by Ajeet Sharma
Check the inside of your bottle cap. If it has the name ‘Ravi Lamba’ embossed on its bottom, you win a tumbler* from us.
Hurry! The offer is valid until March 31 this year.
*Available while stock lasts.
At the bottom of the ad were the names and addresses of outlets across Delhi where consumers could go and redeem a tumbler.
Karan smiled. Festi’s spring promo. He pulled a drawer open, picked up a pair of scissors, and cut the ad along its borders. After slipping the cutting into a pocket of his jeans, he removed a sleek cardholder standing in a rack. Reading from an ivory card, he dialled the number of Sudhakar Bansal, owner of Krishna Plastics.
Bansal was a Delhi-based manufacturer and supplier of promotional items to companies in the fast-moving consumer goods sector. Some of his customers were leading companies, including Festi Beverages.
‘Hello, Mr Bansal. This is Karan Jaani.’
‘Good evening, Mr Jaani. What a pleasure. Long time.’
Karan had had a three-year-long association with the supplier when he was with Festi. Though Bansal was Karan’s discovery, the beverage giant continued to do business with him. One thing that amused Karan was that Festi had not snapped off any association developed by him.
‘I learnt you have started your own beverage business,’ said Bansal.
‘Well, yes. Sort of.’
‘That’s nice. Nothing like your own business. Congratulations to you,’ said the supplier. ‘And how can I help you?’
‘Mr Bansal, it is a different kind of favour I want to ask of you.’
‘I am listening.’
‘I am expecting a stock of used plastic tumblers in good condition by the end of March this year. I was wondering if you’d like to purchase the stock.’ There was no response. Karan thought the call dropped. ‘Hello?’
‘Yes, Mr Jaani, I’m here. What will be the size and quantity?’
Karan glanced at an excel sheet on his laptop. ‘Quantity may be around four thousand pieces. It’s a 250 ml tumbler, six centimetres in diameter at the top, and twelve centimetres in height. I think the colours would be yellow, pink, and blue.’
‘If the quality is good, I’ll give you a good deal, for old times’ sake.’
Karan was aware that Bansal never let his business suffer because of any relationship pressures, but if he promised, he honoured it. ‘Thanks, Mr Bansal.’
They chatted for some time about the good old days. Karan learnt from him that after a long time, Festi Beverages had hired a brand manager for Festi Cola. Bansal was careful about what he said and did not comment on anyone in the company. Festi was an esteemed customer and he its proud supplier.
Rishi Verma entered the cabin as Karan finished his call to the supplier.
‘What’s up, partner? How did it go there?’ asked Karan.
‘Southern Ridge is hauntingly beautiful, and what a campus this Fotedar has,’ remarked Rishi. ‘We’re starting our inspection at the Home. I also met Manwani today. So far, he has donated a total amount of fifty lakh rupees to the Home.’
Karan whistled. ‘Some philanthropy. Did you ask him what motivated him?’
‘I did.’ Rishi pulled a chair. ‘It’s not for any philanthropy. Years ago, Manwani had met Fotedar through a contact, concerning his sales tax matters. The politician had a close friend—a commissioner—in the concerned department, who helped Manwani save a lot of money in tax payouts.’
‘So Manwani has only been returning the favour by donating money. What a joke.’
‘A regular give-and-take,’ said Rishi. ‘Karan, should we continue with this charity?’
‘The inspection report will tell us. What do you say?’
‘I’m of the same opinion. We’ll inspect their expenses and the amount spent by them out of Manwani’s charity so far. If the figures do not reconcile, we will investigate further. Our accountant is on the job already.’
‘When will he finish the job?’ Karan looked through the glass door of his cabin. A sales executive walked into the office from the field, holding a helmet in his hand. Karan knew, after a cup of tea and refreshments, he would return to the market for his evening round.
‘He should finish it in a week. Any update from Mumbai?’ asked Rishi.
‘Not yet. I’ve asked Vidu to spend some more time there. He’s bored as hell.’
‘Let’s call him.’ Rishi turned the telephone towards him and dialled Vidu’s number. He spoke into the mouthpiece as the call was connected, ‘Hey, Vidu, how are things?’
Karan put the speaker on. Vidu was on his way to Borivali. For a change, the three of them chatted about everything but business, which included Bollywood, Mumbai food and weather, and the city’s best attractions for young men like them.
18
Mumbai.
Kabir Raja dived into the pool in his backyard and swam across its length. The Bollywood actor had finished his workout for the day and was now cooling down doing his routine laps. His muscular body glistened in the sunlight and his limbs propelled like oars. The forty-three-year-old actor’s daily fitness schedule included three hours at the gym and half an hour in the pool. He followed the routine like a priest.
Kabir debuted in 1994 as the main lead in Ibaadat, a low-budget romantic film produced by Venus Studio, which broke all box office records. He became a mega star overnight. The media adjudged Kabir—the man with brooding eyes, soft stubble, and a cult hairstyle—as the most handsome actor of all time in Hindi cinema. Soon, he became the highest-paid actor in Bollywood and delivered successful films for the next nine years.
Then began the downfall. One film failed after another and he could not save his stardom. In a couple of years, the failures whisked away his crown. The media did not take much time in dismissing him, ridiculing the performance of a star who once made production houses flourish.
The critics did not spare him even when he stopped signing films and commented that it was the producers who stopped offering him roles. Soon, Kabir’s bank balance diminished and he started borrowing money to maintain his lifestyle. His close friends and relatives were not surprised when, in 2006, he had to sell his house in Andheri, Mumbai and migrate to America, with no intentions of returning.
He languished in Los Angeles, working as a manager with a hotel. Once, he tried his luck as a character artist in a C-grade Hollywood film. The film bombed and his role too went unnoticed. Nobody ever learnt how he lived in America until, five years later, Vikram Shah, the owner of Venus Studio and the man who had introduced Kabir to the world, met him accidentally.
Shah came across Kabir at a common friend’s party and almost screamed in shock seeing the gaunt man. Kabir lay crumpled, alone, on a corner sofa under the influence of drugs. The actor, once a sensation, was in a state of deterioration, physically and mentally. The muscular build was now a thin frame and the sculpted face puckered and craggy.
From then on, the producer constantly urged him to make a comeback. ‘I’ll relaunch you,’ he would implore, ‘and make you bigger than what you ever were.’ He never got a response. The actor in Kabir was dead.
Vikram Shah did not lose hope. He was in no doubt that Kabir needed medical care. He had been on drugs for five years and the addiction was crippling him everyday. Shah arranged for his rehabilitation. Kabir resisted and hated the change in his life. He blamed Shah for causing a recurrence of his old trauma.
Eventually, the rehabilitation began to work. One morning, Kabir Raja asked the film producer, ‘Will India accept me again?’
Shah jumped off his chair. ‘I swear it will, my friend! You wait and see what magic both of us will create.’
Gradually, he resumed his old workout schedule, hired a dietician, and only smoked pot, once a week. Six more months passed by the time the media announced his return. Shah cast him in a high-budget action film, Aagzani, which released in 2012. The industry experts and critics derided Shah’s decision to cast someone whose time was long gone.
&
nbsp; What Shah and Kabir created was more than magic. The film generated more than four hundred crore rupees worldwide within a month of its release. Kabir had put the concerns of every expert and critic to rest.
Around that time, Festi Beverages signed Kabir Raja as the brand ambassador for Festi Cola for a fee of fifteen crore rupees, for a period of three years. However, the contract ended in a few months, and the reason was Somna.
After the success of Aagzani, Kabir started a relationship with Somna Walia, a young actress who had a small role in the film. There were stories about their affair in every film magazine, as Somna was his first after his comeback. Somehow, the relationship soon soured. One evening, Kabir invited her to his place, intending to resolve the differences.
At about four o’ clock in the morning, he had to call the police. Somna lay dead on the ground, outside his multi-storey house. Kabir explained that they were drunk and had a bitter argument, after which he fell asleep, and in the morning, his guard woke him up to inform him about her. A common friend of Kabir and Somna’s informed the investigators that the actress was on drugs and often indulged in activities like walking on the parapet of a balcony or going on a long drive when she was intoxicated. The autopsy report confirmed the presence of pseudoephedrine in her body. Kabir was also examined and the medical report confirmed he too was under the influence of the drug—a habit he was not able to quit fully. He had to spend five months in jail.
The media attacked him again—he was a drug addict, a rogue, and a killer. His lawyers wondered where they would acquire the evidence that could prove he was not guilty of pushing Walia from the balcony that doomed night, or morning.
A day before Kabir was sent to jail, Festi Beverages served him a termination notice of the endorsement contract. He learnt only then that the contract had a moral clause, which permitted the company to terminate it any time, if the actor lost his marketing appeal owing to one or more reasons related to misconduct, including testing positive for a drug. Many other companies whose brands he endorsed also either terminated or revised the terms of their contracts with him.
Kabir had always believed that Ramesh Choksi, the marketing director of Festi Beverages, was a good friend. But Choksi did not even answer his calls after sending him the legal communication.
The star stopped entertaining companies for any kind of promotion, let alone brand endorsement. His films, however, continued to do well and he remained one of the highest-paid actors in Bollywood.
Kabir’s new mansion in Juhu was replete with all facilities: a mini gym, a swimming pool, a badminton court, a ballroom, and a verdant garden that had an airy room for his Belgian shepherds. Today, he did more laps than usual, as a party hangover made him feel miserable. It was 1.00 p.m. and he had instructed his manager to cancel his shoots lined up for the day.
Kabir stopped at the fountain-end of the pool and took a few dips. His hair clung to his face like a veil.
Harish Shinde, his manager and close friend, patiently waited for him to come out of the pool. He was one person Kabir comfortably confided in. The association began in the star’s early years in the industry. Shinde had taught him all—selecting a role, evaluating a script, handling the media, and stress management. The manager had a say on every subject, including women, and was one dependable support, Kabir knew, he was lucky to have.
‘What?’ he called out to the dark man.
‘The Amsterdam shoot is next week,’ said Shinde, as Kabir dipped again. In a well-ironed shirt and a pair of loose trousers, and with a leather planner in his hand, he looked more like a minister’s secretary.
Kabir took his last dip and floated to the steps of the pool. ‘The shoot can go to hell,’ he said coming out, water sliding down his trained and waxed body. ‘Don’t you know there’ll be problems again?’ He was still contesting in the Somna Walia case. Every time he travelled out of India, he had to go through several legal procedures.
‘Producers’ stakes are high on you, Kabir. All of them are concerned. I spoke to your lawyer this morning. He said he would have the injunction softened for this shoot too, as he did in the past for the ones in Zurich, Kabul, and New York.’
‘That’s all he can do.’ Kabir sprawled on a long pool chair.
‘Secondly, Anantha Swamy had called last night.’
‘For? Is the queer lusting for you now?’ Kabir laughed.
Shinde ignored the comment. ‘He has a proposal …’ He hesitated. A wrong topic. ‘But I told him you would never be interested in—’
‘What proposal?’
‘I have nothing to do with it, Kabir,’ he said. Kabir looked for his Marlboro pack, giving Shinde some time to say what he wanted to. ‘There is this company into … soft drinks. One of the directors of the company is here.’ Kabir lit a cigarette. ‘Baruni Mehta knows him and contacted Swamy on his behalf,’ said Shinde.
‘Baruni Mehta?’ Kabir exhaled smoke.
‘She was in Ek Aur Shikaar with you. The one who played the village girl …’
Kabir scratched his forehead. ‘Chandana? Chandana, the messenger. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Why is she romping between them?’
‘Well, this company, as I said, is into soft drinks.’
‘How am I concerned?’
‘They want you to … endorse their brand and—’
Kabir jumped. ‘Are you fucking with me, Shinde?’ He threw his cigarette on the floor.
‘Hey, Kabir. Don’t get upset.’ Shinde stood up.
‘Upset? Have you forgotten how Festi had disgraced me?’
‘Can I ever, Kabir?’
‘Then why are we talking about an endorsement again?’ he shouted, kicking a small table standing between them. It went rattling into the pool.
Shinde should have known there would be a cloudburst. ‘Okay, okay, old pal. We aren’t speaking a word about it.’
‘Tell Swamy once and for all,’ Kabir lunged at him, ‘not to try cutting kinky deals for me in the future.’ He grabbed his towel and stamped off.
Shinde bent towards the pool and pulled the unfortunate piece of furniture out of the water.
19
Delhi.
Karan hired a resourceful freelance photographer who had many aspiring models in his network. After going through their portfolios, Karan selected a twenty-five-year-old svelte woman, who, he believed, was more appealing than many leading ones in the ad world. For his budget, she was more than he could wish for.
The photographer was all he had as a resource while he played the multiple roles of a copywriter, a creative director, an art director, and a stylist. He left the make-up part to Sameera, who did an exceptional job like a professional. The location of the shoot was his study at home. He used a white bed sheet to create a backdrop of nothingness and asked the model to wear a white sports bra with blue denim shorts and leave her hair open before a high-speed table fan. He wanted a hair-blowing-in-the-wind effect for his print advertisement.
A four-hundred-square-centimetre ad was produced in a budget of 75,000 rupees. Fifty went to the photographer and twenty-five to the model, who thanked Karan profusely for giving her the break she needed.
The ad came out in Delhi Times in the first week of February. It was morning and Karan was in his cabin, having his first coffee of the day. Like a schemer, he looked at the ad as though it were a deadly weapon he had in possession to terminate his enemy. Any reasonably established advertising agency would have slapped him a high estimate for the job he managed to do on his own.
The advertisement was on page three and read:
BUY A YODEL FOR RE 1!
Come with a used tumbler and take away a 400 ml Yodel for Re 1. Offer valid until March 31 this year.
Right below these words was a picture of the model. She stood like a winner, sticking out her chin, pouting her lips, and holding a PET of Yodel in an outstretched hand, as if it were a trophy. At the bottom was the logo—Yodel—in an electric blue font on a bla
ck background, followed by the names and addresses of more than forty promo centres where a consumer could go, deposit a used tumbler, and buy a Yodel for one rupee.
Rishi had initially balked at Karan’s idea and said it was nothing but hara-kiri. Karan convinced him. Much before the ad came out, he ensured he also had the support of his sales team, though its members were puzzled why their boss wanted to pitch a tent in high winds. Karan did not consider giving any explanation and only directed them. Their task was to enlist fifty retail outlets as promo centres. ‘Your bait to them will be unheard-of margins on our drinks for a month after the campaign ends, trips to foreign destinations for a retailer who sells the most in the promo period, and merchandising support in the coming summer to the top five. They’ll come to you wagging their tails like greedy terriers.’
The managers and their boys ran around. The task was more gruelling than Karan had imagined. Retailers in the main markets were unwilling to participate despite the baits. Most of them feared possible fallout—Festi’s wrath—as they were trusted outlets of the multinational company, whose immediate reaction would be the withdrawal of its merchandising support. No one wanted that to happen.
Karan decided to patrol the market himself. He knew a good number of retailers and within a week, he met more than forty of them. His broad proposition was: associate with Freedom and profit—in cash and in kind.
The personalised approach worked. Twenty-three agreed to participate in the campaign, but Karan needed more. The sales team ran around for another week and added twenty-one to the list—most of these outlets were small, had never qualified before as a promo centre for any sales promotional campaign, and were more than willing to experience the game. As there was not much time left, Karan ordered his team to stop, even when it meant having six less than the targeted number of fifty.
Only then did he organise the shoot for the print advertisement.