by Ajeet Sharma
Ramesh Choksi, the marketing director to whom Karan Jaani once reported, had not been at peace of late and the reason was the Yodel sales promo. It was for the third time that the Yodel ad had come out in the newspaper today.
Choksi was in his late thirties, a strict vegetarian and teetotaller, who never even consumed processed foods and carbonated drinks, including the ones he marketed to the country. He had a devious countenance—a pointed nose, small eyes, and a mouth almost without lips. His grey hair always fell on one side like leafy twigs. This was his first job and he had been with the company for fourteen years. He never thought of a change in spite of many attractive offers. Recruitment firms chased him often, but he told them he had more to accomplish at Festi before he decided to move on.
In a huff, he grabbed his copy of the newspaper, stamped out of his cabin, and reached Aman Gupta’s desk. Aman—a young, overweight man—was the new brand manager of Festi Cola and was only about five weeks old in the company. Choksi had not taken more than a week to understand that Aman was a bad replacement for the previous manager. But he had no choice. He had wasted months finding someone matching Karan Jaani’s strengths and skills, but failed.
Aman was sitting in front of his laptop, reading the latest posts on his Facebook wall, and savouring the morning’s third pack of wafers stuck between his heavy thighs.
‘Do you care to read the newspapers? What’s the latest you’ve got from the field?’ asked Choksi.
Aman grabbed the wafers pack, opened a cabinet on his side, and threw it inside like a swift cricket fielder. One could see the residues of the spicy snack around his mouth as he munched hastily to respond to his boss. ‘You mean the pesticide issue … boss?’ he asked innocently, picking up a paper napkin to wipe his mouth.
Choksi snarled, ‘Not that, you idiot. The pesticide issue happened a thousand years ago. Are you in touch with your sales team or not?’
‘I … am in touch with—’
‘Aman, you have any idea what those Freedom guys are up to?’
‘Freedom?’ Aman was reminded of the freedom fighters. ‘Sorry, Ramesh. I’m not able to understand what—’
Choksi was outraged. ‘Listen, cola man!’ Everyone around looked on. ‘If we lose even a fraction of the market, it’s your backside that’s gonna be on offer in the next promo.’ Terrified, as it was his new job, Aman rose from his seat and tucked in his chin, as if he were pleading for forgiveness. ‘Here. See this,’ said Choksi, unfolding the newspaper, turning to the page that carried the ad, and slamming it on his desk. ‘Read this ad and meet me after an hour with updates on what they are up to.’ Choksi then stamped away to the CEO’s office.
He had mentioned the ad to the CEO many times, but what he got in return was a dismissive response. He tried to discuss the matter with him again today.
‘Enough, Choksi,’ said Dushyant Gujral, the CEO, in his booming voice after he heard the concern one more time. ‘Stop wasting time on such silly tactics. We aren’t getting paid to tangle with jokers.’
Gujral was a darkish and bulky man. Often, his domineering body language brought about enough tension in the meetings.
Choksi persisted. ‘We can’t ignore this. Maybe we should consult our Legal.’
‘And sue him?’
‘Why not? On something like unfair trade practices.’
‘Ah, do you realise what the outcome would be if we sue Jaani and his cronies?’
‘We’d win the case, Dushyant.’
‘Wrong. I mean you’re right we’d win, but they would benefit from it.’
‘What benefit? They would perish paying the damages to us.’
‘They may not. For all you know, their investors may support them. The whole thing would then turn all of them into heroes for standing against a goliath in the court. As a result, they’ll get more investors and soon they’ll come out with a wackier campaign. Would you sue them again?’ The CEO stared at his junior colleague. ‘Yodel, anyway, has no future. Like fools, we’ll drag them to courts and give their funny brand and company all the recognition they need in the world. Do you want us to do that?’
‘Jaani’s trying to get even with us and—’
‘Hold on.’ Gujral motioned with his hand. ‘Companies like Jaani’s die faster than mosquitoes. We don’t have to fear them. They have to fear us.’
‘My problem is that he is using our campaign to his advantage. The stupid consumers too are responding to his promo. Can’t see that happening, whatever you say, boss.’
‘Responding how?’ asked Gujral. ‘You’re overreacting since it’s Jaani who’s behind this trickery. You’re afraid because he’s after your ass. Aren’t you?’ He laughed, producing a long wheeze.
‘The area sales managers have been telling me that consumers are depositing our tumblers at their centres and receiving a 400 ml Yodel for one rupee. Jaani’s ad clearly says, “Come with a used tumbler and take away a 400 ml Yodel for Re. 1”. Now what does that mean? They are telling the consumers to use our offer for their promo.’
Gujral leaned back in his heavy chair and rocked back and forth in it a few times, thinking. ‘What’s the data you’ve got? How many consumers have used our tumblers for their brand?’
‘I’ve been informed, around a thousand so far.’
The CEO reckoned they did not have a strong case against Freedom, as legally, it would be argued that Festi did not own the tumblers after they were distributed to the consumers. A consumer was free to use it, or discard it, or exchange it for anything under the sky. Only Jaani could devise such a scheme, thought Gujral. ‘Choksi, we are not going to kill our brain cells on this. This is just an initial consumer response to their seemingly appealing promo, which will die out in no time. So get back to work. We have better things to do. Now, I have an important call scheduled with Singapore. If you will excuse me …’
‘And if that doesn’t happen?’
‘If what doesn’t happen?’ Gujral was losing his patience.
‘If the Yodel hype doesn’t die out?’
‘Then we’ll sue the bastard.’
23
Mumbai.
‘Baruni Mehta who? And where the hell did you get my number from?’ interrogated Kabir Raja.
‘I was in Ek Aur Shikaar … Played a small role of a village girl. Do you remember, sir?’ Baruni hastily introduced herself.
Kabir recalled his argument with Harish Shinde about the endorsement proposal. ‘What do you want, lady? I don’t do ads any more. All right?’
Sensing he could hang up, she apologised without losing a second. ‘Sir, I’m very sorry for all that has happened. I wasn’t aware you had stopped signing such contracts, but it’s not that I have called you for. A friend of mine happens to be a great fan of yours. A brief interaction with you is all he wishes for. You know how fans are …’
‘Isn’t he the same chap with the proposal?’
She had expected he would ask that. ‘Uh … well, he is …,’ she hesitated, ‘but can’t he be your fan too? He has already forgotten he ever had any proposal and wants to go back to Delhi after meeting his favourite star.’ Baruni had it in her to modulate her voice as demanded by the script.
‘Shinde,’ came Kabir’s distant voice.
Baruni heard them talking but couldn’t understand anything since the voices were muffled. She glanced at Vidu, who was busy playing a game on his handset. ‘Vidu,’ she whispered. ‘He’s probably speaking to his manager.’
Vidu looked up, gave a thumbs up, and resumed playing.
Shinde came to the phone. ‘Hello, I am Harish Shinde. First of all, let me tell you, you are lucky Kabir Raja gave you a hearing. He has never done that for a stranger.’ She wanted to tell him she was not exactly a stranger. ‘Secondly, where did you get his number from?’ The answer was Anantha, but she did not open her mouth. Shinde warned her, ‘Never ever call on this number again or pass it to anyone else. This is his personal number. If you have to contact him, call me. Being i
n the film industry, you must follow the rules.’
To her surprise, he did not hang up after he finished. ‘Mr Shinde,’ she said, not losing a second, ‘I sincerely regret—’
‘Day after, he is going to Amsterdam … from where he’ll go to London … Then two days later, to Berne …’ Shinde was muttering into the phone. Baruni could hear the pages of his planner turning back and forth. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be back before three weeks,’ he concluded.
And by then, Vidu will be gone, she thought dismally.
‘Can you come tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? Yeah, of course, Mr Shinde. Of course.’
‘Tomorrow 3 to 6 p.m. he will be at Venus Studio, Goregaon West. You can come and meet him at four.’ Without asking if the time suited her or not, Shinde disconnected the call.
‘Yes! We can meet him tomorrow.’
Vidu wondered. ‘What came over him?’
‘Oh, he wants to please Shinde.’
‘How would Shinde be pleased here?’
‘Anantha had told me Kabir was sad after losing temper on Shinde the other day. So it’s simple. He wants to apologise to him by agreeing to meet us.’
‘Hard to believe.’
‘Shinde is not just his manager. He’s also his close friend.’
‘I am not sure if …'
‘Get up. We have to work on our plan for tomorrow.’
The next day, Baruni looked at Vidu, top to bottom, who was in Rajasthani attire—a black calf-length sherwani with fine golden embroidery, a pair of white churidar, a multi-coloured silk saafa with a long fall, and a pair of black embroidered jootis. ‘Oh, my, my, Vidu! Am I going weak at the knees.’
Vidu turned to a long mirror. ‘Not sure about your knees, Baruni, but my heart certainly is going weak. I hope all goes well.’
They hailed a cab to reach Goregaon. Vidu sat uncomfortably in the ethnic attire. Baruni laughed at his glum expression and did not stop taking pictures of him. Unpleasant thoughts kept crossing his mind about how Kabir would react to his guise. He only wished for a safe return to the hotel.
In little more than an hour, they reached Venus Studio. A rustic gatekeeper greeted them, mistaking Vidu for a hired artist. ‘Which fillum?’ He pressed a number on the intercom.
‘No fillum. Only meeting,’ said Baruni.
They entered a foyer. A woman in a tight chiffon shirt, fashionably unbuttoned at the top and revealing a deep cleavage, sat upright at a long boat-shaped desk. ‘Yes?’ she asked, not paying attention to Vidu’s dress.
‘Mr Harish Shinde?’ said Baruni.
‘You have an appointment?’
‘Yes, at four.’ Baruni passed Vidu’s business card. They were fifteen minutes early.
‘Please be seated. I’ll inform him you’ve arrived.’
Venus Studio was owned by Vikram Shah, the producer who launched and later resurrected Kabir Raja. The actor considered him as his godfather.
The visitors in the studio included actors, film directors, choreographers, and journalists. Vidu admired odd hairdos, colourful outfits, and perfect faces. There were people Baruni knew, but she avoided making eye contact and preferred to view the framed posters of films produced by the production house.
As they waited, a tall and handsome man entered the foyer. Before Vidu could figure out who he was, Baruni whispered to him, ‘John Abraham.’
‘Is he?’ Vidu looked sharply at the burly man who was in a pair of jeans and a sky-blue round-necked vest. ‘Oh yeah, he is.’ He recognised the actor as he came closer and went past them, not caring to even glance at them.
A few seconds later, a woman with smooth and glowing skin, entered the foyer. ‘Shruti Haasan,’ whispered Baruni again.
‘Oh.’
She strutted her way behind Abraham, smiling at Vidu’s get-up. Baruni noticed that Vidu’s eyes followed the actress until she disappeared into a hallway. Then a group of women walked in and went past them in the same direction.
Vidu released his breath. ‘And these women?’
‘Dancers, background performers … I think they are here for a rehearsal.’
‘Rehearsal? I thought everyone in Bollywood was a born dancer.’
‘You can go inside,’ the receptionist announced to them.
An assistant accompanied them through the confines of the studio. The sound of heavy beats came from one side of the building as they trooped in. Vidu was embarrassed about the noise his jootis made. Walking through the hallways, they stopped in front of a closed room. The nameplate read, ‘Vikram Shah’, all letters in shining brass. The assistant knocked gently and left after telling them they had only thirty minutes.
Shinde opened the door and looked at Vidu and his clothes. ‘What? Uh … Come in.’ Uneasily, he led them into the spacious office, which had a white ambience—white walls, white floor, white furniture.
What insanity, thought Vidu.
They could see the big star of Bollywood lying on a sofa, his legs spread across the breadth of a centre table. He never cared about etiquettes.
They stood before Kabir Raja. He was in a black-and-blue checked cotton shirt and loose-fit jeans split at the knees. A short and deep line, originating from between the actor’s eyebrows and fading as it went upwards, was symbolic of his painful struggles. Despite never being in awe of any film star, Vidu had to admit to himself that Kabir was the most handsome man he had ever come across—so what if he had tired eyes and hair that needed a comb.
‘Hello, sir. I am Baruni Mehta and he is my friend, Vidu Nandi.’
‘Hello, sir,’ said Vidu.
Kabir was reading a script. He looked up for a moment and, with a quick gesture of his hand, asked them to sit. He looked up again and noticed Vidu’s garb. ‘What the hell!’ He propped his elbow on the sofa. ‘Who’s this man?’ he asked Baruni. ‘You said you’d be coming along with a friend.’
Vidu stood still.
‘He is the friend I talked about, sir. An eccentric fan of the living legend.’ She added a punch to her words as Vidu forced his lips into a smile. Kabir laid a finger on his chin. ‘Yesterday, sir,’ said Baruni, ‘when I told him you had confirmed our meeting, he went to the market and spent the whole day searching for a suitable dress … to … personify the character you played in Huqmnama eleven years ago.’
Kabir assessed Vidu’s attire: neat silk saafa with rainbow stripes, royal sherwani, and handmade jootis. That brought back old memories. He reminisced that the director of Huqmnama had rejected at least a dozen sherwanis before selecting the right one for him. The role of a village landowner, something that many thought might not go well with his image, was a test of his acting skills. All he had in the film was powerful dialogues.
A smile crossed Kabir’s face. Overwhelmed by the sight of the reincarnated character in Vidu, he got up slowly. ‘My god. Come here.’
Vidu only inched closer to him and the jootis squeaked as he did. Kabir opened his arms and embraced him. Baruni watched nervously. The man was unpredictable.
‘Shinde, ask for some refreshments,’ he said. ‘We have a special fan today.’
With his leather planner in his hand, the manager darted out of the room. The drama qualifies for an Oscar, he thought. What an ingenious way to flatter a star.
Settling down after the hug, Vidu felt better. He touched his saafa to make sure if it was still fixed well. ‘Sir, when I watched Huqmnama for the first time, I was eighteen. Your performance as a man of honour made a permanent impression on my mind.’
Out of the sixty-one Hindi films Kabir had starred in, Vidu had watched not more than three, including Huqmnama, which he had watched only the previous night. Baruni had arranged for a DVD and advised him to not just watch but also study it.
‘Ah.’ Kabir, going nostalgic, gazed at a lamp. ‘It was a film that created a special place for me in the hearts of real Indians … men who understand what honour is.’ Feeling an urge to smoke, he stretched across the table and picked up his M
arlboro pack.
‘My virtues are not very different, sir. Why don’t you accept more such roles now?’
‘I wish I could, er …'
‘Vidu.’
‘Unfortunately, Vidu, there are not many men left in this country who appreciate such roles. Everyone’s aping the West. The culture has changed.’
Vidu smiled, and he did not have to fake it this time. The actor was warming up, he guessed. He had to come to the point fast and serve the burnt cake.
Kabir lit a cigarette and drew on it. ‘What do you want from me?’ he questioned, getting serious.
‘Uh, nothing really. I am a great fan of yours and—’
‘My fan, I know you have a business proposal too. Shinde tried talking to me about it last week. Poor chap, had to take it from me.’ He grinned shamelessly.
‘It was a mistake. Apologies if I have hurt you unknowingly.’
‘It’s Shinde you should apologise to. Anyway, forget it.’ Kabir dismissed it with a wave of his hand and tapped his cigarette into a white-stone ashtray. ‘I don’t get it. What do companies like yours try to achieve out of celebrity endorsements? You think people are so dumb that they’d buy anything the movie stars would ask them to buy?’
Vidu recalled the long phone discussion he had with Karan a day before and spoke, ‘People buy a brand endorsed by you because of the image they carry of you, which is based on your powerful roles. Look at me. I am here in your character’s attire. Why am I doing this?’ Kabir smirked, knowing exactly why Vidu was doing that. ‘I am doing this because I feel good personifying a character who changed the way I looked at life. That’s how people are. They love the roles you play and so they love you too. And so, they like the brands you endorse. Some of them even buy them. You’re their opinion leader. You change viewpoints.’
Baruni wanted to clap. She observed Kabir.
Shinde was back with an attendant who served coffee, cookies, and cashews to them. About refreshments, there was an unsaid rule Shinde followed: no Festi beverages to be served in Kabir’s presence.