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.