by Ajeet Sharma
Choksi and Gujral only gloated that the horse, which Freedom rode, was gone. ‘End of the foolery,’ commented Gujral. ‘Let’s toast to it!’
Karan called a meeting with all the area sales managers. After expressing his grief about their brand ambassador, he told them that their message of solidarity would be on air for an indefinite period. An audio of it was broadcast on all FM radio channels in Delhi. Illuminated billboards—Kabir standing with the inmates and the Yodel logo in the background—communicating the same message, were fixed at strategic locations in the city, including malls, toll roads, bus shelters, metro stations, and the airport. The message was also placed in the leading dailies and magazines.
No further progress in the investigations was reported by the media. Soon, it began to dawn on people that the legendary actor was dead.
49
It was the evening of the final between Chandigarh Stallions and Delhi Hounds at the home stadium of the latter—Feroz Shah Kotla Ground, New Delhi. The Stallions were one team the commentators had underestimated. Earlier, a liquor company had threatened to cancel its sponsorship contract with them owing to their poor performance in the initial matches. Later, the company had to take disapproving remarks from the owners of the team after they entered the qualifying stage and won eleven out of fifteen matches before entering the final.
As the closing ceremony began, Rishi, Vidu, Sameera, Ira, and Baruni took their seats in the Corporate Box at the West end of the stadium.
‘When’s Karan gonna be here, Vidu?’ asked Sameera, as popular Bollywood stars performed on the theme songs of the eight teams amid a loud cheer around the stadium.
‘He’s on his way back from the airport,’ informed Vidu. ‘Should be here in the next thirty minutes.’
‘Baruni, what kind of fee do these film stars demand to perform like this?’ asked Rishi.
‘No idea, Rishi. These are all hidden deals.’
‘Why? Looking to dance for money now?’ asked Vidu.
Nalini Raz, Bollywood actress and co-owner of Mumbai Patriots, came on the stage to dance with the performers as the team’s anthem was played. The crowd cheered at her moves. There were at least fifty-five thousand spectators—a sea of painted faces, swaying flags, loud placards, and colourful hoods and caps.
‘Why don’t you get Vidu a comic role in one of your movies, Baruni?’ said Rishi. ‘Trust me, he’ll be an instant hit.’
All except Vidu laughed. What Vidu did not like was that Baruni laughed too.
As soon as the dance performances ended, several paragliders flew across and above the stadium, carrying team flags. The spectators sat rapt.
When Raman Kumar, a celebrated cricket commentator and former all-rounder, came to the ground holding a microphone in his hand, the spectators knew it was time for the match to start. The match referee, the chairman and commissioner of the Indian Royal League, and the captains of the two teams followed the tall, slim, and fifty-something commentator, who was in a well-fitting silk churidar-kurta. The Delhi Hounds captain gave the call as the chairman spun the coin. Winning the toss, he chose to bat first.
Freedom had a simple promo this evening. The 400 ml PET bottles of Yodel were to be sold to the spectators at several points inside the stadium. The sales team would monitor the operation. Unlike other companies, which were selling their products at prices 40 to 70 per cent higher, Freedom had decided to sell at the market price of Rs 15 per bottle.
Earlier, before the tournament had reached its knockout stage, Karan had conceived of an idea to promote the brand. A week before the final, he scripted his plan. According to it, he had to strike two separate deals: one, with the owner of Delhi Hounds, the BNT Group, and the other with the governing body of the Indian Royal League, the Indian Cricket Board or ICB.
The BNT Group—a large business house into cement, construction, and hospitality—was headquartered in Bangalore. Karan travelled to the tech city and met a senior member of the group, who was also the chief executive officer of the team. Karan proposed to purchase the Exclusive Pouring Rights for the last match of the tournament, which was to be played at Delhi Hound’s home stadium—Feroz Shah Kotla Ground. Pouring rights are given by a team to a beverage company. The rights allow the company to serve its drinks at such a team’s home stadium matches. There were eight IRL teams. Festi Beverages, the title sponsor of the tournament, had these rights for seven of them. The only team that had not given such rights to any company was Delhi Hounds.
The CEO of the team, initially, did not agree. He argued that he had been refusing proposals from various other companies throughout the season. He also laughed and mentioned that such rights were never given for a single match. When Karan persisted for days and offered to pay an unusually high price, the CEO laughed again, and this time, in disbelief.
Two days before the final, Karan signed a deal with Delhi Hounds. According to the terms, Freedom had the permission to only sell its beverages at Feroz Shah Kotla Ground during the final match. Unlike the deals that Festi had signed with the other teams, the agreement did not permit Freedom to advertise or promote its brand ‘overtly’ in the stadium.
For the second deal, Karan had been communicating simultaneously with the Indian Cricket Board at its headquarters in Mumbai. His proposal to the members of the board was that they allow a fifteen-minute on-ground stage performance by a Russian dance troupe to promote a message of solidarity during the presentation ceremony of the final. He mentioned Freedom’s support for the Home and contended that it was a rare opportunity for the cash-rich league to show its human side and form a more favourable image.
All decisions concerning opening and closing ceremonies rested with the board. Karan’s proposal did fascinate the members but they argued there was a security risk involved in providing space on the ground for the purpose. They did not want any trouble when the tournament was going to end peacefully. Every year it suffered controversies concerning match-fixing or betting. This year’s was one edition in which no unpleasant incident took place. At the outset, the board rejected the proposal.
Only when, a day before the final, Karan divulged details about the agreement he signed with Delhi Hounds, the ICB began to see the larger picture. In a meeting that lasted three hours, the board reconsidered its decision and agreed to Karan’s proposal.
The purchase of pouring rights and a fifteen-minute slot for the performance, and the fee demanded by the troupe swelled Freedom’s IRL budget by almost one crore rupees, leaving only a few lakhs in the company’s bank account. Rishi and Vidu asked Karan why no other start-up ever thought of carrying out such high-budget promotions. Karan told them, ‘Someone has to show them the way. Let us take the pleasure.’ The two chose not to debate with him, as they knew their experienced colleague was now treading a path only he knew best.
By the time Karan steered to the far and dimly-lit end of the car park near the stadium, Delhi Hounds were thirty-six for one in four overs. Stopping alongside a Volkswagen Polo, he picked up his phone and got out of the car. Hell of a day again, he thought, as he walked towards the exit of the park. In the past week, he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours every night. He was so fatigued, his every muscle ached.
Had the area been well lit, he would have seen a man standing much ahead of him, behind a silver-grey Honda CR-V.
Karan strode past the vehicles, triumphantly replaying the events in his head. Twelve hours before the start of the final, the stadium authorities refused to allow more than five stage performers, citing security reasons. Karan had to immediately travel to Mumbai and visit the ICB headquarters—the officials hardly ever talked on the phone. A revised permission letter from them was what he needed. It took him the whole day to get the order issued, which directed the stadium management in Delhi to allow at least eleven performers on the ground, and only then was he able to catch a return flight.
He walked further as the man behind the CR-V threw a surveying look around the area. Karan’s thought
s drifted to the events that began a year ago: how he met Rishi and Vidu, how they started their company and raised money. So much has happened. His only goal at present was to save Freedom, as it would not be possible to get another investor now.
The man took out his gun, levelled it at his target’s chest, and pressed the trigger. The bullet hit the right side of Karan’s chest. He collapsed to the ground, covering the bleeding hole with his hand, moaning in pain. Sure of having executed his job successfully, the shooter ran to the exit. Once he was out on the Ring Road, he took out his phone and dialled his employer Jaggi Balraj’s number.
Karan lay on his back facing the sky. He had his phone in his left hand. He gathered whatever strength he had left and pressed its screen on. His right hand, he could not move, as the wound had numbed that side of the body. Karan forced his thumb to tap the dial widget on the screen, swipe up the recent calls in the log, and tap on Rishi’s name. That was the most strenuous task he ever performed in his life.
‘Hey, Karan. Have you reached the stadium?’ asked Rishi from the other end.
More blood oozed out of his wound and smeared his T- shirt. ‘They’ve … got me, Rishi! I’ve been … shot in the car park!’
It took Rishi and Vidu twelve minutes to dart out of the stadium, travel in an autorickshaw to the car park, and run to the spot where their partner lay, drifting into unconsciousness.
Rishi knelt on the ground and spoke to his partner in a shaking voice, ‘Karan, we’re taking you to hospital right away. Keep your eyes open. It’s a beautiful evening.’
They lifted their six-foot-tall colleague, friend, and mentor, and laid him on the backseat of Rishi’s Pajero.
‘Vidu … you gotta go back … and monitor our …’ Karan was unable to speak.
‘Don’t worry, chief,’ said Vidu, his look belying his words. ‘I’ll report to you as soon as it is over. You stay awake.’
Slowly, the hooded eyes closed as Sameera, Ira, and Baruni arrived.
‘Is he okay?’ Sameera was unable to hold back her tears. She went to the rear door of the vehicle. ‘OH GOD, KARAN!’ she screamed when she saw him, and broke down. He lay as if he were dead.
‘Come on, Sameera.’ Rishi’s eyes were moist. ‘We’re going to the nearest hospital.’
Vidu and Baruni returned to the stadium as Rishi drove out of the area. Karan’s head rested on Sameera’s lap. ‘Look at me, Karan,’ she said, running her fingers through his hair, and broke down again.
50
Karan was in the emergency room, being treated with oxygen and intravenous fluids. His blood pressure was dangerously low. The bullet that went through his chest had struck the seventh rib and pierced a lung.
Rishi was called by the doctor. ‘Mr Verma, your friend has to undergo a surgery, as we have to remove the bullet and repair the lung. Please fulfill all the formalities at once. The nurse will guide you.’ He nodded at a nurse in the room.
‘What are the chances, doctor?’ asked Rishi.
‘Mr Verma, we’ll do whatever we can.’
Chandigarh Stallions beat Delhi Hounds by one wicket. The cheer girls of the winning squad danced to Bollywood numbers as the crowd yelled in support. It was one suspenseful match. The Hounds had set a target of 218 runs. Despite not having a strong batting line-up, the Stallions had managed to keep up with the asking rate.
By now, a large number of spectators had consumed Yodel. The sales managers monitored every stall, but wondered if the promo would make any difference in the market. Soon, consumers would forget they tasted something called Yodel in the stadium. There was nothing memorable in the promo that could guarantee a quick recall later.
The managers wouldn’t have been in doubt had they known how Karan Jaani had planned to end the promo that night.
Sitting inside the box, stroking his ponytail and lost in thoughts about the turn of events, Vidu Nandi looked at a group of teenagers, apparently children of corporate executives, showing off to one another the items—gloves, English willow bats, T-shirts—they bought from the merchandise stalls.
‘Why don’t you call and ask where they are?’ suggested Baruni.
Vidu took out his phone, dialled a number, and enquired.
‘We’ve crossed India Gate,’ came the voice of the dance troupe’s manager.
‘Call me when you reach Gate No. 1,’ said Vidu. ‘We’ll take all of you to the Private Box first. Everyone has to be on the ground by 11.40 p.m.’ He finished the call.
‘Where are they?’ asked Baruni, as commentator Raman Kumar and many senior members of the Indian Royal League and the Indian Cricket Board trooped to the centre of the ground, waving at the spectators.
‘Will be here in ten to fifteen minutes.’ Vidu slid the phone into his pocket and rose from his seat. ‘Let’s go. It’s action time.’ They weaved their way through the noisy crowd, stepping on the littered score placards and flags.
Raman Kumar’s voice boomed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final presentation ceremony of the season’s Indian Royal League. That was electrifying cricket in the middle of an exuberant crowd!’ he said, standing tall at the centre of the ground. ‘My congratulations to both the teams on their spectacular performance.’ The crowd clapped as the handsome commentator, who had played 89 test and 152 one-day international matches for India, introduced the chairman and commissioner of the Indian Royal League, the president of the Indian Cricket Board, and the minister of Sports and Youth Affairs to the spectators.
Kumar announced the awards in various categories—most runs, most wickets, fastest century, man of the final, and emerging player of the season, among others—as the winners came over one by one. The luminaries on the ground presented cheques and caps to the winners. The marketing companies had not spared this one last opportunity too and had sponsored a category or two to catch the attention of their audience.
‘And now,’ announced Kumar after the award distribution to the category winners was over, ‘before I invite the winning team, I would like to call on the stage a group of performers representing personalities who have nothing to do with cricket but so much to do with the spirit of this game. They have proved it is not only cricketers who create all the excitement all the time. At times, life champions can outplay our many heroes we have here.’ The stadium was quiet within seconds. The spectators wondered what else remained in the name of excitement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as this year’s edition of the tournament comes to an end, I, on behalf of the league, salute the brave women of a Delhi-based welfare home, empowered and emboldened by Freedom. Freedom markets and sells Yodel, which is also the official drink of this match.’ Raman Kumar then gave a brief account of the revolt at Fotedar’s Home for Women weeks ago.
It was 11.40 p.m. The floodlights were switched off and the ground was dark. The glare of the perimeter boards showing a logo of an antivirus brand faintly illuminated the stadium. Forty-nine seconds later, the lights were switched on and the ground was as bright as a summer day again.
The audience could see a wooden stage at the centre of the ground. On it were five young and lithe Russian women in bright white, ankle-length, long-sleeved unitards, their hair tied in a tight, graceful bun. They stood in a circle—their chest to the audience, face to the sky, and arms interlocked. A big screen, installed at the South-west end of the stadium, showed their comely but sad faces.
The music begins in slow tempo, with a high-decibel thumping sound in the background, reverberating through the stadium as though it were warning of imminent danger. Five men in black robes come on the stage and start chasing the women, who unclasp themselves and leap around like frightened antelopes as the tempo of the composition increases gradually. The music accentuates their fear of evil forces approaching them. The men attack them, try to tear their clothes and drag them away. Overpowered, they cry helplessly. Then, a masked, brawny man, wearing a red shirt with high collars, silver ruffled neckline, and flowery cuffed-sleeves; and a pair of black skintight pants co
mes swirling on the stage. Energised by his presence, the women pirouette to him at the thumping beats and kneel down around him in a circle. They stretch out their hands to him, as if earnestly begging him to save them. The masked man solaces them and goes bounding around—the tempo of the composition increases further—attacking the men with forceful sweeps of an imaginary sword in hand. One by one, the men fall. The women spin about joyously as they watch their brave saviour destroy the evil forces and protect their honour. Again, they gather around him on their knees and bow their heads to him in profound reverence. In reciprocation, the man bows too, like a knight. Then he pirouettes to an end of the stage, pulls the mask off his face, and flings it up into the air. The music stops with a loud thud.
The audience had two reasons to stand.
One, it was an enthralling performance by the young women and their saviour. Two, what they saw on the stage and the stadium screen was absolutely unbelievable. The saviour was a man none other than the superstar of India, Kabir Raja.
51
The surgery went on for three hours. At 3.27 in the morning, a dark and short nurse came to them in the waiting room. ‘All of you with Karan Jaani?’
‘Yes we are.’ Vidu jumped to his feet.
Sameera rose in trembling anticipation. ‘How’s he?’
‘You can go inside the ICU. Do not disturb him. He’s unconscious and on a ventilator.’
Karan was on a bed with tubes, cables, equipment, and machines attached to his body. He had to be transfused with two litres of blood. Rishi, Vidu, and Sameera went near him. He seemed to be sound asleep.
The surgeon who operated on Karan entered the room. Glancing at his patient, he instructed the attending nurse on how she should administer the medicines.
‘How’s he, doctor?’ asked Rishi.