Moi

Five things you could say to people right now:
1. Love is the answer. I don’t have the question.
2. Dear Santa, I want:
a) a bungee jumping cord that won’t break b) a metabolism that doesn’t give away my habits
c) someone to seriously take politicians (in power and the ones in corporate houses and around us) to task
d) a buoyant economy when we pass out
e) to be able to be you someday in some measure

3. Listen. Open the door. Walk on the outer side of the kerb. Speak softly. Say ‘thank you’. Pass the salt.

4. Wait.

5. If we all liked each other equally, I’d be dead by now.

6. How about a ‘thank you’? Not a lunch, beer, or a DVD or some such perishable. Just a thank you, you piece of shit?

5 ways to win your heart:
1. Keep me interested. Write a book I won’t forget or make a meal I’ll talk about.

2. Prove to me that the product of beauty and brains is not a constant.
3. Improvise. Surprise. And be game for a mutual turn.
4. Respect is non-negotiable two-way traffic.
5. Be around when I’m close to the ground.

Seven things that cross your mind a lot

1. It could have been better.

2. It could have been worse.

3. Every man is an island.

4. How do they do it? How are they like that?

5. Why wasn’t I born in the forties (so I could be in my twenties when Woodstock 69 happened) Why am I not Jack Nicholson?
6. The possibilities in five years.
7. 9 to 5 isn’t it.

Four turn-ons.
Depth, words, beauty, intellect.

Three things you want to do before you die:

1. See the world, make the world see me.
2. Be of some good to very many.
3. Live life many times over and have the power not to let it affect me.

One confession:

Drinks don't affect me, so ot's never coming. Haha

pre-ISB etchings

I could never imagine I’d ever stop loving writing.
Flashback seven years back, if you will, and I can see myself, 22, a bit on the heavier side, (not the ‘lazy-flabby’ heavy sorts but the heaviness that comes with days of an office-hotel regime and bad but inexpensive permutations of chicken sagwala-butterchicken-chicken lazeez-chicken dopiazza-i don’t-care-as-long-as-its-chicken at inexpensive eateries. 22, with a 7feet by 5 feet plywood girdled apology of a hotel room at Crawford Market, Mumbai, where for a month, assaulted by smelly farts from the loudmouth salesman in the next room, I almost contemplated going back home to Kolkata.
But then, mercifully, I discovered the Gateway of India and Marine Drive. 11 pm sharp, everyday, armed with my pack of Wills Navy Cuts, I’d lean against the metal board at the Gateway that reads ‘Mumbai’ and smoke my mandatory two ciggies. Watch the waves lap the stony banks, watch tongawallahs throatily haggle the day’s last ride and champi wallahs clink their glassy wares. On occasion, get a lucky glimpse of Gautam Singhania escorting stilletoed angels on his speedboat for a party on his private yatch. Ah, well, someday maybe. Maybe never, but there’re no taxes on dreaming.
For six years, I wrote, re-wrote and saw on billboards and dailies, the adverts that validated my existence as a copywriter. Advertising award books, blessed with the brilliance of greats such as Bill Bernbach, David Ogilvy, John Hegarty, Saatchi, Burnett, David Droga, Marcello Serpa, and lesser-known but equally competent men and women from South America, Singapore, London and Thailand, crippled my bookshelves with their weight. But that was then.
Then came the crutches of the inept – ‘hinglish’ to begin with. I scoured the papers for a single decently written ad, my search coming to nought. Hinglish, opiate of the masses (What your bahana is) while a fantastic tool, became a damning formula. Writers stopped reading. Clients stopped listening. Popular phrases that made a mockery of all things noble include: ‘Make the logo bigger.’ ‘Gimme a direct headline’, ‘How about so-and-so star? His going rate’s cheap.’ I Wonder whatever happened to clean, entertaining, well thought-out ads. Craft became secondary, scoring with the new servicing trainee or where the weekend party would be at, took over. Before I’m misunderstood: I too love nursing a tall drink in good company, I love boogeying just as much as any man who makes an honest living, I’m all for a good time, but good work is essential before the beer tastes like beer. I couldn’t think of a single adman I could look up to, and the ones I worshipped had chosen voluntary isolation.
I couldn’t imagine I’d lose my love for writing, but there, creativity by consensus mothered my dreams. So be it. I could do better.
An industry shift seemed a clear way out. Wait, an industry shift where I could leverage my prior experience. Voila, the magic 3-letter word. So this year I applied to the ISB. Slaved over the essays, and Zumba notwithstanding, got the interview call. To cut the long story short, the interview went well, all of its 21 minutes, and I finally got the ‘yes’ that seemed sweeter than a beloved’s. I still love advertising – you only have to youtube ‘Citreon’, ‘Nike’, ‘Ikea dog’, ‘Johnnie Walker Android’, ‘Skittles’ or ‘Halo 3’ to know what I’m talking about. But till the time I meet someone who can actually pull off these gems, I’d rather take charge from the other end of the table.
And now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, there’s this chicken reshmi kebab that requires my urgent attention.