Three Marketeers

by Ajeet Sharma

  Just when Bagga was about to switch off the lights, Ira noticed long and dark brown trails on the floor, as if something heavy was pulled or dragged through that part of the hall … so vigorously that it left its colour on the floor. She stopped and took a close look.

  ‘What?’ asked Rishi.

  ‘Nothing. Let’s go,’ she said, as Bagga called them from the door.

  There were two guestrooms next to the hall. Bagga unlocked the first one and led them in.

  The room smelt of fresh jasmine and had ornate mahogany furniture with colourful upholstery. The maroon carpet, curtains, and flowery linen on the king-size bed seemed to be straight out of a deluxe room of an upscale hotel. On a wall was installed a split air-conditioner and from the ceiling hung a golden chandelier.

  ‘Why this luxury, Mr Bagga?’ asked Rishi.

  ‘At times, there are VIPs visiting this place.’

  ‘VIPs like?’ Ira noticed a large-screen HD TV installed on a wall.

  ‘Well, from the government, ministries … who expedite funds for us.’

  ‘And what’s the purpose of their stay?’ she interrogated, opening a small empty refrigerator.

  ‘I’ll show you the second guestroom and call it a night.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rishi realised the old man must be tired. He glanced at the wall clock. It was 12.15 a.m.

  The second one was almost the same, except that instead of a carpet, it had a wooden floor. Rishi surveyed the room hurriedly and decided to exit. Ira excused herself. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ She went to the attached bathroom.

  ‘Many thanks for your time. I do have a better picture of things here,’ said Rishi.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, and, er … Rishiji, just want to remind you about my son …'

  Rishi recalled their brief conversation earlier concerning a suitable position for his son at Freedom. ‘I have his resume,’ Rishi touched the manager’s arm, ‘but frankly, I haven’t yet discussed it with my partner.’

  ‘I understand, you’re a busy man.’

  ‘I’ll do something … or, maybe, call him for an interview once I am free from all this.’

  ‘That would be so nice of you.’

  Ira was inside the spacious bathroom that had a smooth marble floor and a Jacuzzi tub. There was a wooden cabinet on the wall. On an impulse, she reached for it and pulled its door open. What she had before her was an array of premium body washes, soaps, and shampoos placed on the middle shelf, as if on sale. For all the ministers and VIPs, she thought. She stretched herself up on her toes to peek into the top shelf. She could see many expensive deodorants, perfumes, body oils, and talcum powders—all for men. Then she peeked into the lowermost shelf. There was a pile of magazines neatly arranged on one side; and an antiseptic bottle, several vials of painkillers, and medicine strips on the other. She rummaged deeper across the breadth of the shelf and felt her fingers touch a soft material behind the magazine pile. Gripping it, she pulled it out. It was a small velvet zipper pouch, which, she guessed, contained a cigarette pack. She unzipped the pouch and took out, yes, a pack. Not of cigarettes but of condoms.

  The next evening, after all the inmates left their dormitories for their meals, Ira crawled over the weeds and foliage around the hostel and entered it through a back door. Once inside, she decided to go to the top floor and bounded up the stairs. Reaching the floor, she sneaked into a long and narrow dormitory—dormitory number 8—that had two long rows of three-tier beds, each standing along a wall. The gap between the rows was wide enough for only one person to pass through. She thought she was in a rail coach as she made her way to the opposite end of the room. There, she slid herself under a bed.

  Sometime later, she heard the footsteps and chattering of women. The iron beds creaked and quaked as their occupants climbed on them one by one.

  Ira stayed curled under the bed as the inmates engaged themselves in conversations. She could also hear curses and sobs originating from different beds. She decided to concentrate on what the group of women around her talked. Their voices were tired and depressed. She felt that even in the privacy of their dormitory, they were afraid to talk freely. She listened.

  A WOMAN IN A QUIVERING VOICE Next month, it’s going to be someone from our dormitory again. Help us, God!

  SECOND WOMAN I don’t even feel like having my grub these days, Meera. God, when will this end?

  THIRD WOMAN, FROM THE FIRST BED ABOVE IRA It will never end, Jyotsna, and there’s no God for us. So suffer until death.

  MEERA Nisha, God is there for all of us. He will put an end to it. We will see his miracle one day.

  NISHA Miracle? Ha!

  FOURTH WOMAN, FROM THE TOP BED IN THE OPPOSITE ROW I agree with Nisha. Do we have a choice? Why even talk about it and disturb ourselves more?

  JYOTSNA But Latika, I’m telling you, if I am forced to go, I’ll jump off the terrace of this hostel. [She sobbed] I swear.

  FIFTH WOMAN, FROM THE TOP BED ON IRA’S SIDE You will do nothing like that. Be brave.

  JYOTSNA [She sobbed] I am not so brave, Ashima.

  SIXTH WOMAN Jyotsna, how can you say it’s going to be you? What if Godavari chooses me?

  NISHA Right, Gayatri. Or me? Or anyone else in the dorm?

  LATIKA Jyotsna is scared. Can’t all of you understand?

  MEERA Stop crying, women. Haven’t we cried enough?

  ASHIMA If, at all, Godavari chooses you, Jyotsna, I suggest don’t resist. You know that witch, don’t you? I resisted once and was beaten till I passed out.

  JYOTSNA I will never go. I swear I will not … And this fotedar will suffer. [She wept] He’ll go to the dogs.

  NISHA He will.

  ‘Lights out!’ It was the hostel warden, Godavari Khundar, who was on rounds.

  One of the women put the main switch off and, in a matter of seconds, the dormitory was silent like a dark morgue.

  An hour later, when everyone was asleep, Ira took out a small piece of paper and a pen from her pocket. Putting her phone screen on, she scribbled a message in its light, folded the note once, and shifted herself out. Without making any noise, she lifted a side of Nisha’s pillow and placed the note under it.

  It was around 12.30 a.m. when she tiptoed out of the dormitory. The corridor was well lit but quiet, and there was no trace of the warden around. She dashed down the uneven stairs of the building and, in less than a minute, was out of the hostel through the back door. She crawled back over the weeds and foliage to join Rishi, who was waiting for her, crouching behind a weather-beaten marble bench under a pipal tree.

  The next morning, when Nisha was rolling up her mattress, she saw the note falling off it. As she picked it up to throw it out of the window, she found herself unfolding it. It read:

  Dear friends,

  I was here last night and had hidden myself under a bed. I learnt about your problems and fears. Call me for any help that you need. I have written my number at the back of this note. I am your wellwisher and will try to do whatever I can to help all of you.

  Take care.

  That night, when everyone was back in the dormitory, Nisha showed the note to her group of close friends.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ asked Latika, a woman with sparse hair and a knife scar that ran from the bridge of her nose to the left side of her jaw.

  ‘It fell off from somewhere under my pillow when I was rolling up my mattress this morning,’ replied Nisha.

  ‘What does it say?’ Ashima, an emaciated woman, peeped at it from behind.

  They read the message.

  ‘Who could it be from?’ Jyotsna was curious.

  ‘Let us be quiet about it as of now, or else the ugly witch will beat all of us to death this time,’ said Gayatri, a dark and sweaty woman. ‘We’ll have to think about what we can do with it.’

  ‘Gayatri is right,’ said Meera, the oldest among them. ‘If there’s anyone playing a game with us, we’ll soon learn about it.’

  ‘But who would play with
us like this?’ asked Jyotsna.

  ‘Maybe someone from the management … to test us,’ guessed Latika.

  27

  Festi’s campaign was a hit, and so was Freedom’s. Consumers who had a 500 ml Festi Cola cap carrying the name of the cricketer, Ravi Lamba, redeemed a free plastic tumbler from the beverage major. More than four thousand of these consumers also participated in Freedom’s campaign and deposited their redeemed tumbler to buy a Yodel for one rupee. That was about 20 per cent more than what Karan had expected. In all, more than five thousand bottles of Yodel were sold for one rupee in the promo period.

  Karan sent the lot of Festi’s tumblers to Sudhakar Bansal. When Bansal couriered a payment of an amount he calculated as the total cost of manufacturing those many pieces, Karan returned it with thanks. A baffled Bansal phoned him immediately and demanded a reason for the return of payment.

  Karan only requested the supplier to accept it as a gift from him for old times’ sake. ‘Or alternatively, Mr Bansal,’ he said, ‘you may forward the cheque to whomever you think deserves it the most.’

  Bansal did not stop laughing, as he knew who deserved to receive it the most. Certainly not Freedom. Never had he realised that there could be many undiscovered ways of doing profitable business. One of them was associating with Karan Jaani.

  When Vidu learnt about the return of payment, he reprimanded Karan like a sales veteran, saying that he got his entire math wrong and that had he accepted the cheque, they would have recovered a part of the campaign’s cost.

  Karan told him, ‘Vidu, you are right. We would have recovered a part of the cost, but the thing is, we aren’t here for a hustle.’

  Within a week, the sales team surveyed the market and sent a report to Karan. A majority of the retailers, including those who had earlier rejected Yodel, now believed it had emerged as a brand smarter than the rivals’. While the campaign did not bring about any significant increase in the sales volume, the fact that Karan Jaani, the former brand manager of Festi Cola, was now the man behind Yodel, changed the attitude of the distributors. The report concluded that there was a possibility of an increase in the demand for Yodel in the months of April, May, and June.

  If that did not happen by the month of May, Windlyn would not invest more money in Freedom. The three marketeers could overcome the challenge only by doing something that was unheard of. However, of the two tasks they had at hand—expanding the distribution network and repositioning the brand—a productive action on the former had been taken.

  Mumbai.

  The fact that Freedom and the actor had a common foe in Festi helped Vidu break the tough wall. It took him only three follow-up meetings with Harish Shinde over a month to make Kabir Raja change his rigid stance. A five-crore-rupee and one-year endorsement contract was signed between Freedom and the actor. Kabir was now the brand ambassador for all three drinks of Yodel. He was expensive for them but generous, as he agreed to receive his fee in three instalments in the contract period.

  Ricky Pinto was going to create the advertisements and also manage the production. The ad maker was a lanky man with a French beard, a nest of coily hair, and round-framed silver eyeglasses on his frog eyes. Pinto was, once upon a time, the creative director of a leading advertising agency. People in the industry were of the opinion that the Goan was more lucky than creative with his work. From mineral water to cars, he had worked on many glorious brands, and all his ads seemed to deliver, not because there was novelty in them but because the brands were mighty and ruled the markets.

  An unexpected change in the governance of his agency resulted in his ouster. Then he set up his own studio and with that, began a life without charms. For months, not a single account fell in his lap, and when it did, it wasn’t for any stellar brand. Gradually, he got more such accounts but he was not happy. The work he now handled was nowhere close, in nature or value, to what he had done in the past. Moreover, the clients had to be reminded several times before they finally handed him his cheque. He was a small shop on the street.

  Pinto was hopeful that Freedom’s account would save him. Karan Jaani had it in him to set the market ablaze.

  Vidu, coordinating between Karan and Pinto, rejected the ad man’s first two drafts of the script for the maiden Yodel commercial. He, on behalf of Karan, gave Pinto only one instruction for the job: ‘Ricky, I want a tremor in the market.’ The ad man spent days revising the script for the third time, putting aside all other deliverables at hand.

  Once again, Vidu visited his modest studio, which was on the fourth floor of an old building in Dadar, Mumbai. ‘Could your grey cells come out with a better one this time?’ he asked, as he entered the one-room studio.

  ‘Hey, Vidu.’ Pinto offered him a seat. ‘I’ve reworked it thoroughly and have what you wanted.’ He slid a sheet towards him.

  Vidu read the script while Pinto sat like an anxious patient waiting to hear a diagnosis. ‘This too will not work,’ said Vidu.

  Ricky Pinto wanted to tell his client that he was being very irrational and unreasonable. He also wanted to tell him to disappear before he cracked his chin; however, he showed a composed face one more time. Didn’t he have to prove to the world that his radium still shined? This account was the only hope that could propel him back into the hall of fame. ‘What … do you think is the problem, Vidu?’

  ‘Like the previous ones, this too is unsensational. You aren’t getting it, Ricky. Create something that takes permanent residence in consumers’ minds.’ Vidu crinkled his eyes and grinned at Pinto.

  Permanent residence? Pinto gaped at his client. Were the new trends totally eluding him? He, however, tried to reassure Vidu. ‘Give me one more day. I promise I’ll give you a masterpiece this time.’

  ‘We don’t have much time. Whip the right side of your brain. The ad has to be on air now … Orders from Karan.’

  ‘Trust me. I’ll get that big idea for you by tomorrow for sure … wherever I get it from—right side of my brain or left side of my backside.’

  ‘Don’t forget, this campaign is my responsibility. Anything goes wrong, you’ll be fired.’ Vidu pointed at the ad man’s chest.

  ‘Uh.’

  ‘I want to wrap it up by tomorrow, as this Sunday, after Karan’s approval, we’re sitting with Kabir Raja to discuss the shoot modalities. I’ve already taken an appointment from him.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And be careful. On Sundays, Raja suffers a nasty hangover, and often uses a limb or two to impress upon a point.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Pinto revised the script for the fourth time and, the next day, mailed it to Vidu. This time, he was relieved that Vidu approved it. The same evening, he phoned Karan with enough confidence. Vidu sat beside him to be in the loop.

  ‘Here’s the script for your first commercial, Karan,’ spoke Pinto into the speaker phone.

  ‘Go ahead,’ came Karan’s voice.

  ‘The ad opens to a medium shot of Kabir canoeing across a strong-current river. He sees water gushing into the canoe through a crack. Immediately, he tightens his life jacket, picks up a Yodel Cola, finishes it in quick gulps, and dives into the river. The next shot shows Kabir swimming to the—’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Karan. ‘Adventure has been used a billion times for beverages. Your idea is not at all fresh.’

  Much to Pinto’s dismay and Vidu’s embarrassment, Karan rejected the script saying it could work only if they had the money to air the ad at high frequency. According to him, the message did not have the potential to generate an instant reaction. He then explained to Pinto and Vidu the concept of creative execution and big-idea generation. ‘You have Kabir Raja as an endorser. Use words that suit his image and relate the message to Yodel and its consumers.’

  In a couple of days, Pinto wrote another one. Karan couldn’t find in it the one thing he wanted—instantaneity. ‘Your scripts are full of clichés,’ he said.

  Karan decided to do the job himself and worked overnight
in his study. The next day, in his office, he gave final touches to his script and by lunch time, mailed it to his men in Mumbai.

  When Vidu read it, he was positive that there would be nothing but a jolting tremor across the market. The Goan ad maker was speechless. He wondered if he would get enough sleep in days to come.

  Saturday nights were troublesome for Shinde, as his employer would indulge himself in multiple vices. Worse, he would go out alone, leaving Shinde fretful.

  This Saturday night, the place of merrymaking was producer-director Kamal Kohli’s property in Lonavla—a hill station, a hundred kilometres from Mumbai. The eleven-room mansion, which stood between the greens of a seven-acre campus, was a luxury. It was an eco-friendly property with a resort-like setting that had a twenty-five-yard indoor pool, a theatre room, a gourmet kitchen, separate guesthouses, and multiple car garages.

  Kohli owned a film production company in Mumbai—a legacy his father left for him, though he still had to prove his worth as an able son of an accomplished filmmaker. That he could do only if he spared his time and money from drugs, women, and parties. Nobody in the film industry wanted to miss his parties, which would start late in the evenings and end not before birds began to chirp. A senior actor, who never drank, smoked, or took a drug, described Kohli’s revelries as gatherings of mentally deranged people, marked by an abundant supply of marijuana, MDMA, and LSD, and a pack of desirable women ambling about with the intention of being taken.

  While some would drive back home the same night, there would always be a few like Kabir Raja who stayed overnight for some more play.

  As usual, he reached the place early. He sat with the host at his patio and they chatted about the latest happenings in Bollywood. It was not before 9.30 p.m. that people started arriving.

  ‘Hey, studs!’ The guest was Mansi Desai, a fifty-four-year­-old woman with a twenty-five-year-old’s body. A successful actress in the eighties and nineties, she gave up on the institution of marriage after her third divorce. Now, she lived alone in Bangalore and frequently travelled around the world, buying whatever came her way—a diamond-studded bag or something as mundane as tableware.