Monday, July 25, 2005

Of Heroes and Heroic Entries!

This was originally published here - where the slew of comments is worth reading.

What is it about Hindi movies and mind-blowing first appearances of matinee idols that mesmerizes us?
Elaborately choreographed opening sequences create a flutter in the stalls, driving the 'first day first show' audiences absolutely wild.
As kids, one heard stories of how hundreds of currency notes and coins were swept off the floor of cinema-houses after full-house openings. A career as a theatre usher seemed, both, mentally and financially rewarding.

Fortunately for me, my mother -- who was a raving film fanatic herself -- initiated me to the magical world of celluloid. She was beside herself with joy, sharing my thrills with child-like enthusiasm.
Quite naturally, my mother recommended my first goose-pimple-inducing intro-scene. On a Sunday -- in the days of solo-channel Doordarshan -- I had finished my homework early to watch the Rajesh Khanna-Sharmila Tagore starrer Aradhana.
After all the tear jerking followed by Khanna's death and Tagore's term in jail, cut to this phenomenal scene of Farida Jalal's boyfriend coming in on an airstrip. As the familiar signature tune of Aradhana reached a crescendo, you have Rajesh Khanna Mark II sauntering in from the horizon in an air force uniform; helmet perched on shoulder.
Sharmila's sentimental turn, me going hooh-haah, my mother wiping tears of joy -- remembering the days of yore in Shillong, where she watched the movie first -- and a raving-screaming-whistling film fan was born!

This first was followed by hundreds of paisa vasool sequences. Each one of which was worth the price of admission by itself.

To name a few:
Amitabh Bachchan zipping down Marine Drive on his motorbike in Muqaddar Ka Sikander.

Aamir Khan turning around in his loose-black-tie-white-shirt-black-waistcoat to tell the world what his Dad used to say in Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak.

The Big B racing across Afghanistan deserts in a deadly game of bouz-kashi in Khuda Gawah.

Ajay Devgan entering the college perched on two motorbikes in Phool Aur Kaante.

Hrithik Roshan coming on a snazzy bike and stopping next to Amisha at a traffic light in Kaho Naa… Pyaar Hai.

Shah Rukh Khan bursting onto a studio from a ceiling made of television screens in Main Hoon Na.

Almost 20 years after the Aradhana experience, I was in a theatre for the first day first show -- February 1, 1991 to be precise -- of the late Mukul Anand's Hum.
During the film, Tiger (Amitabh Bachchan) dives into the screen, latching on to a chain to save his friend Gonsalves (Romesh Sharma). My own leap landed me straight over the seats in front and underneath some screaming fans. The cut on my forehead did not leave a scar, though I still lovingly attribute the injury on my left brow to Amitabh Bachchan's appearance in Hum.

A large part of the cinematic experience for me is the satisfying first appearance of the hero, and in some cases, the heroine.
Very few people have seen a film called Toofan. And even fewer remember it. But the symphonic quality with which AB's appearance is built up in that movie is stuff that legends are made of. I strongly recommend this movie for Bachchan's introduction scene alone.

A cursory examination of the most memorable opening sequences has revealed that fathers have pulled out all stops to make their sons appear in front of the audience through the most snazzy efforts. Be it Aamir Khan's college function, Ajay Devgan's double-bike stunt or Hrithik Roshan's dream debut, fathers have really laid it out for their sons.
Remember how Kumar Gaurav swooped down in a yellow aircraft, much to the hysterical delight of the female audience? What a pity it all went downhill for him after that initial flourish.

In order to lend greater weight to my groundbreaking research on the 'Impact of first appearances on the fate of a film, in particular, and on the zeitgeist of the nation, in general', I am trying to formulate an equation to measure the unforgettable-ness of an intro-scene.
The first cut seems to suggest the impact (I) can be calculated as:
I = A*(B + C/D) + E
*A = a multiplier of 1 (if the star's past has not been shown) or 2 (if the past has been shown as traumatic)
B = people involved in the build-up sequence
C = time (in minutes) in which the hero is seen in silhouette, mask, parts of body, items of clothing, etc
D = Industry ranking of the star at the time of the movie's release
E = number of weeks that the previous movie of the star has run for or the number of cover stories s/he has got (in case of debutants)
Some would say that in the present times of over-exposure of stars, the charm of the first appearance stands greatly reduced: what with the star visible almost everywhere -- on mobile phone, refrigerator, etc. commercials, NDTV's Night Out, and elsewhere.
Hence, empirical data is being collected to study the effect of one more variable (F) in the equation - where F = number of distinct television appearances, including commercials, made by a star in the month preceding the film's release.

P:S: For all those offended by the complete absence of female stars in the above study, let me quickly recommend Malaika Arora, who filled up the screen with her curvaceous mid-riff as she exhorted the entire nation to go Chaiyya chaiyya (Dil Se..) with her and pioneered the fabled vehicle of the Female First Appearance - The Item Number.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Ab Tak 56...

This month, I ended up counting that this is the 56th time I have closed a month (not counting the two/three times times I was getting married and changing jobs)!

And this month was quite a reminder of the old times when all we did was to 'thoko' stocks and then run to the HQ towns to convince the distributors to unload the trucks AND pass the cheques! (As one of my old Commercial Managers used to say, "If he has to do one, let him do the latter!")

Suddenly, you are reminded of the famous Ramgopal Verma blockbuster…

"It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it..." they state matter-of-factly as we see visuals of Nana Patekar polishing off goon after goon!

And that finds a fraternity among all those unsung ASMs in the world, who are clearing off warehouse after warehouse - all in the name of God, country and the Operations Manager!

And I realise I have made the transition from the Primary School to the Secondary... where it is no longer cool to have 8 weeks of paid up stock, you have to sell it in the market also!

Its actually a great thing that all that stock is no longer there – but one big loss is that all those wonderful “Primary Stories” can no longer happen!

Somehow, there is something inherently masculine about the whole process which reminds you of those dashing cowboys of Texas, the princely Afghan warriors and other such He-Men! And you really felt as if you were saving the company from total doom by invoicing lunatic amounts of stock!

And these stories moved around like urban legends...

"Maloom hain Bihar mein kya hua? Ek TSO ka target tha 82 lakh. Usne 96 kiya. Phir usko lagaa ki 1 crore nahin kiya to kya kiya? Yeh tha raat ke 9 baje... uske cheque distributor ka credit block ho chuka tha... lekin DD distributor ke paas cash pada hua tha... usne raat ke waqt cash udhaar dilwaya cheque distributor ko aur invoice karwaa diya... agle din cheque pass karwaya cheque distributor aur maal delivery liya DD distributor. Isiko kehte hain Distributor control, samjhe?"

"Maloom hain, Bengal mein to CFA ke farthest wall pe Maa Durga ka ekta tasveer hain... agar pura CFA khali nahin hua to woh tasveer dikhta nahin hain. To ensure this inauspiscious thing does not happen, no Bengal ASM leaves the CFA without clearing it out... Isiko kehte bhagwaan pe vishwas"

"Maloom hain Bangalore mein kya hua? Udhar lagaa tha transport strike... koi maal nahin jaa pa raha tha. Team ne saare distributor ko bataa diya ki pura din kaam karne ke baad, raat ke waqt woh log apna truck leke aa jayenge plant. Wahan pe billing hogi, maal load ho jayega aur woh log maal leke aa jayengey... transportation cost? Abbe margin nahin milta hain, kya?"

Seasoned practitioners of the trade discuss the two ways of doing that primary number – Halaal and Jhatka.

The slow and steady method is practised in cultured territories like West Bengal, Cal-Metro, Chennai Metro where ASMs want to bring some semblance of method to the madness. So you have the TSE on the phone, the computer operator yawning, endless cups of tea, Excel sheets (with DB-wise, SKU-wise averages) ready on the laptop... as the edifice is built meticulously, brick-by-brick...

The other (slightly violent) method is the preferred mode of operation in action-oriented states of the Cow Belt. So you have a very professional list of “value builders” (as defined by the products which have the highest rupee value per cubic inch of carton) ready... and at the end of the frenzied key-punching, the Region sees the depot going from –12 lakhs to +166 lakhs in 2 hours flat.

Innocent souls like the IT guys discount such improbabilities as system errors and log onto the Helpdesk. The ASM is obviously unavailable for confirmation... as he has left the CFA to take his team out for a sorrow-drowning session.

Other stories come back to you...

Of the time when your distributor in Begusarai got his bank manager to issue a draft from his residence on Republic Day (Yes, this can happen in Bihar! And bank holidays in the last week should be F#@$ing banned!!)

Of the time, your distributor held stocks in excess of 1 crore (yes, 1 followed by 7 zeros!) because he wanted to go to Bangkok in a distributor competition! (PS: What he did in Bangkok is another story!)

Of the time, a good friend of yours refused an opening in credit card sales because he did not feel comfortable in a job where he could not see 4 weeks of floor stock!

Of the time, you asked your star TSI if he needed anything to pull off yet another miracle and he replied, "Do cheez ki zaroorat hain... Hamari koshish aur aapki kismat!"

Of the time, your SO felt that there is a similarity between month-endings and Ashoka's Kalinga War... Something to do with the bloodshed and gore while it is on and of the repentance and mourning once it is over!

That is when you end up counting that this is the 56th time you are closing a month as the whole-and-sole in-charge of a sales territory...

55 times you have killed distributors under an avalanche of Dettol Soap 75 grams, Mirinda 2 Ltr or Saffola Gold 1 Ltr...

55 times you have surreptitiously exchanged Harpic orders with Haze Agarbatti, Pepsi 200 ml orders with Mountain Dew 2 Lt...

55 times you have written down the list of the "value-drivers" and referred to it repeatedly while doing the last 5 lakhs...

55 times you have vowed to quit and join a child-education NGO after the blood and gore of the closing...

55 times you have decided to stay on after reading the scheme approval mail...

55 times you have sung the signature tune of month-closing to your Boss... (Those who do not know this tune, it goes like this - "Cannot commit, Sir... But I will try")...

55 times you have led a territory, which is screwing up one way or the other...

And the likelihood of getting out of it alive depends on how well you manage to counter-balance the nuts with the screws!

Salesman Number 1

This is a very old piece - written in 2000 A.D in a place called Cuddapah. It is put on the blog in keeping with (what the author very pompously feels is) "popular demand"!

Imagine a film called Salesman No.1... starring Govinda in the title role.

Govinda is a country bumpkin studying in a b-school in Bihar! His classmates include Johnny Lever and Mohnish Behl (side-villain).
His Marketing professor is Kader Khan... who utters wonderful shairis like "Distribution badh nahin sakti ghar mein baithne se, Brand Equity ghat nahin sakti zamane ki sataane se..."
Govinda's father (Alok Nath in a guest appearance) was a Lever's TSI who was killed by Naxalites trying to improve the distribtuion of Lux in rural areas! And HLL did not pay any compensation to the family, which is why Govinda's mother (Farida Jalal) has stopped using soap!
Govinda has vowed that he will not rest till the market share of Levers soaps in his area is 0% (remember guys, this is a Hindi film!)

Anyway, on placement day, Mohnish Behl gets HLL because he has contacts (his father - Gulshnan Grover - is the oldest Levers distributor in the country!). And Govinda gets RCI!!!
By the way, Johnny Lever also does not get Levers... he gets, say, SBCH!

Anyway, they are both sent to a vague rural area for theirs MTs stints... where Kader Khan (in a double role) is the RCI distributor and his brother Gulshan Grover is the HLL distributor (Mohnish has got this stint in his father's area... guys, guys, guys - this is a Hindi film!).

Guess what, Kader Khan's daughter is Karishma Kapoor, who promptly falls in love with Govinda. She keeps accounts for her dad in the daytime and sings songs with Govinda when she is free!
Song situation:
"Main to primary kar raha tha,
Main to secondary kar raha tha,
Main to schemes chala raha tha,
Tera undercut hua to main kya karoon?

Johnny Lever has also fallen in love with the SBCH distributor's daughter (Guddi Maruti, as usual!) and... Song situation: "Horlicks jo pyar karega... Woh gaana gayega... Aquafresh daaton mein pehchana jayega..."

Govinda works very hard and improves the RCI distribution greatly... and the Levers soap market share goes down steadily. Meanwhile, Mohnish has good fun with a village chhamiya (Rambha in a special appearance) - and she can even sing a song... "Luxy luxy luxy mujhe log bole..."

Ultimately, there is huge pressure from the top for Mohnish to mend his act. And he gets to his evil ways - with assistance from his dad!
They go and tamper with the RCI records to convince Kader Khan that the Reckitts ROI has fallen felow 24% - AND Govinda is flirting with his daughter!
Blinded with rage, Kader Khan bounces a Reckitts cheque - and stops distribution till such time Govinda is removed from his territory!
Govinda's targets go for a toss - and to make matters worse, Levers is about to launch Savlon soap in the area!
He is also forbidden to meet Karishma, saddened by which Karshma sings, "Ab teRO BIN jee lenge hum, zahar Mortein ka pee lenge hum..."

Govinda's transfer orders are sent... and just when he is about to leave, Johnny Lever discovers the gochi in the RCI accounts and phodoes the bhanda to Kader. Kader Khan realises his mistake - and immediately gives a draft for the bounced cheque! And as a dowry for his daughter's wedding, he promises to match the Savlon display budget with an equal sum from his own pocket for Dettol!

The Climax: The news of Mohnish and Gulshan's wrongdoings reach the ears of the Levers ASM (Kulbhushan Kharbanda).
And it is also discovered that Govinda's father was not killed by naxalites but by Gulshan's henchmen because he had refused to pass false secondary claims!
Hence, there is a high-voltage clash between Gulshan-Mohnish and Govinda-Kader-Johnny in which Govinda beats up the baddies with a Customer Order Book! (FMCG guys will vouch for the size and hardness of this object!)

The Happy Ending:
Alok Nath is declared to be a great TSI, and his pension is paid. Farida Jalal starts using soap again. Mohnish is sent to the Andamans for his next stint.
Gulshan is stripped off his distributor-ship. And it is given to Kader Khan.
Johnny Lever marries Guddi Maruti.
Govinda marries Karishma - and quits Reckitts to join Infosys!

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

If Its Tuesday, It must be Belgaum...

In the newspaper-periodical industry of India, there come several annual rituals. The most famous among them is the year-end ‘special issue’. Another such ritual is a cover story on sexual liberalisation and/or social Talibanisation. There will be also the one on latest development on the Bofors front – with an ‘exclusive’ interview of Quattrochi.
The most favourite of the business papers and less so for the general interest ones comes in February-March – the b-school salary report, complete with details of hi-tech interviewing (video-conferencing), foreign postings (Wall Street), ESOPs (nowadays, not only Infosys) and the like. In these kinds of the reports, the darlings of the media are always the I-bank/consultancy types. They are the ones who get the six-figure (dollar, not rupees) salaries, look like Charlie Sheen and throw attractive sound-bites (“the challenge of the job… the money is immaterial”).
There is always a footnote in these articles about the FMCG industry – which takes in the maximum numbers at the lowest salaries (okay, okay – not the lowest but one of the lowest!) – and never offer foreign postings or dollar salaries. Forget foreign – they don’t even offer metro (10 lakh+ towns – i.e. includes Patna and Raipur) postings… this industry solely attracts people on the basis of the Theory of Minimum Resistance.

Once inducted into the company, they are sent to the remotest corners of the company (preferably where you particularly clueless about the language) – ostensibly on training – to learn the tricks of the trade. This is not unlike an IAS officer’s first posting in an arcane district headquarter. Only the rough-and-tumble nature of this job ensures that the incumbent does not have the time to pen an ‘English, August’.
What follows is a desi and more interactive & perilous version of ‘Crystal Maze’, which makes for excellent after-dinner conversation – after one finishes it. While this cross-country rally is on, however, you seldom have time for dinner – let alone conversation.

This is a stint where one braves Alliance Air flights, Naxalite bombings, Ranbir Sena shootings, AIADMK bandh calls, Shiv Sena protest marches, Orissa heat waves and North Bengal floods – to answer the call of duty and beyond.
And those who come out of these alive cease to remain ordinary mortals. They get confirmed as Area Sales Managers.
As the story of a famous phone-call goes: The management trainee had called up his boss – in between his training in West Bengal. This was when half of the state was under knee-deep water – and the other half was under waist-deep water. Or thereabouts. After the trainee’s impassioned plea (“Sir, I am standing in knee-deep water”) to get him out of the rain-ravaged territory was followed by an advice to stay in the hotel till the floods subsided. This was when the trainee revealed – “Sir, I am in my hotel room only.”
Is this a true story? Maybe not – but the feelings are.

What follows is my take on this fantastic training – which is (for most of the lot) the first brush of reality. This makes the experience all the more memorable but whether it is enough for one to dwell on for 3000 words is a different question altogether. Like a MBA, it is full of generalisations, it is confused, it is naïve but thankfully, it is merely a set of unconnected observations – there is no attempt to draw far-reaching conclusions from them.

It all started with my first assignment on a rural sales van in Tamil Nadu.
We had been on the van for an inordinately long time – winding our way through tiny hamlets. I was singularly unsuccessful in spotting the ‘rural boom’ predicted by all the marketing gurus. Maybe the dusty unmetalled roads and the half-naked kids blurred my vision a bit.
If my linguistic limitations were somewhat problematic in Madras, they were insurmountable in these places. Tired of being an observer for a majority of the journey, I tried to make a sale in one of these stops.
Finding a reasonably affluent-looking shop, I suggested a few products to the retailer – all of which were accepted without too much of a protest. The salesman accompanying me did the translation – and the retailer spoke a smattering of English.
Emboldened by my initial successes, I tried to extend the products sold on these kind of routes. I suggested shoe-polish… by suggesting the brand name of the product. Too much of marketing post-mortems at b-school led me to the illusion that every person on the face of the earth would be familiar with the name – if not the development of the brand.
“What’s that?” – asked the retailer.
“Shoe polish” – I answered, even demonstrating the product efficacy by pointing to my shoes.
This caused a lot of mirth in the shop – as the retailer told the salesman something in Tamil, trying to stop laughing all the time.
The salesman looked despondent – as he translated. “Sir – he has offered a challenge. He has asked you to wait in his shop for the whole day. If you manage to find one – just one – shopper who wears shoes like yours, he will buy our entire stock at double the price.”
A more adventurous person might have taken up the challenge.

A similar place later threw up a different twist to the tale while I was trying to convince the retailer about the latent demand of the soap – by playing the ultimate trump card of popularity of the times.
“It is being advertised on all episodes of KBC” – I said.
“But nobody watches KBC here”, he calmly countered.
Seeing the look of incredulity on my face, he explained, “Star is a pay channel, you see… while you can get Zee for free.”
Here was a town that time forgot… so did the television ratings people.

Just when one is all set to write the obituary of the Indian ICE dream, there comes another small-town which changes the ending yet again.
I had reached the distributor’s office ahead of the appointed hour – and it hadn’t reopened after lunch. I resigned myself to an hour’s wait in the scorching sun. After all, Kanchipuram did not look like a place with a coffee-pub to while away an hour.
In between the millions of sari-shops that lined the main road, I suddenly spotted an ‘Internet - E-mail – Chatting’ signboard. Quite elated at the sight of a ‘connected world’ – and a way to while away the lunch hour. I tried to locate the Internet parlour but there seemed to be only the sari shops. One of the salesmen approached me with an oily grin and oilier hair. Very optimistic, I thought – if he wants to sell me a Kanchipuram silk.
“Ganihelbyou, saar?”
“Um – I was trying to locate the Internet place…”
“Thizwaysaar.” – and he waved me to come inside. Inside this sari shop? I must have looked very unconvinced as I started to step in.
“Shoes oudside please.”
I took off my shoes and followed him over yards of silk and satin – into an air-conditioned anteroom. Eight terminals lined the walls – all of them complete with speakers, printers and the works. As I logged onto to Hotmail through the lightning-fast connection, I thought my experience of the Indian contradiction was complete. Till of course, the time when I was greeted with four adjacent Internet parlours in Cudappah – but there was no power (for the next four hours) to run the Pentium III machines there.

When through with spotting contradictions, one has to contend with the backbreaking, skull-splitting modes of transport that connect the dots on the landscape. While jet-setting friends take a stopover at Geneva, one has to wait at Bellary (MP: Sonia Gandhi) for the connecting bus to arrive – and one can amuse oneself with the calculating the Frequent Traveller Miles accumulated by travelling in the state government buses for the past 181 days and 11200 miles.
Just as a point of interest, the social hierarchy is very clearly mentioned in the buses of the Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation (APSRTC). The first double seat is ‘Reserved for MP’. The next is ‘Reserved for MLA’. The next three are ‘Reserved for Ladies’. Down South, they treat their ladies very well – but put them after their gods.
The unending bus-trips to the innermost recesses of the states also lead to spinning of great epics of fantasy. The profusion of cinema theatres and the paucity of the fairer sex prompted romantic epics, mostly. Innumerable re-hashes of the “boy-meets-girl” theme abound, all suited to fit the yuppie-in-the-jungle mould. A sales trainee (boy) is on his way to a sales point on the overnight bus where he meets another sales trainee (girl) going to the same place. Love blossoms amidst cartons of soap and sacks of detergents – ad nauseum.
But then, what else can one do when a ramshackle behemoth of a vehicle is hurtling over the countryside at 70 mph – with the potholes outside and the blaring video inside making it impossible for a minute’s sleep.

In fact, sex seemed to be on everyone else’s minds as well – especially the surrogate kind. If the hotel had a TV in the rooms, it had to have FTV. Without fail.
There were diversions of other kinds available as well.
I got off the bus at Tirupathi – and looked like the archetypal yuppie-on-a-hike, at least in those surroundings. Backpack, Bisleri bottle and all that. Trying to remember the directions given by the office, I tried to navigate my way to the T.P. Area, where all the inexpensive (not “cheap”!) hotels promised to be.
At this point, I was approached by a gentleman (for the want of a better word) in a check-lungi and a t-shirt that read, “I met my friends at”.
Having been warned sternly about the perils of talking to strangers ever since I was three, I tried to ignore him and walked in the general direction of the exit.
Trying to keep pace with me, he offered – “Hotel, saar?”
I slowed down a bit now. The ride was an arduous one and I desperately needed some sleep before I attacked my distributors.
He tried again – “Good, clean, cheap…”
I was very tempted now, as the prospect of locating the fabled T.P. Area seemed distinctly uninviting.
His trump card of his offer came through – “Ladies also, saar. No problems, very safe…”
In my fresh-out-of-school innocence, I thought he meant that the hotel would be very safe for any ladies who may be accompanying me. So I said, “No – no ladies” in the halting Tamil-accented English that had seen me through most of small-town South India.
His eyes brightened up – “No ladies, saar? Young boys then? Also very safe…”
This was when I broke into a run.

Despite this and more than its fair share of other hazards, the job has its perks – however quirky and far-fetched it might be. And where can it be better demonstrated than the state of Bihar, which Microsoft Word insists I change to Bizarre!
There was a crowd assembled in front of the distributor’s office-cum-godown as I alighted from the car. The mood was distinctly restless – and it was definitely too big to be a lowly sales manager’s reception party. The distributor broke away from the group as he saw me – and looked terribly gratified.
As he shook (almost tore away, actually) my hand, he expressed his abject delight that an area sales manager had ‘deigned’ to ‘set feet’ on his humble town.
After the initial pleasantries completed in his office, I asked him the reason for the anxious assembly outside.
“Oh nothing serious”, he said. “A van of mine got looted in the morning – they got away with about 30000 bucks.”
“Uh – nothing? 30000 bucks? Won’t you file a FIR or something?”
He smiled – “Kya hoga, saab? Nothing’s going to come out of it – only a hell of a lot of problems. Yeh to roz ka maamla hain, lekin ASM thoda hi roz aate hain?”
A hard-nosed businessman feels my visit is worth more than 30000 bucks – I don’t know whether that was a tribute to me, the MNC I work for or Laloo Prasad Yadav. But it is quite a high, all the same.

Just as it is a bit of a low to encounter places from history and literature, which turn out to be nothing like what they promised to be.
Especially rivers have this uncanny knack of disappointing – in fact, Wordsworth institutionalised it ever since he visited Yarrow.
The bus grounded to a halt – somewhere in the middle of nowhere. My neighbour in half-mime half-Telugu explained that the engine needed some water before it could make the final 10-minute stretch to reach Kurnool town (Rayalseema, Andhra Pradesh). A river lay ahead of us – a dilapidated board said ‘Tungabhadra’. Adolescent memories of one of the best historical novels to be written came back. “Tungabhadrar Tirey” (On the banks of Tungabhadra) – a Bengali novel by Saradindu Banerjee – recounted the tale of a thriving civilisation on the banks of the eponymous river, which was something like the seminal fluid. Romantic visions of a throbbing river were dashed by the sight of a trickle of water, meandering its way through rocks and silt. The ten-minute break was simply not enough to philosophise about adolescent fantasies and their untimely demise.
About a year later, on the outskirts of Ranchi (capital of Jharkhand), I passed a similar rivulet – as an identically dilapidated board proclaimed ‘Subarnarekha’. Ritwik Ghatak’s morbid masterpiece about the decadence and callousness of society – symbolised by a brother-sister duo, growing up on the banks of the river – seemed to be mirrored by the moribund state of the river. The river seemed to have become a quagmire – somewhat akin to Ghatak’s vision of the society. As the car passed over the culvert, I looked back to see a strain of glitter along the modest flow of the river. At least, this river had lived up to its name. But was as disappointing as the earlier one.

This sales training exercise is a marketing textbook, travelogue, Dale Carnegie handbook, newspaper – all rolled into one. It is an attempt by the companies to stop its managers from reducing the marketplace into a matrix (plotting, say, affluence vs propensity to spend or something equally arbitrary!) – in which anything and everything can be reduced a coloured circle at a given co-ordinate. And of course, underlining the basic paradox (or the hopelessness) of trying to sell chocolate chip cookies in Western Orissa.

But what actually comes out of the training?
A rudimentary grasp of the (and accent) language/dialect of the region of training.
Knowledge about the cheapest beer-bars of the town of posting.
Endless cups of tea consumed at the largest wholesale counters there.
A shift in reading habits – from A&M to Stardust because the friendly bookshop owner has never heard of the former.
A healthy disrespect for the b-school curriculum.
An even healthier contempt for the country’s infrastructure.
And of course – the extremely misplaced confidence that shows through when somebody asks “What do you do?” and one answers, “I sell soap in Bihar”.

Under Production: Ten Performances Amitabh Never Delivered

Having gone through the entire gamut of the Big B's movies and analysed it threadbare, one is at a loss to understand the boundaries of histrionics the Man can cover... so the focus tends to move from what he has done to what he could have!

So, to stretch the limits of imagination a bit, here are ten movies I would love see Him in. Some of which are remakes of classics, some are sequels and some are stories/characters which are justified only by the One and Only!

1. One wish that Ram Gopal Verma is turning into a reality very soon is to see Amitabh play the Godfather. The brooding yet fiery looks, the drooping yet imposing frame, the gravely yet clear voice are all stuff AB can carry of with a whole lot of panache - and out-Brando Marlon Brando himself! So, will we see Sunny Deol play his elder son - and Shah Rukh as Michael Corleone?

2. Somebody with stature and character beyond the silver screen is essential to play the role of morally (and physically!) upright lawyer Atticus Finch in a Hindi remake of To Kill a Mockingbird. Will Govind Nihalini take up the director's mantle to transfer the Black-man-accused-of-raping-white-woman-in-Southern-town to a Hindu-Muslim scenario in small town India? And will Irfan Khan lend his intensity to play the accused?

3. A guest appearance, more for symbolic reasons, is required to essay the role of God in a Hindi remake of Bruce Almighty - where Saif Ali Khan, with his new-found comic brilliance, can play the title role! The perfect timing and the understated divinity are the perfect accessories to play Him!
Just the right kind of urbane comedy to set the multiplexes on fire!

4. Who else can play an ageing thief in an Indian twist to "Entrapment"... and be like a guy who would make a woman half his age fall madly in love with him? Who else looks to be supremely intelligent and can carry off the subtle humour as well as he does? Will Sushmita Sen play the investigator, who is slowly drawn to the magnetic charms of the 60-year old con?

5. Economics have to work out on a global scale to make a film on the making of the Taj Mahal and the breaking of the emperor that followed... An ageing Shah Jahan can only be played by the Man, as he romances Mumtaz (Rekha... one last time, please!) with style which probably ended with the Mughals. The passion that went into the making of the marble monument, the pain on the death of his beloved and the gradual slide into depression in the shadow of the Taj... each of these needs an actor of the stature and calibre of the Aakhri Mughal.

6. And in between all the intensity, he can take a short break into comedy to play the "Father of the Bride" – especially in India, where marriages hold greater poignancy for the father and the daughter. Freshly minted star Amrita Rao can bring home Zayed Khan to show her dad and mom (Jaya?)... I am sure we can fit in some interesting cameos for Satish Shah and Aruna Irani as the guy's parents!

7. If the numero uno person of the country has to be portrayed on screen, then it should have the Man – in an unabashedly unrealistic love story – playing the Prime Minister of India in love with the Ambassador of Pakistan. All in the middle of escalating tension at the LoC. Sharmila Tagore can be the ethereally beautiful Pakistani begum – and the story will be ripe for a string of Silsila-esque ghazals laden with shairis rendered in the baritone. Rumblings in his own party, strident protests from the Opposition, accusations of treason should all culminate into a cent-per-cent filmi milan at the Wagah border.

8. An age-old story – which could do with a modern twist – is Aladin!
Imagine AB as the Genie, with exaggerated (and somewhat, impish!) charm – bowing to the wishes of a hapless Aladin! Aladin could transform from the little boy in Baghdad to a ‘tapori’ in Bombay – with more than his fair share of demands! Keeping with ‘connected’ times, the Lamp can be replaced by a special mobile – which calls in the friendly Genie! Make up your twists and turns, add yet another Genie (good Genie if you want a double role!), don’t miss out on the rich-girl-poor-boy cliché – and you have a perfectly feel-good, completely unreal modern-day fairy tale!

9. The lovable rogues of Do Aur Do Paanch make a comeback… Freshly out of jail, they are on their way to their children’s wedding (yes, Amitabh’s son is getting married to Shashi’s daughter!) and have just made a solemn oath to their respective wives of never breaking the law again! And no, their frictions have not reduced at all…
But complications arise – kidnaps/ransoms/what-have-you – and the two geriatric cons get their master keys out for yet another heist – their very last… and hopefully, this time is really the last!

10. An actor in the twilight of his career. The arrogance of having been the emperor once upon a time. The desperation of seeing it all slip away. The frustration of seeing midgets occupying centre-stage. The guilt of ignoring his family. The pain of them now ignoring him. The contempt for his contemporaries compromising to do character roles. The obsession of trying to get a final hurrah before the curtain falls. And the quest for a group of people who would be ready to gamble on this old war-horse…
Sepia-tinted flashbacks of his swashbuckling movies interposed with garish colour of today’s sets will form the backdrop of a movie depicting the efforts of a yesteryear’s superstar trying for that final role, that final movie which will catapult him into immortality.

Sigh… The possibilities are endless.
To slightly misquote Sunset Boulevard, “He is just as big… It’s the movies that got smaller…”

Patna Diary (c. 2001)

The visions of Laloo and Rabri effectively scotch the notions of a ‘connected’ Bihar. Though there is little to choose between Patna and Hyderabad in terms of the number of cybercafes per square kilometre (at least in the prime business districts).
One sees heavy poster advertising of a site called, which provides the ‘important questions’ of the forthcoming Board Examinations! Contrary to popular belief, the site supplies no information on the subtle art of ‘hall collection’!
And of course, there are Bihari malapropisms (intended or otherwise)… as the kiosk on the outskirts of Muzaffarpur claimed “Net suffering (sic) – Rs 40 per hour”.

Contradictions abound in the city of Patna. With the posh areas sporting a splash of colours with all major international brands making a glowing appearance – Adidas, Nike, Benetton, Smirnoff rubbing shoulders with Louis Phillipe, Bata and Titan. No signs of the poorest state of India there.
In a plush shopping complex on Exhibition Road, two adjacent shops sport the following signages: “Archies Gallery… Home Delivery of Flowers arranged” and “Ujjain Arms: Bandook ki Dukan, Bikri aur marammat”.

A place on the outskirts of Patna threw up an interesting twist to the tale.
I was trying to convince a retailer about the latent demand of our new brand of soap – by playing the ultimate trump card of popularity of the times.
“It is being advertised on all episodes of KBC” – I said.
“But nobody watches KBC here”, he calmly countered.
Seeing the look of incredulity on my face, he explained, “Star is a pay channel, you see… while you can get Zee for free.”
Here was a town that time forgot… so did the television ratings people.

The Whacky team at Channel V have come up with a Colossal Chaos Countdown, where they show the best of bathing scenes, death speeches and so on – from Hindi films. Maybe they should have a section on Biharis depicted by Bollywood. Institutionalised by Shatrughan Sinha, Biharis are fast overtaking Tamils as the most-caricatured race in Hindi cinema. The pronounced accent, the distinctive dialect, the emphasis on the last syllable all contribute to it being an easy prey. All the more so after Shekhar Suman made the art of Laloo-mimicry into a national pastime.
The doyens of Hindi film comic villainy – Paresh Rawal, Mohan Joshi, Sayaji Shinde et al – have played the dirty Bihari politician (often the Chief Minister!) to perfection. Latest industry reports say that a forthcoming film is slated to star Karisma Kapoor as Rabri!

But Biharis have really contributed to the growth and development of the nation – or so they claim. The Finance Minister is a Bihari – as is the Telecom Minister, now infamous for his sops to the world and its cousin!
The most happening actor since dear Shatru-bhaiyya is Manoj Bajpai – who makes no bones about hailing from Bettiah (or is it Motihari?). In fact, he lugged along the entire unit of ‘Shool’ to these places – just to get the authentic feel in the film. As a result, people of Bettiah still talk about the glorious morning when they saw Raveena Tandon step out of Hotel Shanti International. The real connoisseurs can even remember the exact shade of her blue jeans!
There are Biharis all over the place, just waiting to crawl out of the woodworks! Their all-pervasiveness becomes apparent when the self-appointed spokesman of the state (Shekhar Suman of Kadamkuan, Patna) points out the rather obvious thing… even Emperor Ashoka was a Bihari!
To the oft-quoted theorem, “Sardars and potatoes are found everywhere” – a Patna wag adds a rejoinder. He says, “Biharis are like salt. Can never spot them. Too little is tasteless. Too much is unbearable.”

Despite all the ignominy and calamity heaped on it, Bihar continues to survive. Like the proverbial cockroach, which has survived aeons without showing the slightest signs of evolution. And it has adjusted itself gloriously to the challenges put to it – most of it by its own rulers!
As an apocryphal story goes, Bihar is the only place on the face of the earth where you get change from robbers. As narrated by a friend, the protagonist got accosted near Mahendru Ghat in Patna. The attacking team (with the proper display of firearms) procured the rings, watch and wallet from him. When about to leave, the protagonist tearfully claimed that he was left with no money to reach home and begged for a return of part of the booty. When it transpired that the minimum denomination of cash in the wallet was a 50-rupee note, one of the attackers pulled out a tenner and pressed it into the victim’s hand.
And true to Darwin’s theory, Bihar has developed defence mechanisms that help it tide over its perennial litany of woes. One is initially taken back when one sees an abnormal number of underwear and sandal hawkers in and around railway stations in Bihar. Then, one is told that given the huge number of thefts/robberies on trains, a correspondingly huge number of passengers are stranded without any belongings. So the first things they have to buy are – you guessed right – a change of undies and hawaii slippers. Elementary, my dear Watson-wa!

Too many things in and around Patna bear the epithet of being Asia’s largest/biggest/best.
The Mahatma Gandhi Bridge across the Ganga is said to be Asia’s longest river-bridge. The Kankarbagh Colony is said to be Asia’s largest residential colony. The Marufganj area near Patna City is said to be Asia’s largest ‘galla’ (money-lending, food-grains etc) market. So on and so forth.
One wonders why people here stop at Asia. Given the strength of numbers this continent has, there is very little chance that Asia’s largest residential colony would not be the world’s largest.
This becomes particularly funny when one hears claims that Patna has the highest number of cycle-rickshaws in Asia. With the only other competitor being probably Saigon, Patna’s satisfaction at being only “Asia’s biggest” sounds rather ambition-less. As if the city is afraid of taking on the world at one go!
PS: The latest such label off the blocks is – Patna is Asia’s only city without a red-light district.

Having ended, when I set out to correct the spelling mistakes dutifully pointed out by the red squiggles under the words, I realise that Microsoft Word insists that I change Bihar to Bizarre.