Three Marketeers

by Ajeet Sharma

‘She was only working with his company, Vidu,’ said Ira.

  Vidu ignored her. ‘Sameera,’ he said, ‘recall the summit last year at Mayford. Wasn’t she with that lout the whole night?’

  ‘Vidu, are you saying Yuvika’s hubby had her killed?’ asked Ira.

  ‘Who’s Yuvika?’ asked Vidu.

  ‘Balraj’s wife and Ira’s friend,’ replied Rishi. ‘She had arranged a meeting for us with her hubby. Remember?’

  ‘I do remember that funny meeting.’ Vidu got up.

  Ira placed a hand on Rishi’s arm. ‘God, Rishi, could Balraj be behind all this?’

  ‘The police are investigating,’ said Rishi. ‘Let’s be patient. Maybe she was killed by a … a burglar who broke into her house.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Karan.

  ‘Police?’ jeered Vidu, taking out his cigarettes.

  Everyone, except Karan, was surprised when Sameera said, ‘Vidu could be right. She did try to find out from Balraj at the summit what his plans about the Mayford takeover were. She had told me later about that.’ Sameera avoided the details.

  Vidu lit a cigarette and opened a window. ‘Sameera, do you think she was in a relationship with Balraj?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Sameera turned to Karan. ‘Haven’t you told him yet?’ Not responding to her, Karan got up and went to the kitchen. ‘Not with Balraj,’ said Sameera to Vidu, hating what she had to tell him. ‘She was having an affair with Paresh Menon, the GM of Mayford, her ex-boss.’

  A million ants crawled across Vidu’s heart. He took a long puff on his cigarette and let the words sink in. ‘Oh!’ he uttered, as his eyes welled up. ‘So that’s the reason why she dumped me … huh?’

  Karan came back with two chilled water bottles. ‘Forget it, Vidu,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I have forgotten everything, chief.’ Vidu’s voice was laden with anger, sadness, and pity.

  Karan turned to the others in the room. ‘Maybe she was shadowing Balraj at Menon’s behest even after she quit Mayford … as the two were in a relationship. There is a possibility that Balraj found out and—’

  ‘Had her killed!’ Ira covered her mouth.

  ‘I had warned her about these men,’ said Sameera. ‘We never got a chance to meet after she quit Mayford, but once in a while, we chatted on the phone about things in general. It’s sad she never told me anything. We can only wait till the investigations are over.’

  ‘What a big joke!’ blurted Vidu, smoking near the window.

  ‘What is a big joke, Vidu?’ asked Rishi.

  ‘The investigations. These men will have the case buried before the first hearing in court.’

  ‘Calm down, Vidu,’ said Karan. ‘Something will come out.’

  ‘She deserved it,’ said Vidu. ‘Wasn’t she way too ambitious? But foolish at the same time. See where it took her. To her own damned grave.’

  ‘Show some respect to the departed soul, Vidu,’ pleaded Sameera.

  Vidu turned to the window. He reminisced about the time he spent with Leena. Those were the days when they had vowed to be together always. Only the opposite happened as his career unfolded. Tears rolled down his face. It wasn’t my fault that I was a loser. I tried hard not to be one. He blew more smoke and threw the stub out.

  Noticing his silence, Karan went to him. ‘Hey, Vidu, you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he replied, not looking back, wiping the tears with the back of his hand.

  Karan turned him round, embraced him, and patted his back. Vidu rested his head on Karan’s shoulder. ‘I loved her. I swear I did!’ he said, as his body shook with sobs.

  ‘I know you did, I know you did,’ consoled Karan. ‘When our loved ones go away, Vidu, they become our guardian angels. That’s what she’s going to be for you now … a guardian angel.’

  As Ira sniffled tearfully and Sameera broke down again, for the first time in his life, Rishi realised that love is a feeling one can neither create nor destroy. It comes on its own and stays forever.

  33

  Mumbai.

  Five weeks remained before the first review meeting in which Dan Zabar would decide whether Windlyn Capital should invest more money in the venture. Karan and his partners were now in fighting gear.

  The ad-film shoot began. Vidu realised Ricky Pinto was a fine team leader and Kabir Raja an absolute professional. Despite several retakes, the endorser did his job without complaining. Vidu thought it was best to stand aside and watch the icon at work.

  After a few days and several rounds of editing, Pinto confirmed that the final version of the commercial was ready. The grind had given him an upset stomach and many sleepless nights. He wondered when was the last time he spent those many mad-hours on the making of just an ad.

  Karan travelled to Mumbai to review their maiden television commercial.

  They were at a film production house. Karan asked Pinto and Vidu to replay the ad, and watched the 30-second video for the second time.

  As the ad ended, he asked, ‘Can we replay?’

  Not losing his patience, Pinto gestured to the editor at the console to play the ad for the third time.

  The ad opens to a medium shot of Kabir Raja standing outside a jail. He is unshaven and looks disturbed. In a white polo shirt and a pair of jeans, he walks forward and asks, squinting at the camera zooming in, ‘What would you do if your friend hits a rough patch in his life and is accused of something he has not done? Would you end the old relationship? If you are a true friend, you will stand by him like a rock.’ He stops walking. ‘When an old friend ditched me, I was depressed and questioned myself: wasn’t it my fault to have chosen such a shallow friend?’ Cut to the next frame, Kabir is holding a Yodel Cola. Looking into the camera, he says, ‘Yodel, I know, is not shallow.’ A small but deep vertical line originating from between his eyebrows is formed as he looks at the bottle. He uncaps and drinks from it, finishing the beverage to the last drop. Then he looks back into the camera and says, ‘Yodel is a loyal friend.’ The scene fades out and the logo, Yodel—in electric blue on a black background—fades in with a large-font message at the bottom. A deep voice in the background reads it, ‘Your loyal friend. Yodel Cola, Yodel Orange, Yodel Lemon.’ The ad ends without a jingle.

  Vidu and Pinto eagerly waited for Karan’s comments as the ad finished.

  ‘Can you play that part again when he says, “When an old friend ditched me …”?’ Karan asked the editor, as Vidu groaned and Pinto kept his fingers crossed.

  The commercial was replayed from that frame and Karan watched it, as if it were for the first time. Again, all eyes were on him as it ended. Stretching his long spine, he said, ‘We are launching it in this year’s IRL.’

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Pinto, raising his hands.

  In the evening, Vidu accompanied Karan to the airport in a cab.

  ‘What’s with the IRL?’ he enquired. ‘I believe the airing rates are very high there.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Karan.

  The Indian Royal League or IRL, for which Festi Beverages had signed a five-year, title-sponsorship contract the previous year for four hundred crore rupees, was a sixty-match, Twenty20 cricket tournament.

  It wasn’t only Festi that showered money on IRL. Every year, more than a hundred advertisers associated with the league, whichever way they could—on-air or on-ground. This year the total number of advertising seconds per match was expected to increase significantly.

  Vidu lit a cigarette and rolled down the window glass. ‘Then why waste money, chief? IRL is for the rich brands.’

  Karan revealed his plan. ‘We will air three different 30-second commercials in this sixty-match tournament. There will be only one-time airing during every alternate match. So, in all, there will be a total of thirty airings of the three commercials.’

  ‘And what are the damages?’ Vidu lunged forward as the cab driver applied the brakes, manoeuvring through the busy road.

  ‘The advertising rates lie between Rs 4.75 lakh a
nd Rs 5 lakh for a ten-second spot.’ Vidu blew a whistle. ‘We’ll have to cough up around 4.5 crore rupees for the campaign,’ said Karan.

  ‘Are you serious about spending that kind of money? I don’t think we can afford the extravaganza. Zabar is going to hang us in public.’

  Ignoring Vidu’s comments, Karan continued, ‘Yodel’s share of voice per match will be minuscule.’ He made some calculations in his mind. ‘Our expenditure will be a negligible percentage of what Festi will spend in the tournament this year.’

  ‘We aren’t Festi, chief.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. That’s why we’ll advertise at such a low frequency.’

  ‘Only one airing every alternate match will go completely unnoticed anyway. It’d be like bleating in the mountains,’ reasoned Vidu, and drew on his cigarette.

  ‘We don’t have to roar like the lions of the industry either. Our commercials will be special and will get the immediate attention of millions of viewers per match.’

  The driver slowed down around the airport area and steered towards Terminal 1A. Vidu wanted to question him, why care about millions of viewers when the brand was only for the Delhi market. Karan would have told him that he always planned keeping the next phase in mind.

  ‘How’s Baruni doing? I phoned her before coming. She’s in Kerela for a shoot. Isn’t she?’

  ‘Struggling to be a star,’ said Vidu.

  ‘She’s a bright woman and has done us a great favour. I was always confident she’d be able to take you to Kabir.’

  ‘I had underestimated her, if you ask me.’

  Karan’s phone played a tune. The call was from their office in Delhi. The ASM of East Delhi gave him an update on the day. He listened patiently and gave him a few instructions before finishing the call.

  ‘How effective is this approach going to be?’ Vidu came back to the topic.

  ‘I think, very,’ replied Karan, drawing his cleft chin to his chest. ‘What’s your concern?’

  ‘Only that we’d be squandering four and a half crores in a period of six weeks.’

  ‘Not squandering. Investing,’ corrected Karan. ‘There are many examples where the Indian Royal League has transformed unknown products into high-value brands.’

  ‘Agreed, but there’s a big risk.’

  ‘We don’t have time. Zabar will be on our heads after a month. If we’re not able to impress the bugger, he’ll not take much time to even exit Freedom, let alone invest more money. We need more money from him, and we don’t have a choice but to roll the dice.’

  The next day, the first Yodel commercial was sent to the television channel officially broadcasting the tournament.

  The first Indian Royal League match between Bengal Tigers and Mumbai Patriots started at 8 p.m. on April 20 in Mumbai. The Tigers batted first. Their innings was disrupted by rain for at least twenty minutes. They lost momentum and finished at 114 for 9 wickets. The commentators believed Mumbai Patriots had an easy chance to crush the Tigers and take the lead.

  The advertisers who aired their ads during the first innings of the match reached twenty-one million people. That was 5 per cent more than the previous year’s viewership of the opening match.

  Freedom aired its first commercial before the Patriots began their innings. There was an instantaneous reaction at the rival camp.

  ‘Bastard!’ screamed Ramesh Choksi, as he finished watching the commercial at home.

  ‘What happened, Ramesh? Who got out?’ asked his wife, an obese woman, eating her food from a full plate resting on her heavy thighs.

  Ignoring her, he got up, grabbed his phone, and called his boss.

  ‘Ya, Choksi?’ came Dushyant Gujral’s voice from Athens. He was on a ten-day holiday in Europe.

  ‘Hi, Dushyant. Am sorry, but I don’t have good news,’ he whined.

  ‘When was the last time you gave me good news?’ taunted Gujral. ‘Tell me anyway, what happened? Has Festi forgotten its cola-manufacturing formula, or are my brands causing dysentery among consumers?’

  ‘It’s Jaani again.’

  ‘And what has our man done this time?’

  ‘He has launched a commercial—first day, first match. It’s a spoof on our brand and organisation, Dushyant. Guess who the endorser is.’

  ‘Who did he get? A bar dancer?’

  ‘None other than Kabir Raja, boss.’

  ‘Oh, really? When did Raja start endorsing such doomed brands?’

  ‘You can view the ad on YouTube by tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s he saying in it?’

  Choksi described the commercial. ‘He says we ended the association with him, ditched him.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Is he endorsing on a charitable basis for these paupers?’

  ‘How does it matter? He—’

  ‘Never mind. You sit up close with our agency on the IRL scheduling. There shouldn’t be any slip-ups like last time. Okay? Sit on their faces, Choksi.’

  ‘Oh, that I’ll handle. But about Jaani’s ad, I’m going to talk to our Legal tomorrow.’

  ‘Choksi, Choksi. Why do you start wetting your pants every time he comes out with his kiddy tricks? Ignore him and his kooky ad. He doesn’t have the money to air it at a high frequency such as ours.’

  ‘We ignored his sales promo and see where he’s going.’

  ‘Could he even snatch a tiny share of the market?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Remember, it is one thing to start a business and another to run it profitably. Let Jaani gloat for some more time until the costs break his spine. So, for once, fix a large for yourself, enjoy the match, and have a mad weekend. Bye.’

  The call was disconnected from Athens.

  34

  Nazia Akhtar, the crime reporter of Delhi News Channel, was sitting in front of her laptop in her office. Hurriedly, she went through her stories, updating them for the next newscast. Delhi News Channel, a channel with some very high television-rating-point programmes and shows, ensured that all its reporters, researchers, and writers made the dullest story the most stimulating one, with enough information and opinion.

  Nazia read one story for the second time. ‘No evidence yet on Leena Goswami’s murder’. She had visited the area’s police station a number of times but there was no progress on the case. Leena’s murder was one story that intrigued her like no other.

  The reporter somehow felt that the woman who had called the channel the other night to speak to her could have been Leena, as the time of the call coincided with that of the murder. She did not have any evidence to prove as much but decided to find out more. Today, she had an appointment with the chief executive officer of Balraj Infrastructure, the company where Leena worked, and she hoped to make some progress.

  Nazia reached Balraj Tower and walked towards its reception, bypassing the security booth. At once, the guard called out and asked her to write her details in the visitors’ register. She did not care.

  Astonished, he followed her. ‘Please sign in the register,’ he said. Nazia continued to walk towards the reception. ‘Madam, I’ll have to inform the authorities.’

  ‘Is this how you welcome journalists?’ She flashed her identity card.

  Approaching her, the guard peered at the card. The security guards of the company were advised by their managers not to be rough with journalists. Ruefully, he walked back to his booth, mumbling.

  The CEO wasn’t of much help and provided only general information: Leena Goswami directly reported to Jaggi Balraj, was a hardworking professional, spent long hours at the office, and never had any personal or professional problems with anyone at the office.

  The meeting was over in twenty minutes and Nazia returned to the ground floor, mentally revising the next thing in her plan. Reaching the security booth, she said to the guard, ‘I complained to the CEO about how you misbehaved with me.’

  The guard sprang up from his chair. His ears turned red. ‘What … did I do, madam? I was only doing my duty. We’re not
supposed to allow visitors to go inside without receiving their details.’

  Nazia tied her long and straight hair into a loose bun. ‘Whatever. Your CEO had to apologise to me on your behalf.’ The guard looked like a man going to the electric chair. ‘I can ask him to forgive you if you do me a favour.’

  ‘What favour, madam?’

  ‘I need some information.’

  ‘What information, madam?’

  ‘About Leena Goswami.’

  ‘I’m sure you know she was murdered recently. May her soul rest in peace.’ He looked up and raised his hands to the low ceiling of the booth.

  She placed a hand on a pile of long and heavy registers on one side of his rough desk. ‘Can you check your employee register and tell me when she last came to the office?’

  Reluctantly, the guard pulled out one marked ‘April’. ‘If I remember correctly, Madam Goswami last came to the office … in her old Swift. That was ten to fifteen days ago.’

  He opened the long register, hurriedly turned over the thick pages, and stopped at the second page of April 7. Running his finger down the name column, he searched for Leena’s name. Finding it, he moved his finger along its row, crossing columns on Employee Code, Designation, Department, and In time, and stopped at the one for Vehicle Registration Number. ‘Oh, not this day. This is her Skoda,’ he said, as he read the number. He turned over the pages to the next day and found the same number mentioned against Leena’s name. Skipping to the tenth day of the month, he repeated the procedure. ‘Here.’ He tapped the register with his forefinger. ‘A U.P. number. This is her car.’ To confirm, he checked the columns of the next few days and found no entries for Leena. ‘Yes, madam, we can say that tenth April was her last working day here and that day, she had arrived and left in her Swift.’

  Nazia stored the vehicle number in her phone. ‘Did she leave alone from here that evening?’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing anyone else in her car when she left.’

  ‘Anyone followed her? Or anyone drove along?’

  The guard tried to recall. ‘After sometime, Mr Balraj too left for the day. Then I bought a cigarette and smoked, something I never do on duty, but that day, I was in the mood.’ He grinned foolishly. ‘And yes, then I saw Madam Goswami’s car again, coming from the other side of the road, perhaps going behind Mr Balraj’s car.’