If Men are from Mars

I liked the Patel brothers.

Quite apart from their ripping, unholy ambition to take on the mammoth market leader, and new launches almost at the speed of light as compared to Indian marketing standard time, they had well balanced family lives, or so I liked to believe.

Juggling four cell phones between the two of them, or at least the four that I'd seen, one cell phone each was allocated only for calls from wives and close family. This was more of a guess than a certainty, as of late, any meeting that crossed 8:30 p.m. had their phones ringing almost in unison. These were well buried within their jacket pockets and fished out to be spoken into staccato in rapid fire Gujarati. Though that's not a language I speak, it was clear from their uniquely docile tones that they were responding to timely wifely reminders to leave our office as soon as possible.

This was extremely welcome, as our meetings with them usually went on from about 4 p.m. to half past eleven at night.

Have I already griped that our office had no policy where I could charge a cab ride home from our middle of nowhere location even at this late hour, to LL's overflowing coffers? Lately, I'd been asking around for pepper spray.

On this day, the calls were repeated every 2 minutes and a quarter of an hour later, it was clear why. Their better halves were actually waiting under the building this time and decided to come upstairs to see for themselves our den of vice that held the Patel bros' collective interests.

I was mildly surprised. Whereas the good natured and nattily attired Patel brothers had the sheen of overconfidence and power that comes from a long lineage of a well-stocked family treasury, they would never find themselves on the uppermost end of any list drawn up of the best lookers in business.

Their wives however, were stunningly beautiful, perfectly proportioned, elegantly attired, with lovely and charming personalities, minus pretension. With such a wife, any man would think himself a Greek God.

Trying to self analyse* why I was surprised, it could be because I'd seen too many bored, beautiful women living in comfortable marital (dis)harmony with their fat and balding obsessively rich industrialist husbands.

*A purely academic side hobby.

Am not by default implying that looks are important to make a relationship work. It's about the eye of the beholder, I do believe that. I mean the couples where there's no respect for each other once they're home, or complete disinterest except in living upto the t & c of the virtual contract. Upsetting. Just like yours, my vote goes out to those who marry because they're in love. With the person they're getting married to, ofcourse. The alternative is simply sordid.

Over the weekend, this set off a chain of thought along the usual depressing lines. When was I going to meet The One?

I know what it's all about, ofcourse. The euphoric rush, besotted, sleepless nights, countless imaginary meetings/ conversations.

So what if my most long term, committed relationship has been with the Snickers bar?

When couples talk about falling more in love over time, I know what that means too. I felt the same way when Snickers Dark was launched.

These couples explain it’s about experiencing new delights and consequently even more respect for your partner. I feel the same for the folks at Snickers. Despite a guaranteed winner on their hands with the original, they still made Snickers Dark! What do you call that?

They know how to woo. And they have me.

You say tall, dark and handsome? Have you seen a Snickers bar lately? The description fits.

If men are from Mars, so are Snickers.

Okay so am on a sugar rush right now. I have been bingeing on you can guess what. So they probably have addictives. Big deal. I don't smoke, my last drink was over 5 months ago and that's usually the case each time you ask me. Leave me my Snickers. Sure I'll give them up when I find my human, male substitute.

Am familiar with the flip side of the coin too. A tough break-up can get you addicted to endless reruns of Under the Tuscan Sun, One Fine Day and Something's Gotta Give. Who wouldn't want to buy a charming, crumbling villa, befriend and feed grateful Polish workers, assist in their love life, hang out with Italians and end by meeting someone (non Polish) who likes the way you write? All this in Tuscany mind you.

Next day, however, brought my mind firmly down to earth and perhaps, lower. I was back at Marrkit after all.

The office saw minor excitement of the sordid kind as it was discovered that the Accounts guy who came in thrice a week from our outsourced tax expert's office, had spent a lot of his time researching delectable internet porn instead of deductible expenses.

Normally this bit of scandal would have been swept under our imitation oriental carpets, but since he had been surfing the internet from Mrs. LL's office and her very own PC in her absence, she was quite vocal in her denouncement of the accounts chap lest anyone think she was the one using her computer this way.

Outraged and on the warpath, she took it upon herself to root out hitherto unsuspected immorality amongst the lesser staff.

She triumphed while reviewing the monthly fax expenses which had hit the roof. Coupled with constant complaints from clients that they could never reach our fax line, she pounced upon the Head office boy one evening glued to the fax line phone, having spent many happy after hours connected to a phone sex line. This was even bigger scandal.

Which hardly came as a surprise to us.

My colleagues and I were quite sure that this particular head office boy who ruled the office floor and particularly the stationery supplies like the local representative of the mafia, was an established member of the underworld for some time now.

All Marrkitians had to fill out a form in triplicate to issue a five rupee ballpoint. The boy would then bring the requested stationery, with enough delay to boost his self importance and only after having surreptitiously inspected our workstation drawers lest we were indulging in some lucrative ball pen smuggling. Sure. He also controlled rationing of the tea and coffee supplies. Okay, am not sure what all this has to do with the point I was making, but it goes to show our bias. See, I can be fair.

We were not surprised when he was not sacked, as this office boy also doubled as LL's houseboy and presumably knew too much. The only downside from his point of view was that he had to from now on, show up in uniform and that too, clean shaven. We celebrated this miracle.

On this day, with Greeks and Italians very much in mind, a very creditable Indian version walked right into the office. I forget what he was there for, but knowing the laws of Murphy - as they applied to my world in particular - I knew he had to be engaged or married even before I noticed his diamond studded gold ring. All seemingly eligible guys are usually out of circulation. The Gujarati ones, far earlier.

I said as much to my colleague who couldn't take her eyes off his fair Kutchi face.

"I didn't know Murphy wrote about guys and stuff?" she said.

"Okay I don’t know if he ever actually said that, but you know what I mean".

I decided to test my theory, just in the interests of getting her expression back to normal. The guy seriously didn't need any more of an ego boost. Like those extremely good looking guys who know they're something special, he had that look on his face. He was so sure we fancied him. Annoying.

"So, congratulations", I smiled at him, "When was D-day?"

"Oh, last month. Just gotten back from our trip to Europe".

"Cool. We were just talking about how parents should support cross-cultural marriages. If you don't mind telling us, was it love or** arranged?"***

**Note to readers: Please don't send me impassioned mails saying the two don't have to be mutually exclusive. I agree they don't. Not always.

***Note to global readers: In India, this is a valid question. If you still don't know about the Great Indian Arranged Marriage, get back under your rock in Mars. Okay, that was mean. You may write in and I'll send you a list of movies you could watch to be clear about the concept.

"No, no. It was love at first sight", he grinned.

"Hey that’s so romantic. Did your parents take it well?"

"Ofcourse, they had no problem".

"That's really great". I meant that genuinely. I'd have to get back to my mom and tell her that Gujarati parents were also equally as progressive.

"That's so nice, your kids would learn at least two Indian languages and absorb both cultures" I gushed. Indians are bilingual at the very least. We know a native language or two and English, a fact noticed particularly by China while analysing why Indians who landed upon foreign shores in equal hordes had an edge over them. The next generation would be a super generation, linguistically. Learning two or more native languages and English to boot.

"So you would teach your kids Kutchi. What language would they learn from her? Just calculating how many languages an average Indian kid would know", I explained while imagining his future tots prattling in 4-5 tongues.

He looked at me as if I were a dunce.

"She's Kutchi, ofcourse!"

Now I looked at him as if I were a dunce.

"Ofcourse?" I had to ask, confused.

Perhaps this was a twist of fate. What were the odds? I thought of my Parsi friend who wanted to marry a Gujarati guy and had to go through major drama including excommunication. She could've used such luck.

"Well, I would always follow my parents' wishes" he replied, still looking at me like I was a lot dumber than he'd first estimated.

This guy was beginning to bug me.

"I just mean it’s lucky that she turned out to be Kutchi. What if you had fallen in love with…a Catholic, or Parsi or an American? Would your parents still be cool?" I went on purely because we seemed to be talking at cross purposes.

"Oh no, I'd never do that!" he said, genuinely horrified. "I knew she was Kutchi before I fell in love with her!"

Sure my job's hazardous. I owe some of my greys to this conversation.

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.

Just a Random Day at Work

Venue: Client's office, one fine day.

As always, do bear with the poor quality of sketch.

The options presented did stump me at first glance. But you can guess which door I chose.

And hey, if you can draw better than this with a mouse, please feel free to volunteer your services for the future. Versus my previous image, hope you've noticed that I've graduated from using boxes to depict bodies to curved shapes. And no, am not missing half a limb. I just can't draw hands yet.

(Click on the image to see it clearly... only if you want to.)

The Curious Case of a Chocolate Flan

On the personal front, I'd started feeling that anyone interesting of the male variety I'd lately met (or not met), fell into five categories. By interesting I mean - humane, witty, intelligent and attractive (to me).

This only reconfirmed my theory refined over the years, that all the good guys: 

1. Have left the country for the USA, UK, Australia, New Zealand or S.E.A.*

 
2. Are about to leave the country for USA, UK, Australia, New Zealand or S.E.A.

 
3. Are married or taken.

 
4. Are gay.

 
5. Are too young for me.

For obvious reasons I refuse to acknowledge those who were just not interested in me.

* These are the most attractive destinations for all working professionals out here. In USA it would be NY winning hands down as the leading destination of the pack.

Not that it mattered. My working hours and the way I consequently looked over weekends - eyes ringed with dark c's, the occasional sniffle attack due to sudden transition from heavy cool air-conditioning to searing or humid heat - did not leave me with the time nor inclination to socialize. Story of my life, so far.

On this day, I was geared up for my first day long excursion with LL. Naïve newcomer that I was, as per his instructions, I'd shown up on the dot at 7 a.m. below his residence building and was instructed to wait in his car, manned by his driver.

LL joined us at 8.30 a.m.

Though my enthusiasm for the exciting day ahead had wilted somewhat, it quickly revived as we started our journey.

In stark contrast to our claustrophobic workstation sans windows, it was nice to look at the blue sky, puffs of clouds and the lazy marshes whiz by.

Running late for the first meeting meant that we were hard pressed for time, and by late afternoon, having managed to pacify and satisfy various clients along the way who were not expecting us to show up considerably more than an hour after the scheduled time, we unpacked our delayed lunch tiffins of biryani (LL's) and soggy sandwiches (mine) as we drove to our final two meetings from the suburbs to the South of Bombay.

On such days LL's car resembled a mobile makeshift office, with files piled up on whatever space the driver, LL and I didn't occupy.

Both LL, I and the driver were usually on calls the entire time, with brief intervals of respite. 

Why was the driver on phone? Because LL never spoke directly to his driver.

All instructions were conveyed by LL's wife from home to the driver. For any last minute change in route, LL would first call his wife and then she would call his driver. Watching this ritual did get my blood pressure up a little higher, but I never knew why it was done, so don't ask.

Despite everything, our meetings were successful and the view from the window again captivated me. Okay, so this time, it was more buildings, shopfronts, hoardings and less horizon, but Bombay looks progressively cleaner and somewhat wealthier as you head southwards which gives a feeling of ascension to something better that really lifts your spirits. Only true Bombay 'burbies will understand this. 

Just before we reached our client's office, he called LL and cancelled the meeting due to some urgent reasons. This gave us a couple of hours to kill until our next one.

I stayed quiet, waiting to hear what his next instruction to Mrs. LL would be. Strangely, LL made no move to speed dial her number. Curious and curiouser.

"Oberoi chalo", said LL, spraying Polo liberally all over himself.

The car swerved slightly.

Bablu the driver recovered quickly from his shock at being addressed directly and drove on.

I slid open my window slightly so I could breathe again.

For once, the scenic curve of Marine Drive failed to capture my attention. The expression on LL's face was very familiar - I'd seen it before. On kids who’ve discovered the junk food stash and TV remote while their parents are out.

"Let's take a break, eh? If Mrs. L calls up on your cell just pretend it's on silent", puffed LL. What fun. This was a side to LL I didn't know existed.

We plonked ourselves down on the plush couches in front of the famous windows at the cafe overlooking the sea. It was exciting. In pre office days and window shopping at the Oberoi, I would look with wonder at all the super-busy men and women lounging around the lobbies and cafes for power brunches, power lunches and power teas. It was all so aspirational. I wanted to be part of that fascinating world.

And there we were. I was no longer awe-struck student, walking past looking at all the corporate movers and shakers, but felt at home amongst them. 

Well, once you're seated, anywhere in the Oberoi can make you feel that way.

All around us were people just like us, seemingly in between meetings or conducting them. It was fun to mimic their snooty expression while glancing over to check them out.

LL, feigning disinterest, tried eavesdropping on the conversation at the next table. He fed me snippets of what he occasionally overheard.

I wondered though if that's all he would feed me on. 

I also wondered if it was okay to order myself, or wait for him to ask. I tried recalling etiquette pointers on 'when unexpectedly out with the Boss, first time'**, but nothing really came to mind. Slightly tense and conscious, on this my first social outing with the boss, I wanted to avoid a faux pas of any kind. Or what LL the Martian, oops sorry, LL the Marrkitian would consider one.

Even after half an hour of arriving, LL showed no signs of encouraging the occasionally hovering server. 

I remembered how my day had begun and steeled myself. "I think I'll have a juice", I ventured. 

"Sure! Ofcourse!!", said LL, ever the gentleman. "In fact, I'll have one too!", he boomed.

Midway through our juices, LL had thawed greatly. 

This was partly because, given his uncanny luck, the conversation he'd eavesdropped upon had yielded results. One of our client's competing product's advertising strategy was being laid bare by the loud and eloquent ad account manager to our left, straight into LL's eager ears. Having secured this little titbit of a nugget, LL leaned over to wink and whisper, "His voice got louder after he saw you. What a show off!". 

I didn't get it for quite some time. Hey I was younger and innocent then. Ofcourse it stumped me. A compliment? From LL? I didn't know how to react.

The other reason LL was really happy was that a group of newly hatched, smart MBAs at another table had recognised him and clustered around briefly telling him how much they admired him. Nothing made LL's day more than public recognition. After subjecting them to a fifteen minute homily, he'd let them go.

Meanwhile, LL, feeling expansive, said, "Let's celebrate. Order anything! This is for you, you deserve it!"

Recovering from this shocker, I took the menu he proffered. I knew him well enough to wait a bit.

"From here", he suggested, pointing to the truffles and pastries section. He still held on to one end of the massive menu so I pretended to study it and waited some more. 

"Let me help you. How about the chocolate flan? It's really good here, you must have it." 

I can never say no to chocolate but I knew LL well enough now not to get my hopes up.

"We'll have a chocolate flan pastry", said he to the server.

"Just one?", the superior looking server raised his eyebrows, flicking his glance at me.

Just in case you're wondering, the times I speak of, were not those of recession or economic slump. 

"Yes, yes, just one will do. It's for her, my colleague - I'm not allowed to have all this. I was telling her it's the best here", said LL loudly, playing the part of magnanimous, indulgent boss taking his employee out for a meal, for the benefit of his fans at the next table who were paying us a lot of attention. 

The flan arrived and I suddenly realized that it was a wise move on LL's part to order just one. It was massive, and flanked on either side by two dessert spoons. The server strategically placed it in the exact centre of the space between LL and me.

I picked up my spoon and waited for LL's move. He slid the plate slightly closer to my end of the table. 

Here was another etiquette related quandary. Given his oddities, would LL really not mind if I dug into the same pastry he would later have? Did he really want me to have it all? 

"I'm not allowed, this is all for you", he mourned. 

Unable to resist the charms of a good chocolate for long, I dug out a minuscule piece. It was melt-in-the-mouth gooey, dreamy, dark chocolate, and I couldn't wait to have more. 

I pushed the dish over to his side.

"Do have some, it's great", I offered, inviting him to taste it before I polished the rest off.

"No, no, I really am not allowed, if Mrs. LL finds out…" His gaze was fixed on the flan and his fist was clenched hard around the dessert spoon.

Perhaps I'd misjudged LL. He wasn't all self-centred and self-serving. I felt glad that he meant it this time and wasn't faking it. It's always a pity when people have to deprive themselves of the good things life has to offer. For the first time, I looked at LL with new eyes. I was slowly getting to see the real persona behind his "Boss" image.

I waited for form's sake while he took a call on his cell.

The loud-spoken agency guy had apparently finished his meeting and I watched him swagger out with his client.

My gaze wandered to the spectacular view which relaxed and mesmerized me once again. The gently swaying palms and the wide expanse of the aqua sea looked beautiful through the tinted windows.

LL was right. I deserved to indulge in chocolate like that. Eagerly anticipating the rest of it, I decided to pull the plate back to devote myself exclusively to the flan as the mandatory polite interval from the time I made the offer had passed. 

I turned around and reached out. To an empty plate. 

And saw LL, licking the last few crumbs off his spoon. 

It hadn't even taken him a minute. More fool me.

He caught my eye. "We won't tell Mrs. L about this okay?", he winked.

"Sure". 

** Given my valuable experience working with LL all these years, I decided to pen my own helpful list called "Etiquette pointers when out with the Boss, especially if he's LL ". Flatteringly, the list became worth it's weight in gold and folklore amongst Marrkitians old and new. Will add it to the archives another time, if you like.

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…

Books to read to become a Marketing Consultant (in Recommended Order):

• How to Surprise Your Competition
• How to Kill the Competition
• Don’t Focus on Competitors
• Get Your Customer
• Know Your Customer
• Keep Your Customer
• What To Do When the Customer Starts Leaving
• Stop Selling, Start Living… Start Marketing
• Ageless Product, Timeless Profit
• So What if Your Product Doesn’t Meet Any Consumer Need?
• Reap First, Sow Later
• Principles of Marketing
• Business Ethics for Newcomers
• How to be Ethical and Yet Succeed - All New Secrets!
  
• Marketing For Dummies
• Marketing Is For Dummies
• It’s Not About Marketing!
• It’s About Brand Building
• 360 Degree Communication
• Zen and the Art of Customer Maintenance

Author's note: These books may not be easily available at your friendly neighbourhood bookstore as they are usually sold out. At least, they were when I tried.

The Day of the Call

I was about to take a call from my boss’s cabin, owing to my workstation phone being out of order yet again. The official work-lingo for a little 2 by 2 feet space that I was allocated was religiously referred to as the Workstation. It consisted of a table on which my PC and printer jostled for space along with my ancient phone instrument.

My phone was surely one of the items the Indian chapter of Greenpeace had protested against sometime in the past. It was hopelessly outdated technology. I was convinced that it was one of the items that had been illegally dumped into the Indian ocean by one of the “developed” countries. I was sure that LL had found it washed ashore one day during his morning walk.

I couldn’t stretch my legs out fully under the table as there were mysterious cardboard boxes there. The first time my curiosity overcame caution, I tried opening the top flap, only to set free certain baby cockroaches from their cozy home. That experience brought home the meaning of the phrase “erring on the side of caution” which I decided to follow.

I hate jargon and aphorisms pretty much equally. But I do get the point now. Of course, being a “Marketing Person” meant I could talk pretty much all the time in a mix of aphorisms and jargon. It wasn’t for nothing that I did my MBA!

I still haven’t decided on the right definition of MBA. It officially stands for Masters in Business Administration. Alternate definitions are:-

• Mostly Boring & Avoidable
• Minimise your Brains in Administration
• Masters in Bullshitting Also

Pardon the use of bullet points. Am so conditioned to using them. A habit I can’t break.

Anyway, walking into my boss’s cabin, unoccupied by him, I noticed two guests, seated opposite his desk. I guessed they were either Prospects* or Clients*.

*For Definitions, refer to the GLOSSARY OF TERMS/ OFFICE JARGON Section

Prospects as per LL were to be treated with kid gloves as they represented people who could sign up for our services. It was easier for me to recognise prospects whenever LL was around as you could see the dollar signs in his eyes.

These guys however looked different from our usual set of Clients as they were well-dressed, well-read, looked like they had an IQ of over 130 and knew English.

I noticed his phone instrument’s receiver was missing and took the call on speakerphone. Big Mistake. The conversation went something like this. Have put down all I could remember, may have blocked some memories due to trauma.

Mom: Why aren’t you picking up your cell phone?

Me: Umm..its in my bag. Didn’t hear it

Mom: So what were you doing?

Me: Working. Is it anything urgent?

Mom: What time are you coming home today?

Me: Don’t know yet.

Mom: Why don’t you know? What sort of office do you work in. Make sure you reach by 7.30, the Khanna’s are coming for dinner.

Me: Why?

Mom: What do you mean why?

Me: As in, why are they coming over for dinner?

Mom: What type of a question is this??

Me: And why do I have to come home on time?

Mom: Because they are coming to meet you.

Me: Why?

Mom: What do you mean why!

Me: But they are your friends, why ‘coming to meet me’?

Mom: They have a son - have you forgotten?

Me: Don’t they have two?

Mom: Two what?

Me: Sons!

Mom: Yes, so what?

Me: Nevermind, whatever, will try to get home. Okay bye.

Mom: You’re not hanging up on me today! You never speak to me at home! You purposely didn’t pick up your cellphone. Don’t think I don’t know. Now today, you will have to listen to me..

Me: (Interrupting the flow and slightly red in the face): Err.. there are prospects here right now..

Mom: That is what I’m talking about. Prospects. They are interested in you for their son.

Me: He needs a marketing consultant..?

Mom: Don’t get funny with me. You are already too old. Everyone is asking about your marriage plans. Mrs. Shrikhande, Mrs. Holekar, Mrs. Gokhale, Mrs. Joshi, Mrs. Kulkarni and Mrs. Sapre-some of them, probably for their own sons.

Me (in an attempt to distract): Hmm.. interesting. How come all these moms didn’t have any daughters? This is an interesting trend which needs investigating, about bias and gender discrimination amongst those of their generation. This is clearly a case of women discriminating against women unless their husbands were involved in the conspiracy.

Mom: All are not as highly educated as us. We belong to the highest caste of Brahmins. (Let me explain. I have a sister and a brother, which made my parents Equal Opportunity parents, I guess.)

Me: Okay great. I have to get back to work now.

Mom: Nahin. I have not finished! And I know you are not working. Isn’t it supposed to be lunch time? For two minutes can’t you talk with your own mother? Is this the respect I get after years and years of bringing you up? You have gone out of control. You must pay more attention to your brother. He is getting wayward. He needs your guidance and attention.

Mom tended to wander in terms of topics. By the way, she’s done her Bachelor of Education in English Literature and Masters in Psychology. A troublesome combination.

The said brother was one who from childhood had modelled himself on a combination of Dennis the Menace and Damien (of Omen fame). He was four years younger.

By this time, the clients or whoever they were had perked up. Previously looking bored, one had been idly looking out the window and the other was presumably surfing the net on his cell phone. But now, they had given up all pretence and were openly listening.

I don’t blame them.

I appreciated the fact that they were well-bred enough to keep a straight face. And also that if I glanced over at them directly, one casually glanced at his shoes and the other studied the table top. Which reflected good manners.

Me: He doesn’t listen to me

Mom: So what? As a sister you have a duty to mentor him.

Me: Can we discuss this when I get home?

Mom: When you get home?! When do you get home? You have been coming home at 10 o clock!! Why don’t you just admit it. Which movie did you go for? With whom did you go out for dinner?

Me: I was at work!

Mom: What sort of office do you work in? Tell your boss you have to leave.

Me: Everyone in Bombay works late.

Mom: Mrs. Phule from Pune called up today

Maybe abrupt topic change is a psychological ploy.

Me: Can we catch up on life, the universe & everything when I get home?

Mom: No, enough is enough. Get home before the Khanna’s reach and wear a salwar-kurta.

Me: Why?

Mom: What impression will they get about you?

Me: But they’ve known us since we were kids, how does my attire matter?

Mom: Because they are interested in you for Chetak.

Me: I don’t think of him that way

Mom (ever the practical): So start thinking

Me: We have nothing in common.

Mom: How do you know?

Me: That’s my point. He never talks, he’s weird.

Now what I really meant was that this dude was the type who didn’t meet my eye. My problem with that was that I didn’t like where his eye usually was… about 6 inches southwards of my chin.

Mom (in a tone of voice implying irrefutable logic): He’s A Marine Engineer.

Now, this is what I thought of Marine Engineers, at least of the variety I’d met so far. Please don’t get me wrong. Am not implying all are like that. Maybe I’d just met the wrong type. Marine engineers are an interesting subject for a thesis. What happens to marine engineers? They lead cloistered lives. It’s my theory that marine engineers are mostly gay (as in of the homosexual variety) out of habit. Some commit suicide and others after spending so much time on a ship, usually get depraved and/ or very sex-starved. Many, I’d heard on good authority, had wives in every port. Interestingly, in India, Marine Engineers are considered good husbands as they are paid extremely well. I guess that’s to compensate for the fact that they work in adverse conditions.

I feel for them, truly. Just not the ones I’ve met so far.

I was about to express my opinion about Marine Engineers aloud, but Murphy’s Law and its ramifications in my life made me keep mum on the subject.

For those not familiar with this adage, Murphy’s Law broadly states that ‘Whatever can go wrong, will.’ I completely believe in it, because this tenet proved to have startling accuracy in the future course of events. Will elaborate on this with suitable examples later. To cut a long story short, the people in the cabin could have been marine engineers for all I knew.

Me: Am quoting Shania Twain here, ‘That don’t impress me much’.

Mom: Charu is also engaged.

Me: So?

Mom: Now you are the only one left.

Me: So?

Mom: Bakwaas band karo. (Stop talking nonsense). He’s a smart boy.

I was speechless. Only for a second however.

Me: On what basis do you claim that. Define smart.

Mom: His parents are nice.

Me: Okkayyy… I don’t dispute that. What sort of a life will I have with a Marine Engineer? He spends 8 to 9 months on a ship. Didn’t you read the last article in Femina about Marine Widows?

Mom: What about them?

Me: The fact that they are widowed!

Mom: What rubbish. It’s a good life. You are supposed to leave your job and stay on the ship with him.

Me (with irrefutable logic): If I wanted to spend 8 months on a ship, I would’ve done Marine Engineering.

Mom: You’ve become too spoilt. I’ve let you get out of hand. When was the last time you visited any temple? When was the last time you cooked dinner?

Me: You’ve been watching too many Balaji teleserials. Sure. If you like, I’ll come home, wear a sari with full make-up and way too much jewellery, will visit a temple everyday and diligently cook at least three meals a day. I’ll ofcourse, have to quit my job, and sit idle, and plot against various family members.

For those not familiar with the top ranking Indian TV soap operas, this is pretty much what happens. Spread over an excruciating 200 episodes at a minimum level.

Mom: Mrs. Trivedi came over today

Me (getting desperate by now): Mom, we have an audience.

Mom: She was telling me about her son. I think she wants you to marry him. She told Mrs. Gargi who told Mrs. Shrikhande. I heard it from Mrs. Joshi when I met her downstairs.

Me (I found this easy to follow as I was used to conversing with my mom): Do you mean Dheeraj?

Mom: No, Kapil

Me: What?! I have no idea who he is! Mom, I have unfortunately had to take this call on speakerphone in my boss’s cabin, so let me put the phone down, and call you back from elsewhere.

Mom: No, today I will not hear excuses. You are making up stories.

Me: Mom, believe me, there are unwitting hostages to this conversation!

At this moment, the senior Managing Director-type got up and walked out of the cabin. Apparently he had headed towards the washroom. We had a network of office boys who usually kept track of client movements - that’s how I know. This is easy as the office is small enough for everyone to know where everyone else is.

Me: Mummy, half of the audience has walked out, and the other half is probably contemplating jumping out of the nearest window.

I saw the remaining Client smile. Quite nicely.

I also heard laughter. It struck me that our home phone had a recently installed extension.