by Ajeet Sharma
‘What makes you say that?’ Karan folded the sleeves of his white linen shirt.
‘Yeah,’ said Rishi, putting on his Burberry glasses as he steered with one hand. ‘When did you first sense they had decided in our favour?’
‘There were quite a few things.’ Karan looked through the windscreen. ‘The first indicator was when they did not debate for long on our marketing plan. They like Yodel. That’s clear.’
‘When you have a product like that, you wanna own it. More out of respect,’ spoke Vidu from the backseat.
‘What else, Karan?’ asked Rishi, as he drove along a roundabout.
‘Secondly, they did not interrogate how Freedom would give them a four- to five-time return on their equity. Perhaps, they knew the potential and agreed to that.’
‘You’re so right,’ said Vidu.
‘Then it was after the first break in the meeting,’ said Karan.
‘The commission-sharing rate!’ exclaimed Rishi.
‘It was Allen who offered 35 per cent. One could easily see that Zabar and Wilson seemed to be in disagreement with him. Wilson had totally withdrawn himself from the discussion.’
‘Vidu screamed his gut out,’ said Rishi, looking back. ‘And speak less of your brilliant background, salesman.’
‘We’ve still got the money, haven’t we?’ said Vidu harshly. ‘And you remember what they said about yours?’
Rishi had to ignore him as always. ‘Karan, you mean there was a disagreement among them on the rate?’
‘That’s what, Rishi. By then, I was positive that these people did want to fund us, yet they wanted to have the upper hand in the deal. Allen believed he could get their firm a better deal and tried to play hero by demanding such a high commission-sharing rate. His colleagues did not support him as they knew that was an absurdly high rate. I could sense their disagreement. That was the last sign.’
‘I’m sure Wilson must be boxing Allen at the moment for being such an idiot,’ said Vidu.
‘During a negotiation,’ continued Karan, ‘the team members have to be in harmony with one another, or at least they must show as much. When I sensed there was a conflict, I played on it.’
‘So that was when you decided to call it off?’ asked Vidu.
‘Yeah, after the second break when Allen came down to only 30 per cent. I wanted to show I was being forced to call it off.’
‘By Allen,’ said Rishi.
‘Exactly,’ said Karan.
‘You made them believe they were going to lose us,’ commented Vidu.
‘He made us believe that too, Vidu,’ said Rishi. ‘And, now that we have the money, you can say you’re with a good company for a change.’
‘I always knew I was,’ lied Vidu.
A week later, after the two parties had signed several operative and ancillary documents, Windlyn Capital transferred GBP 1 million—about INR 9.8 crore at the going exchange rate—to buy a 15 per cent equity stake in Freedom.
It was agreed and documented that Freedom would share with Windlyn 20 per cent of the commission earned, and that the performance of the company would be reviewed six months after the commencement of operations. If the sales volume did not increase by 20 per cent in that period, Windlyn would not invest more money in the venture.
14
Gul Manwani was as good as his word. He agreed to sign the agreement for his seven-year-old brand, Yodel. In return, and after a long round of negotiations, Freedom invested five crore rupees in his company. The entrepreneurs were happy, as that was a crore less than the maximum amount they were prepared to invest. They had more cash available as working capital. A few days later, there was an inconspicuous report on an inner page of The Economic Times. It read:
MANWANI BEVERAGES FINDS A PARTNER
Manwani Beverages has signed an Exclusive Sales and Marketing Rights Agreement for its beleaguered brand, Yodel, with a newly established company, Freedom Marketing Private Limited. Freedom has bought a minority stake worth five crore rupees in the beverage company. According to the understanding signed, Manwani Beverages will continue to manufacture its three carbonated drinks at its Okhla plant. However, all marketing-, promotion-, and sales and distribution-related operations, from now on, will be managed by Freedom.
In less than two months, as the value of the venture rose, the entrepreneurs convinced a local high-net-worth individual to invest in their company, on terms and conditions less harsh. He was the owner of a chain of restro bars in Delhi and he not only invested three crore rupees in exchange for a 3 per cent stake but also said yes to serving Yodel at his bars.
Freedom had the freedom to market and sell Yodel the way it wanted. For years, Manwani had confined the brand to Delhi and had not explored other territories fearing failure. Whatever staid marketing campaigns he launched also went unnoticed by consumers. The company had earned low profits in the initial years but suffered losses later as costs increased. Having learnt that replicating conventional tactics would not work for small players like him, Manwani had no other option but to find a sales and marketing partner—a company that would also abide by his terms and conditions.
Manwani handed over reams of data on weekly sales, market shares, marketing expenditure, and selling and distribution expenses to Freedom. However, Freedom appointed a local research firm to conduct a fresh survey. The firm’s report confirmed that Yodel suffered poor recall and recognition among consumers.
Freedom’s sales territory was to remain unchanged in the first phase of operations, which comprised five areas of Delhi: east, west, north, south, and central. The distribution network, however, had to be expanded within Delhi.
Recruitment was a grind and Rishi knew that better. Karan’s background and experience, however, worked in their favour. It took them a couple of months to finish the hiring process. They hired people in Sales, Human Resources, and Finance. Some of the recruits in Sales were from Festi and Crown. Freedom poached them with better salaries and incentives.
As for Marketing, the three of them decided to handle it together. ‘Until we revive Yodel in the market,’ said Karan, ‘we are run-around marketeers. Once we are successful in the eyes of Dan Zabar, we will expand to more territories near Delhi. Let’s not forget that our mission is to distribute the brand countrywide.’
They shifted their corporate office from Noida to Business Park, Saket in Delhi, as they wanted more space and their market within easy reach.
Before setting off, they assessed the situation they were in. It had been more than two decades since the economic liberalisation began, yet the ways in which firms promoted their products were archaic and ineffective. Consumer awareness levels were on an all time high and most brand managers and ad makers were in a quandary about the fast-changing aspirations. Freedom would have to generate fresh ideas to revive Yodel—ideas that no organisation had tried before. Karan Jaani laid out their take-off plan and they divided the tasks among themselves.
Dan Zabar’s office communicated to them the date of the first performance-review meeting as May 22, 2014. They were happy that there would be no interference of any kind from Windlyn until then. They had all the freedom they had wished for, but not much time.
PART TWO
15
January, 2014
Mumbai.
A cameraman captured the sea waves hitting the rocks on the Bandstand beach. The sound was turned on. An ascending musical note, changing into heavy beats, could be heard. The crowd around the set cheered raucously as Baruni Mehta, an unknown Bollywood actress in a provocative outfit, began to gyrate on the peppy number.
‘Cut!’ yelled the film director. ‘Can I tell you something, miss?’ he blurted out sitting on a chair that creaked now and then under his heavy bulk. ‘Who do you think you are? A Hollywood star? Wag that bum a little more. Don’t forget this is your only appearance in the movie. You get that?’ Standing in front of the crew and crowd, Baruni nodded as her chest heaved up and down. ‘This is your last chan
ce. Another mistake and you go home,’ warned the director, as he slipped his hand inside his beach shirt and scratched his sweaty armpit unabatedly. ‘Action!’ he barked.
The sound was turned on, and again, Baruni let the character of the beach dancer enter her body. This time, she swayed her hips more bawdily to the beats. The director sniggered seeing his threat work so fast.
‘Cut!’ he shouted. ‘Good one, item girl. You just saved your job.’
Baruni scurried into a tent shared by a few extras, grabbed a towel, and dropped into a chair.
Her phone rang. ‘Hello,’ she said, breathing heavily and mopping the sweat off her forehead.
‘Hi, Baruni. I’m here, standing right ahead of the crowd, in a blue shirt and jeans.’
She went out of the tent, ran her eyes around the area, and spotted him waving at her. ‘Yeah, I can see you.’ She waved back. ‘You have a ponytail?’
‘Yeah, a pony’s tail and a goat’s beard.’ Vidu Nandi stroked the growth of his hair—his new hairstyle—at the back of his head. ‘I’ll wait for you in my cab, a white Swift Dzire.’ He gave her its number.
‘Five minutes.’ She went back into the tent.
Waiting in the cab, Vidu watched people gather around an Audi slowing down in front of him. Two broad bodyguards came out of the sedan and pushed the crowd away. Then a tall and youngish man alighted from the car and waved at the crowd. He was Jai Veer, an actor who was not among the top ones but had given many box office hits. His bodyguards flanked him protectively as his fans tried to get close to him for a picture or an autograph. They followed him as he walked towards the sea for his part of the shoot.
There was a sharp knock on the window. Vidu hurriedly pushed the door open for Baruni.
‘Where to?’ He noticed her sticky face as she settled into the seat.
‘There’s a restaurant called Ninety Nine on Hill Road, not far away from here. It’s lunch time. Aren’t you hungry?’ She unzipped her bag, which stood on her lap.
‘Not a bad idea. Am famished too.’ He asked the driver to take them to the place.
Rummaging through her belongings inside the bag, Baruni extracted lip gloss and applied it.
‘What’s the title of this film being shot?’ He thought she was attractive but, at that moment, she looked stressed.
‘Pyar Hua Hai Tumse, and I’m not playing the female lead,’ she clarified beforehand.
‘Of course.’
‘Of course?’
‘I mean …'
The driver steered through the traffic for the next ten minutes before braking near the small eatery.
Inside, as they looked for a table, Vidu could see that no one paid any attention to Baruni. A waiter showed them to a table and took their orders.
Despite the rush, the service was quick. Within a few minutes, the waiter returned and served pasta and Real orange juice to Baruni, and hakka noodles and Red Bull to Vidu.
‘Karan must have spoken to you about—’
‘Yeah. What a big surprise he called me,’ she said chirpily. ‘I last met him when he was about to move to Delhi and join Festi. No contact in years and suddenly … It’s nice to hear from him.’ Baruni was once Karan’s classmate in college in Mumbai. She took out a wet tissue from her bag and dabbed it on her freckled face. ‘You guys have started a beverage business, he told me.’
‘That’s right.’ Ninety Nine was usually a congested place during lunch. Vidu wished there was less noise. ‘Baruni,’ he raised his voice, ‘I’m sure Karan has told you about my objective of being here.’
She nodded.
‘So, how can you help me meet Kabir Raja?’
Baruni forked her pasta. ‘Look Vidu, as I had told Karan, I can only try for you. Being an actor doesn’t mean you know everyone in Bollywood.’ Vidu nodded slowly. ‘I have met Kabir only once and, that too, briefly.’
‘What was the meeting like?’
‘It wasn’t a meeting. It was a shoot in Ranthambore. I had a small role with him in Ek Aur Shikaar.’
‘He was superb in it.’ Vidu had never watched the film but did not refrain from lying.
‘What about me?’
‘Oh, you were great despite the small role. Really.’
‘Any particular scene you remember?’ she asked. He tried to come out with an answer. ‘That’s okay.’ She laughed at his embarrassment. ‘You’d make one hopeless actor.’
Sheepishly, he asked, ‘How’s Kabir Raja as a person?’
‘How’s he as a person? Haven’t you been reading about his escapades in the papers or on the net?’
‘All of it could be pure gossip,’ he said, twirling the noodles round his fork.
‘There’s nothing which is not true. He’s one eccentric character the industry has.’ Vidu sulked at the words. ‘But there are a few traits in him that may work for you.’
He stopped eating. ‘Like?’
‘One, he is most controversial, and two, he is an emotional person.’
Her phone rang. She received the call. ‘What time …? Okay, I’ll be there … Bye.’ She spoke to Vidu, ‘I have to go to a studio right away. We’ll meet again, maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you, all right?’ She got up. ‘Sorry, but something important has—’
‘Never mind, Baruni.’ He masked his displeasure. ‘Later.’
The actress rushed out of the restaurant. Alone, he finished his lunch, paid the bill, and went back to his hotel.
16
Delhi.
Rishi’s Pajero hummed on the bumpy and patchy road as the surroundings shaped into a forest. Glancing at his GPS attached to the windshield, he slowed before a diversion and steered to a broken road. The thick canopy of trees made it difficult for sunlight to pass through and he had to take off his shades. A few minutes later, a signboard came into sight that read, ‘Fotedar’s Home for Women’. Following the direction, he turned to his left, wondering what motivated Gul Manwani to donate money to the welfare home at the Southern Ridge—the largest but most desolate among the four ridges of Delhi.
He drove into a green field that had fog hanging over it. Right ahead was forest-covered elevated land. There was a pathway going up, broad enough for only one person to walk on. As there was no signboard anywhere to give him further directions, he consulted his GPS again. It failed him. He hitched his vehicle towards the pathway.
The ascent was steep and the vehicle wheezed aloud as it hip-hopped, its wheels crushing the dry leaves and bushes on either side of the pathway. After about a five-hundred-metre drive, Rishi came across level ground. A rusted signboard that read, ‘Fotedar’s Home for Women, 0 km’, hung from a tree branch, indicating to his right. Fatigued but relieved, he drove twenty yards further and reached his destination.
‘At last,’ he said, as a high, long, and weathered boundary wall came up in front of him, into which was hinged a corroded iron gate. He parked near the wall and alighted from the vehicle.
A short guard in a light blue uniform scuttled out of the gate and saluted him.
‘Mr Fotedar?’ Rishi looked down at the man.
‘Yes, saar. Inside.’
The guard escorted him to a guesthouse inside the premises of the Home. The building was old, discoloured, and had deep cracks in its walls. With its pre-independence architecture—a high roof with dark chimneys, and ledges on top of the tall windows—it looked haunted. On its porch was some old cane furniture with stained cushions. Rishi placed his bag on the centre table as the guard unlocked and pushed a door into a living room that smelt musty. The panoramic view of the forest through a large, stained window in the room brought a smile to Rishi’s lips. Is this Delhi?
‘Tea, saar?’ the man asked, obscenely grinning at him.
Rishi accepted the offer and sat on the sofa aligned against a wall. What a backbreaking drive it was.
Within minutes, the man entered with a hot cup of tea and some biscuits on a scratchy plastic tray. Holding the cup, Rishi got up, ambled to the balcony door, and ope
ned it to suck in some fresh air. The balcony overlooked the spread of the forest that was like a green blanket. The fog had thinned out and far away, he could see a road. He wished he had carried a pair of binoculars along.
Half an hour later, the guard was at the door again. ‘Saar, you can meet Fotedar Sahib now. I take you to him, saar.’
Rishi tucked his shirt into his chinos, straightened his tweed jacket, patted his hair in front of a spotted mirror on a cupboard, and hurried out of the room. The tea was strong enough for him to recall the points of discussion with Niranjan Fotedar.
The office was in the Admin Block. They reached the double-storey building, which did not seem as old as the guesthouse and had contemporary architecture. On the ground floor were the offices of the chairman, the estate manager, and the accounts manager. The guard left him at the entrance and sauntered away.
Niranjan Fotedar was the owner of the thirty-acre welfare home, an NGO. Initially, it was a shelter for women rendered homeless by an earthquake in Pakistan and Kashmir in October 2005. More than 80,000 people had died in Pakistan and nearly 1,500 in Kashmir. Fotedar, a member of Parliament from a constituency in Jammu and Kashmir, took the responsibility of rehabilitating the homeless women of Kashmir. Around 150 of them were brought to this vacant property the same year. While the media appreciated the parliamentarian’s philanthropic move, his detractors said it was only a smart move to prevent the forceful purchase of his property by the Government of Delhi to make it a part of the existing wildlife sanctuary at the Southern Ridge. Many others called it a ruse to gather votes.
Some years later, Gul Manwani met Fotedar and began to donate money to his social initiative, the Home. By then, more homeless women—natural-calamity hit, riot affected, or abandoned—from other parts of the country were given shelter at the Home. The Jammu and Kashmir government and the Centre appreciated Fotedar for his good work, whatever his intentions were.