked us fervently as we had been personally responsible for saving him from a fate worse than death.

It took him only another ten more minutes to decide that he had actually arrived at this conclusion himself and claim that he had already planned to decline the offer for Machchan's endorsement should he have been ready and willing.

It is just as well the Big M would never know how far he fell from grace in our conference room in that one hour.

To soften the overall blow, LL suggested several second and third level Bollywood stars but Mr. Prakash was now a staunch convert to our cause. He happily agreed to endorsement from a humbler actor, known for playing character-led roles, suggested by Karan Sabjan.

Thus concluded another successful chapter of a highly strategic, skilfully played zero sum game.

The Pursuit of Bollyness - I

There are some who have the ability to catnap anytime, anywhere.

An enviable trait, unless they happen to be sitting next to you at a movie show.

Having snoozed peacefully through the crucial part of a thriller*, they awake newly refreshed, demanding that you fill them in on the intricacies of the plot.

* A Hindi movie allows a lot of opportunity for the sleep deprived, as the average flick is a three-hour long saga. At least.

Knowing they won't connect with the rest of the movie unless you do, you summon all your extempore précis skills to give an expert synopsis of the story so far, in a very audible whisper.

How the (tycoon) male action lead or the "hero" - actual age 45, playing 28, in a complicated flashback recalls how he met and fell for the yet-to-be brutally murdered (impoverished & orphaned) female lead - actual age 16, playing 22, ultimately executing violent, gory revenge to the evil doer.

Note to global readers: Yes, such movies exist. 

If you're lucky, a Hindi song starts just in time, sparing you homicidal glances from neighbours as you yak on.

Such an audience is however an exception. The average Hindi movie addict would willingly watch any movie released, over and over again, with complete attention.

Entertainment apart, Bollywood fascinates one and all.

If there is a common element that brings people together - young and old, homemaker and the career oriented, scientist and DJ, teacher and socialite, whether slumdog or penthouse millionaire, man and woman, it has to be the Hindi Movie. Or even, the Hindi movie star.

Our clients were no different.

They would simply lose their heads at the dizzying thought of attending their ad film shoot with a leading luminary of Bollywood.

Throwing caution and indeed, their budgets to the winds, they were suddenly willing to overlook a lot of past parsimony.

Having spent the last two quarters of the year haggling over not having to hike budgets, employee bonuses and even employee strength, they were categorically ready to pay obscene amounts to see their favourite film star shooting loving glances at or cuddling their bottle of hair oil, shampoo, toilet bleach, wall paint, soap or toothpaste as the case may be. All permanently frozen in celluloid. 

Just in time for boosting the bottomline, final quarter. I refer ofcourse to the balance sheet bottomline, as in, profits. Not keeping your bottom in shape by dancing to the latest Bollywood track. Don't be offended. This clarification is meant more for a certain cross section of ex-clients who may be reading this, like the one written about here, not you. Just pre-empting queries, as it were. 

In some cases, we were able to make their dreams come true - not so much we, but the media pundits who ruled all things Bollywood - the well connected ad folks and the production houses, including the occasional Bolly movie director, like Karan Sabjan who also made ad films on the side just for fun and some pocket change. Given that he had direct access to most of the top stars, he was one of our most popular and in demand ad makers. 

On this day, one of our cow belt* clients settled himself down for our next meeting. He headed a (largely) junk food company that was mid-sized, unheard of in the West zone, but popular in the North. 

* It was interesting to discover that the media world referred to the certain sections of the North and Central zone of India as the "cow belt". This may give a general impression of dairy farming, rustic poverty and the simple life, which is indeed the common man's way of life in rural India. However, the entrepreneurs that belong to the 'cow belt' are multi-millionaires to say the least. Their lifestyles are luxurious owing to the subsidies they enjoy as "farmers" and forget to pass on to their farm labourers. Modern day zamindars, they own sprawling designer farmhouses, a fleet of cars, and their wives would put any fashionista to shame given her accumulated knowledge and wealth of international designer labels. Don't believe me? Go see. No surprise that Indians hold the largest number of offshore Swiss bank accounts.  

"I want Amibath Machchan*", said Mr. Prakash, once ensconced comfortably in our conference room. His bratty offspring, let's call him Bottompincher Jatin or BJ, was busy settling his array of four cell phones in front of him. Two of them were the latest models of mobiles, just launched. Each meeting that he attended once a month, at least two of his phones were replaced by a newer model. 

* Since am painstakingly disguising all identities here, this is just to keep up with the overall theme.

Amibath Machchan also known as the Big M, is one of the leading stars here. Which is an understatement as anyone knows. For those who are visiting our planet from elsewhere in the universe and still haven't understood his significance, it would suffice to say that in certain parts of India, he had temples dedicated to him, with people garlanding his effigy. 

I looked over at LL and he at me. For once, we were in empathy. 

"Well, he's certainly the biggest", said LL. What he meant is, the Big M had been around since the last 30 (or was it 40?) odd years, having in no way eroded his appeal. Nor his price. 

He was also known as the King of endorsements. Not wishful thinking, in this case. 

A fact we were sure Mr. P was missing the significance of - financially speaking. 

"Exactly why he would be perrrrfect ji. Our sweets are the best and so is he. A best to best* tie-up, as you always say, ha!", countered Mr. Prakash. "Besides, he's doing Badur's ads! If he doesn't mind selling their hair oil, mosquito repellent and Gawd knows what else, then he should certainly have no problem with our brand. Everything of superb quality! What say Jatin?" BJ, jolted from his unmoving gaze at his new palm pilot, nodded. 

* The term we used was 'leader to leader'. Not quite 'best to best', but I guess Mr. P had absorbed the point well, which is the important thing. 

Badur was Mr. Prakash's pet bugbear. Now, we happened to have heard only last week from Karan Sabjan, the exact amount Big M had negotiated for the Badur campaign for a two year exclusive. Nothing less than Rs. 12 crores. Or 120 million. 

Mr. Prakash's new brand wasn't even selling that much yet. Realistically it wouldn't, even for the next 5 years. 

This was going to be difficult. There was no way of breaking it gently to Mr. Prakash. 

He was one of those obstinate ones who once having made up their minds, considered it unthinkable to change it. Failure on our part to follow his decree would mean loss of face for him, and loss of revenue for us. Why? Because he'd drop our consultancy like a hot brick. 

Bitten by the Bollywood bug, he'd have to be weaned off some other way. It was easy to guess why he'd succumbed. All the top actors were on an endorsing spree, from male innerwear to outerwear, shoes to hair gel, perfumes to pens. Small wonder that Mr. P felt the urge to take a flying leap onto the celebrity bandwagon. 

"Okay, we'll see what we can do", said LL, taking the easy way out. 

I let my jaw get back to normal position before the client could notice. 

We'd ended the meeting satisfactorily. I backed out of the room, making sure never to face my bottomline, er, behind towards BJ. The small matter remained however, of signing up Big M for Mr. Prakash's cow belt brands. 

If A. Machchan could be called the King of Endorsements, and M. Jackson the King of Pop, then that would make LL the undisputed King of Manipulation. 

If anyone could do this, he could. It was time to wag the dog. 

To be continued…

Say Cheers

A meeting which typically had an agency/ freelancer or two present in addition to the client sometimes posed diplomatic conundrums.

Especially when it came to Desmond, who for some unknown reason, was LL's favourite man of all work of the small time advertising kind. Drinking Desmond was my moniker for him, for reasons which will become clear as you read on.

Desmond wore a jacket for most meetings, which really impressed me, since no one bothered with very formal attire at work except for certain occasions. In Bombay, the weather does not permit it.

Having believed in always erring on the side of being formal rather than informal when in doubt, I liked the formal corporate image Desmond projected amidst the denim clad, unshaven, pony-tailed, often tattooed and earring-adorned men which dominate the creative half of the advertising world. And there's something about a jacket that just adds oodles of personality to any man.

I'm a sucker for just three things - guys who play the guitar/ drums, very tall guys and guys in jackets. I don't know why, but these three and if luckily in combination together, are quite irresistible. Okay, getting back to the point now. And hey am not that shallow really - it's always about the brain, not brawn.

My admiration for Desmond lasted only briefly however. Right upto the moment I realized exactly why he'd invested in a jacket.

It had a useful inner pocket that made a snug receptor for his favourite whiskey flask from which he no doubt derived great solace and sustenance for all the stressful meetings he had to make. Meetings where he had to explain to my maddened clients why he had skipped yet another deadline.

A typical meeting would consist of these attendees:

From the Client's end:
- Owners/ managing directors (very often, a pair of brothers or, father & son, or MD & CFO)
- Their EAs or PAs as the case may be
- Resident astrologer and/ or current pundit in favour
- Family friend and/ or time-honoured well-wisher

Allied agency:

- The freelancer/s or head of agency handling any allied function like communication, PR, events, and so on

From our end:
- LL
- Me
- LL's wife (sometimes)
- One of LL's children (sometimes)*

* This was LL's big family succession plan. His worst nightmare was that his children would not want to take over the mantle when the time came and fly away from his overprotective nest. So, LL decided to give new meaning to the devious gambit of starting them young. That his children were just 9 and 12 years of age, seemed to make no difference.

Our meetings were always extremely formal occasions - with preset agendas, and time limits to be adhered to. There were however, exceptions to this rule and this is one such chronicle.

One of our clients from an exotic state far, far away, whose company stock was considered the bluest of blue chip, was visiting us for a marathon session of meetings that would last the entire day.

The Director of this group, lets call him Mr. Kapil, was a born tycoon, with a stiff, aristocratic demeanour to match. I'd never ever seen him smile. Post meetings, I could never quite recall what I'd ever said to him. Somehow it was always blanked out thanks to his intimidating persona. I was always conscious of being in the presence of someone who personally contributed a healthy percentage to the annual GDP of India and generated employment for hundreds of people across rural areas.

Often, the meeting would take place in a room in our office that resembled the living room cum lounge of a typical home - complete with wall unit, couches lining the walls and helpfully placed corner tables, apart from two largish centrally placed ones. The couches were deep and comfortable.

That a client meeting held here consequently resembled a drawing room reunion amongst family members, some of whom are glad to meet each other again and some not, was not surprising.

On this day in my routine check of the room before the meeting, it struck me that some of the ceiling incandescent lights had blown out. It left the room much more dimly lit than usual. We'd still have to use this room as no other room would accommodate the sheer number of people we had to meet.

The reasons why I did not allow any of my clients to walk into this room without having checked it first were manifold. I remember one occasion when the client got settled comfortably in, and the air conditioning refused to work. Another time, the lights fused at one go. Yet another time, an office boy was found stretched full length and snoring on the couch.

The best or worst incident, depending on how you see it, was when a swarm of dragonflies flew out of the room straight at three co-directors about to walk in when the door was opened. Somehow, they'd gotten in through the window of an adjoining room and gotten locked in. Those directors flew out of our office too and were never seen again after making understandably snide remarks about the ten plagues of Marrkit.

On this day, the client arrived at 8:30 a.m. on the dot with an excited air and a bright glitter in his eye. Along with him came a pair of large carry-ons and he requested to be left alone for a while with his team of attendant CFO, wife, uncle, marketing manager, sales head, admin manager and other assorted coterie accompanying him.

Intrigued, LL and I waited for him to unveil the surprise. Which indeed it was.

Every table in the room was covered with a set of totally 3 dozen roughly pint sized bottles, called alcopops or breezers here. One half of these were a recently launched popular brand of alcopops that had taken metros in India by storm for it's low price, low alcohol content and flavours like cranberry, cola and lime, attracting the young, and especially women.

Explaining that this was a new business he was planning to invest in, the Director waved us in and stated that most of his existing infrastructure would double to produce what is known here as Indian Made Foreign Liquor. For those who don’t believe I didn't just make that term up, google IMFL and read all about it. Would not like to bore my better informed readers here.

The client was cleverly taking advantage of the fact that as per our terms, we would consult within the same fee for all their businesses, and any new ventures. We never dreamed that he would want to diversify into country liquor.

I wasn't feeling comfortable about this.

My support lay entirely with those brave rural women who'd recently kicked their no-good drunkard husbands out in a mini-revolution of sorts. And now we would be contributing to placing a new label within reach of their misguided men.

It was disillusionment of a different kind. That of all people, it had to be Mr. Kapil indulging in a spectacular breakaway from the respectable family business, a cherished dream, handed down over generations and sow his alcoholic oats within the populace, so to speak.

But the sight of all the glowing colourful bottles had a different effect on LL.

He now appeared just as excited as every other man in the room.

Mentally, I started formulating strategy of a different kind. To ease away from this client - and how to bring that up with LL. I passed him a quick note saying I'd like to meet him briefly in private, whenever possible. No doubt, he'd be difficult. He had only one criteria for client selection - that they be able to pay our fees on time. No ethical scruples would be entertained.

This was apparently a tasting ceremony. Having come well prepared with lots of disposable glasses, the client flatteringly wanted our opinion on each and every flavour and help shortlist the final four to be selected for launch. Mine, particularly for what would appeal to the palate of women in general.

All the bottles were stuffed into every inch of our pantry fridge and so it came to pass that by 11 a.m. the bottles were pulled out and pressed into service. In that time we'd quickly prepared enough prints of an evaluation matrix with attributes for everyone to mark down rankings, flavour-wise, for the home brand versus the competitor's. I mention this only so everyone knows some work actually got done too.

Before that, we called in Desmond to finalise the newsletter design and complete other sundry matters. For once Desmond had been suitably awed to actually bring the artwork and proofs along without mistakes, and in a generous mood, the Client invited him to join the tasting spree.

Desmond appeared delighted to oblige. I was sure he had taken a few fortifying swigs already to steady himself before the meeting but the client had no way of knowing that. Desmond, who couldn't take his eyes off the glittering array of bottles, happily settled down in a nook.

We all dutifully sipped just one or two mouthfuls of each flavour and I was surprised to note that I couldn't really tell the difference between the branded and the yet to be launched brand - but for one or two exceptions, which we duly noted.

I had seen wine tasting ceremonies on TV where people discreetly spit out the wine in a handy receptor, but come on, what do etiquette books say about doing the same thing in such a context? I wouldn't dream of doing something that crass in front of people who probably rounded each meal off with caviar. Besides, they may have found it insulting, given they'd brewed it in the first place.

After a few more rounds of tasting everything, the client suggested a repeat of the whole thing. His point was that we should have a second round just in case we changed our minds about what we thought the first time.

No one disagreed with him.

As I sipped on, I had to admit it, the bottles looked really pretty.

An array of golden yellow, cranberry red, deep purple and sparkling lime, which seemed to glow from within as I gazed at them.

The soft clinking sound of bottles being passed around merged well with the dim, diffused yellow lights of the room.

Conversation began to flow more freely. We discussed a whole lot of interesting subjects - where we'd all vacationed last, what we did weekends, which movies we had caught lately, which book we would pick to read on a two-hour flight and many other absorbing issues like that. Mr. Kapil's most trusted right hand man, the finance whiz, Mr. Jha suggested I use his first name only and offered to give me advice anytime on my tax planning. The jackets were flung over armchairs and the men's ties seemed to have lost their perfected knots. I idly watched Desmond, lulled into a happy snooze, who was still sitting upright with one of the bottles balanced precariously on his belly.

Mr. Kapil described their huge family estate and invited LL and I to schedule an offsite visit. We were duly flattered to accept.

For the first time, I heard Mr. Kapil laugh out loud. A nice, honest laugh.

He seemed to be listing slightly to one side on his couch, but looked immensely comfortable and somehow more humane. Like just another regular guy, not a tycoon. Finding it more and more difficult to remember what exactly my objections were, I couldn't understand why I'd ever thought of him as uptight or sombre.

Settling back more comfortably amongst the deep cushions in a happy haze, and helping myself to more of the cranberry, I realized LL was trying to catch my eye. He'd seen Desmond too and I could tell he hoped the client wouldn't notice. He waved me over and said that he was stepping into his office cabin briefly. I guessed the excess alcohol was catching up with him.

I was still wondering why on earth LL wanted me to go along, unless I had to help carry him, when LL prompted, "Didn’t you want to see me about something?"

"Who me?", I responded. "No, not at all!"

Most guys I know have been found imbibing before noon at least once, and I had always found their tales intriguing. The scene of the crime in such cases is usually a destination like Goa, a land where all is forgiven. This is one account where I too stood guilty as charged, but as I'm sure you agree - amidst impeccable company.