Only Malayalees have humour sense.

Tourism. Banana chips. "Chaya, chaya". Soft porn. 'Gelf'. Bakeries. Toddy. Colourful lungis. Coconut oil. Sing song accents. Unions. Comrades.

There are a lot of things that are very typically Mallu.

"Know why Kerala is 100% literate? All the illiterates are in the Gulf."

"Humour sense? Endhu parayannu saarey?"

Bangalore Travels

I landed in Bangalore last weekend but I didn't go much further than that. I tried to venture out in the approximate direction of some of my favourite eating places, but auto drivers were disdainful of requests towards MG Road. One chap was kind enough to explain why.

You see there's this Metro Rail thingie that's been in the works for a while (apparently to ease traffic woes in the city). It's finally on its way now, and the road has been dug up from one end to the other to lay the tracks. Leaving very little road for the city's vehicles to conduct their business on.

As if that wasn't traffic jam enough, a few blokes from the BJP decided to put their shoulders to the wheel. They had occupied a portion of the road near the Mahatma Gandhi statue to stage a protest against President's rule in the state. Incidentally, the man who desperately wants to be the next Chief Minister of Karnataka was at the centre of this piece of action.

A friend who returned to the city after 4 years abroad had only a couple of words to say. "Bangalore sucks". Well if you look on the right streets at the wrong times, that's very possible too. Cheers.

You miss, I hit.

I love cricket. Played serious tennis ball cricket for 15 years. Stopped when the demands of professional life knocked the middle stump out of my morning practices and weekend games. But I'm not out yet.

I still manage to catch the odd game with colleagues on weekends. I still manage to follow every ball that's bowled to and by the Indian team. And I still manage to sound fairly knowledgable when I talk about the game.

So I decided to start a cricket blog. My take on what's happening within and outside the circle. It's called You miss, I hit.

And yes, I've often wished I could be a cricket writer. So that takes care of that.

The next episode

From my many calls, I’d arrived without much joy at the conclusion that big agencies only wanted people with experience. Given that, I figured that smaller agencies couldn’t afford them. This insight formed the basis of Strategy Next.

Out came the telephone directory again, and into it I went. When I surfaced, it was with a list of local agencies. Indian shops which had no MNC hang ups. And no secretaries to Creative Directors, I hoped.

The rounds started again. This time I took the bus routes. Not unexpectedly, both my journeys and my money lasted longer.

One room agencies. Two room agencies. Agencies that ran from home. Agencies that ran from a garage. Full-time agencies. Part-time agencies. I saw them all. But no sign of a job.

Also missing around this time was a social life. I didn’t expect friends to pick up the tab all the time, so I stopped picking up the phone. Incoming was free alright, but I simply couldn’t afford to go out.

It was tough and getting tougher by the day.

Here I was, having spent 4 years at engineering college and a lot of my parents' money in doing so, trying to become a copywriter; while the whole world and their young sons and daughters were writing code, and making big bucks.

Harikrishnan went to the US and became Harry, and incidentally filthy rich as well.

Murugan became Morgan.

Thomaskutty from Kottayam became Tom from Connecticut.

Sindhoori became Mrs. Owens, Mrs. Cindy Owens.

And society became an unbearable place.

The IT brigade had their noses in the air, and an American accent even before a visa interview date was confirmed by the consulate. And when the tickets did arrive, they’d turn up at home with their parents to say goodbye. And of course, to rub it in.

“My son is going to Looosiana”, said our Malayalee neighbour, when I told her I was going to Indiranagar for a job interview.

Such were the nightmares that became my bedtime companions. I wondered many a time if I’d done the right thing, and even convinced myself that I hadn’t. But I couldn’t turn back. Too many bridges had been burnt, and my pride wouldn’t allow a return trip.

My parents were disappointed. But to my good fortune, at some point, they put their frustration aside, and chose to give my advertising hopes a chance. They started asking around. Looking for the elusive contact that might be able to give their boy a break.

It worked.

On October 1, 1996, I had an appointment to meet Mr. K.K. Mathew, the Managing Director of Disha Communications, Bangalore.

Cut for a short commercial break

I pause here to catch my breath. And while those mesmerizing 30-seconders play, let me take you to a far more interesting place. The mess I was in.

It was six months since I had decided to become a copywriter, and I hadn’t got a word in yet. I’d quit the agency that wasn’t, to spend my time looking for an agency that was one.

And that was all I was doing. Day after day. Week after week.

While time wasn’t the scarcest commodity on my hands, it was fast catching up with money, which was. And as I watched the beer dry up, I arrived at the conclusion that necessity was nothing but an ill tempered spinster.

It was depressing. The ‘I told you so’ voices were gaining momentum once again. Plans like climbing a drain pipe into a creative director’s cabin did creep into my mind, but came slithering down when I tried to imagine the physical probability of such an endeavor. You see, I’ve always been a growing boy. A process that happened vertically till the age of 18, and continued happily thereafter with a 90 degree change in direction. So my enthusiasm at challenging gravity with the aid of a drain pipe could at best be called a deafening silence. (I shudder to think of having to call this story BE to CU).

And one day as I sat in the company of the last beer I could afford in the near future, I got my first advertising idea.

The Great Barrier Grief (Contd.)

I introduced him my life situation, and explained how important to my survival it was to exchange words with the Creative Director. I was of course a lot more eloquent than I am in this description, but it really didn’t matter. The Creative Director was out for a meeting. I thanked the secretary and promised to call again.

24 hours later, I dialed again. This time was different. He was out to lunch. I looked at my watch. 3 pm. Hmmmm… this must be the time creative people eat lunch. I made a note to make this important change to my schedule. I wondered if it deserved mention on my resume. Would that give me an edge?

Okay, thank you. I’ll call again, I told the secretary.

I called.

He’s out on a shoot.

So I called again.

He’s out of town.

And again.

He’s out to meet a client.

And again.

He’s out of his mind.

That wasn’t Mr. Secy. That was me. I’d had enough. So I called the next agency on my list. And then the next. On it went this way, till I realized that the Great Barrier Grief had its slimy tentacles across the entire coast of advertising.

The Great Barrier Grief

The next volume I paid my respects to, in my efforts to further my advertsing career was the Bangalore telephone directory. In an hour I had a list of names and numbers of considerable length, which recommended very strongly a trip to a public telephone booth. Ogilvy, Lintas, McCann, Chaitra, Contract, Mudra, Ulka, Enterprise, Trikaya Grey… So right foot first, I ventured forth flexing my fingers in preparation for the task at hand.

I dialed. Precious seconds were consumed as a recorded voice whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I waited for the operator, ignoring the strain on my wallet. The list of agencies that I planned to call was starting to get shorter. And then she spoke.

“Ogilvy and Mather. Good morning”.

I prayed it would be.

“May I speak to the Creative Director please?”

“Who’s calling?” she asked sweetly.

An ‘duh’ silence followed while I pondered over the magnetic properties of my handle. I held my hand over the receiver and said it aloud. Manoj Jacob. And very quickly arrived at the conclusion that it was hardly likely to cut even the smallest portion of ice. So I started measuring my options.

A) A nondescript Malayalee with a nondescript name.
B) Aspiring copywriter. (I would have liked to try ‘perspiring’, but I wasn’t sure the receptionist would get it. And if she didn’t, neither would I.)
C) I’m the guy who’s going to make it Ogilvy, Mather and Jacob.
D) I’m good with words you see. I failed in every subject but English.
E) Manoj Jacob.

I picked E.

“Calling from?”

A) Oh I’m not calling from anywhere, but I’d like to have someplace to call from, and that’s why I’m calling.
B) A telephone booth.

“Jayanagar”, I said.

“Please hold on.”

I didn’t just hold on. I hung on for dear life. The call was transferred. And on the phone came the Creative Director’s secretary.

Or as I was to discover, the Great Barrier Grief.