Chapter 8: Business Edge

Anita welcomed the new day by returning to her characteristic pleasantness.
“Can you ask Ramu to make me a cup of tea?” I requested her.
“Sure, darling” she said, “You stay right there.”
Watching her walk into the kitchen, I stretched my legs out and placed them on the glass table in front. This is what a home should be like. A caring wife and a nice cup of Ramu’s tea. Anita was always nicer the morning after a big argument.
Anita came back and sat next to me on the sofa and began to run her fingers through my hair. I pecked her arm as she cuddled even closer. Last night’s conflict was now remembered as a mere miscommunication.
“Feeling better today, baby?” she whispered.
“Oh yes, yes, much better.”
“Really..? So you want to talk about last night?”
God no, I didn’t.
But I talked. “I was just frustrated, you know? I took all my anger out on you. I’m sorry about that, Princess…”
She squeezed my hand tightly, and then softly ran her index finger around mine. “It’s okay, darling. Go on, you can tell me what was on your mind.”
I hesitated at first. Telling someone what was on your mind immediately gave your thoughts undue importance and legitimacy. When you think something, you can later convince yourself otherwise if you wished so. But when you tell it to someone, you’re unfortunately obliged to act on in.
Normally, I would’ve just swept away such frustrations and dealt with them only when they got out of hand. But I was a little hung-over and heavy-headed from last night, and Anita was sitting close enough to sniff out any reluctance in my story.
“Those guys,” I said, “It was fun going out with them again… But I don’t think I can do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Be out with them. They are so… middle class,” the contempt in my voice surprised me, “The longer I stay with them, the more they will keep me from rising above. The same old bars, the same old dhabas, the same old drives listening to the same old music. They have no ambition, you know?”
She didn’t answer, and instead, began to hum an upbeat tune.
“I don’t want to be stuck like them, Anita,” I turned to her, “I don’t want to be sitting in a small shop like Shubham all my life. I don’t want to drink away my problems like Rakesh.” When her body language didn’t suggest a response to my growing irritation, I shrugged her arm off me and stood up, “I have to be better, you know?” I shouted, “I have to make something of my life.”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, Azad,” she raised her voice.
“I wasn’t raising my voice at you. I was just raising it to myself, and you happened to be around.”
Neither of us had the energy for another argument. “Your friends,” she scoffed disgustedly at the ‘f’ word, “I always told you they were good for nothing, didn’t I? What happened last night?”
“Oh,” it was all coming back to me now. But if I told her that a dead dog was going to change the direction of my life again, she was bound to go pseudo-psycho on me, “Nothing major,” I said, “It’s just time for me to move forward, instead of hopping around in the same place with them.”
They’re dogs, and I have become one too. If only I had actually gained something from college! I could have left behind a legacy – Instead, I’m probably going to be lying dead next to them and that dog in Sonarpura.
Ramu walked in the living room carrying a cup of tea. I held on to it and sat silently while watching Anita play with her hair. I took a sip.
Aaaah! Ramu, you are a hero. My head immediately felt lighter. I had another sip.
“I have time,” I told her, “I still have time. Business is going to boom, Anita. The channel is doing okay, but it will be better. Just watch.”
“You’ve been saying that for months, Azad. You have always been hungry for more success. How is it any different today?”
By now I was only speaking to myself, lost in my thoughts and fuelled by my beverage, “You just watch…” I mumbled.

I went over the list again. The other local channels still held a massive advantage in audiences and advertisers.
“They have just been around longer, sir,” said Arora, “Give it seven, eight years, and BTV will have the same success.”
“Yes, but then they will improve too, Arora,” I countered, “By then, they will still be miles ahead of us. We have to take some risks. I can’t keep lagging behind City Buzz and Kashi Now forever.” No amount of entertainment quality was a match for good old brand building. And those other channels had been around for long enough to get a response without even trying hard anymore.
“Oh, sir, did you watch that new fashion programme they have on City Buzz,” Arora jumped, “It was great sir, so many lovely looking ladies are on it.”
“Arora: shut up.” It was late and I shouldn’t even be here at the office. And if I am, I’m certainly not going to waste my time listening to him babble on. “We have to take some serious steps. I don’t want to end up like Channel 19. They have zero advertisers. We need a viewer puller…”
“Sir, but that fashion programme was really good. I’m sure many people watched it.”
This was the problem with brainstorming with Arora. His brain didn’t storm – it was more like an orgy between a hurricane, a cyclone, and a blizzard. He flies around in 360 different directions in seconds and never really gets anywhere.
But it had to be Arora. I didn’t want to admit to the rest of the staff of my insecurities yet. If you don’t show your weakness, you don’t have a weakness – that was Ackmann’s third step.
I don’t have a weakness. I don’t have a weakness.
“How about… ” I scribbled half-shaded circles on the piece of paper in front of me, “… How about we start movie exit polls? We put a cameraman outside cinemas, after every new movie’s first show, and then ask for viewers to rate it on camera right after it finishes. People would tune in to watch that… right?”
“Sir, I still think more people will want to watch the fashion programme on City Buzz?”
“What the f…” I caught my tongue before any other sounds followed the ‘f’, “Wait, wait wait…” I got up and snapped my fingers together.
“Sir?” he asked; but by then I was already away into a different televisual dimension.
“Fashion!”
Arora rubbed his eyes, “Are you planning to do fashion programmes on BTV, too?”
“Sex!”
“What?”
“Adult themes, Arora!” I could barely stop myself from lifting off my feet, “People like adult themes! Just replace the midnight horoscope shows with uncensored movies. I have tons of them. With adult themes!”
“But sir, what about the children? What if they watch it?”
“Fuck the children!” I swore. Shit – I’m glad Anita didn’t hear that.
“What?”
“No, no,” I slowed down, “I mean, let the children watch. They will hide from their parents and watch. That’s what I always did.”
This was a good idea. It was a great idea. Ackmann was going to be proud of me. Deepu Chachu wouldn’t. He would frown at my immorality; but last I checked, he never wrote a bestseller, did he? Well, Ackmann did – and he always preached the fine art of turning a questionable situation into a successful one.

And so we got to it. I started off offending people slowly, of course. We couldn’t just have them switch on one day into a world without probity, where all they see is a bunch of children being tortured at concentration camps. This had to be done slowly: I kept my films at the store room at home instead of at work, simply so my employees could fight off the temptation to show my collection of questionable cinema constantly.
We started off with intense frights. The least objectionable of all objectionable content. The films began to have surprising, flashing, temerarious, horrific, or overly dramatic content. Some of the Hindi movies had dramatized rape scenes, where you didn’t really see more than the woman’s feet struggling below the man. But it was still enough to give any child a mildly disturbing idea of what was going on, and that was an appropriate start.
A month later, I showed a movie where the villain said ‘bullshit’ a lot. And then, the foul language train choo-chooed in. It was an easy transition, because nobody but Anita got truly worked up over foul language. And for as long as I wasn’t cursing in front of her, she didn’t really mind if a gun-slinging hero called someone an asshole.
Next was the tricky bit – clear, visible violence. So far, the only type of violence I had shown was Bollywood violence, which meant loads of punches with loud sound effects or guns going off and accurately killing minor characters without any actual bloodshed. I was itching to introduce some realistic gore to our impressionable youth.
It had to be done. There had been good response to the foul language, and I knew that violence would just blow the ratings out the window. The first time I showed Rambo, throngs of people tuned in to watch. So for Rambo II, I had twice as many advertisers for the 10 o’ clock movie slot.
It’s a funny thing in life, because when things are good, they are fantastic. I obviously had no time to slow down and enjoy this fantasticness, but my euphoric energy at work told me that I was probably really happy. My ego was back after being ruthlessly snatched away by marital bliss.
“You’re looking bright today, sir,” said Atty one day.
I began to take compliments when they weren’t exactly given. Atty’s young, politely friendly eyes were a daily morale boost to the apparent return of my sexiness.
And the money kept on pouring in. Every month was a ‘highest ever’ in terms of profit. Arora, for his part, was brilliant. When he wasn’t talking about the latest brand of scooters or the future of Indian cinema, he was busy keeping me efficient. And more money poured in.
I was living proof that there was definitely no worldwide conspiracy against left-handedness. The American president is left-handed. So is Amitabh Bachan. As a matter of fact, I was beginning to believe that us lefties secretly ran the world.
Then one day, Rakesh called, months after I had last seen him or partied with the rest of my friends.
“Azad!” he exclaimed, “Saley, where the hell have you been?”
“Oh, Rakesh, hi, man,” I immediately regretted not sounding busier.
“Hey just been watching the channel, yaar! You are finally showing your movies, eh?”
I was suddenly too lazy to broach about my success. “Yes, yes, it has been good. Been very busy also.”
“Okay, okay, sounds good. Are you coming over tonight? Long time, friend; need to catch up over a few pegs,” he sounded drunk already, “What do you say?”
Ackman’s rule number seven: If your friend comes between you and victory, then your friend is the enemy. I had an answer ready. “No, no, I’m busy tonight Rakesh. Need to meet some advertisers.”
“At night?”
“Yes, at night. Hey listen, Rakesh, I will call you when I get free okay? We’ll catch up then.”
I hung up and sighed. This was the right move. There is only one way to go, and that is forward. A few days later, Shubham called, and then Rakesh a few more times, but I was never there. Soon enough, they stopped pestering me with their comity.
By then, the next step had arrived: drugs! No matter how graphically disturbing, I was sure everyone loved movies about drug overindulgence, because nearly every single one of those movies ended up showing the downfall of the drug user. Translated to Banarasi viewership: young men liked watching these movies because the drug users always taught them what was cool, and cautious mothers secretly liked these movies because it showed their young children how bad drugs can be. Everybody wins, sort of.
The response to movies with heavy drugs and heavier violence was like a rush of its own. I was being taken to ecstatic heights even while sober. The number of questionable movies increased from twice a week, to four times, to every single night. The channel had by now reached a disguised icon – most people never admitted to watch it, and most tuned in before bed every day. If I showed a normal, family movie on one day, then the office phones would be ringing off the hook with anonymous complaints the next. The entire city was addicted.
And the office became friendlier too. The afternoon show writers finally began to answer my questions. The guard’s salary went up, so he stood up and saluted me every time I walked in. Atty’s v-neck shirts began to have a wider ‘v’.
“Oh, I’m tired,” I grounded myself opposite her at the reception after work one day.
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t looking well that day, although her chest still was.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no, nothing sir,” she replied in soft, meek voice which confirmed that something was definitely wrong. She stood up and began to gather her belongings in her little purse.
“No, tell me Atty,” I tried to sound patient, “What is it?”
Atty left her purse and sat back down. “Papa got a call from a man who said he worked for Rajju Bhai...”
“Really?” The real Rajju Bhai? I thought. It can’t be – he was a myth. The only people who ever got calls from Rajju Bhai were other criminals, politicians, or the super-rich. I honestly knew as little about him as I did about Yeti. But the one thing I knew about the both of them was to stay the fuck out of their respective ways.
She gulped, “Yes, the real Rajju Bhai. Someone called saying they worked for him...”
“They could just be saying that…”
“… And they threatened Papa… ” she added.
This didn’t make any sense. What interest could this mythical mafia lord have in Atty’s father?
She continued, “That man – the one who called Papa – came to the bank the other day. Papa must have been busy, so he ignored him and the man had to wait for some time before being served. They began arguing, and the man was thrown out… Only when he called the next day did Papa find out that he worked for Rajju Bhai. It was very scary, sir. He gave scary threats to Papa… I’m scared, sir.”
This was my cue to creep closer to her, in hope that she would choose my shoulder to cry on.
“Don’t worry, Atty,” I nudged her arm, “Nothing is going to happen. You know how people are? That man in the bank probably met Rajju Bhai one time, and now goes around bossing people around with threats about the entire mafia. Don’t worry…”
She sniffed, “I don’t know… I hope you’re right, sir…”
Of course I’m right. I had to be. “I’m not even sure if Rajju Bhai actually exists,” I said.
But he did. In the days that followed, I began to hear his name spring up more and more often. Rumours about him began to circulate around town and around my head. Some nights before sleep, all I could hear were echoes of people dishing out Rajju Bhai forewarnings.
“I heard that they once built a VVIP cell for him in the central jail,” said Prabhu the office electrician, “He was provided with an A/C, a refrigerator, and a CD player. I don’t know if he got to keep it, though…”
“Oh, he got to keep it,” added Dubey, the office computer programmer, “He was only in jail for a week, and he took home the A/C, the refrigerator, the CD player, and the television...”
Atty’s father irrupted into the conversation, “He’s above the law, that man. Do you know that his wife is stolen?”
“What?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Dubey, “Everyone has heard that story. He liked this farm girl, so he rode in her village in his jeep one day, and took her away at gunpoint. Her father and brothers didn’t hear from her weeks, and the police never looked for her either. Then, a month later, they were all invited to Rajju Bhai’s and her wedding.
“I heard someone was murdered at that wedding,” said Atty’s father.
“No, no,” Arora corrected him, “That was at his first wedding. Rajju Bhai’s first fiancé was murdered. I don’t think he liked her too much.”
I didn’t like these supererogatory stories and didn’t wish to believe in any of them. I had other plans brewing in my head, such as breaking the final and most important censorship barrier: sex!
Nothing sells like sex. It was a scientifically and historically proven fact. Everywhere in the world was better with bigger breasts and longer legs.
So far, my uncensored telecasts had gone unnoticed by the eyes of the authorities. And even if they did see it, a few harmless murders or drug kingpins didn’t seem to bother them. But sex definitely would, so I had to tread carefully. Just a few slips here and there at first – a nipple here, an ass there. Only then did I plan to move on to movies with full fledged sex scenes.
“You are showing porn, Azad!” Anita smacked me with a pillow. I used to love it when she did that, but it had become less adorable and more annoying by the day.
“It’s not porn,” I grabbed the pillow and threw it off the bed, “It’s adult entertainment, Anita. Nobody associates Hugh Hefner with porn, do they?”
“Yes they do!” she screamed, “Is that your role model? Hugh Hefner?”
I got up and stormed out. We slept on different beds that night: Lying in the guest room, I realized that it was the first time it had happened in our marriage. That very night I dreamt that Rajju Bhai was setting fire to my office. Even though I had never seen him, I had a surprisingly good image of him in my dream, although I couldn’t recall it the next morning. That dream soon morphed into me sitting in the office with Atty, who was sobbing delightfully and serving me a cup of tea. It was unbelievably realistic, except that her jeans were much tighter and her waist much slimmer than in real life.
I woke up with a mixture of guilt and fear. Guilt that I had near-erotic dream about another woman, and fear that my workplace may be in danger. When I got over those silly feelings a cup of tea later, I got back to work and remembered that I was now rich.
Money! Like everything that we crave for, it has a unique relationship with the human psyche. Before I had a lot of money, I felt that the only sole purpose in my life was simply to earn more. But ever since I grew rich, I had convinced myself that it really wasn’t that important after all.
Very much like Anita, actually. Before I got her, my entire existence revolved simply around her noticing me. I used to dream that she would touch me or that I could take her holidaying to the palm beaches in Kerela. Now that she’s married me, her love and cuddles are an expectation instead of a luxury.
Success was supposed to keep her happier, but she was happy only when she saw the fruits of my success, not its seeds. She continued to fight me out the bedroom every time BTV showed a questionable romantic scene, but she would kiss me passionately when all the shiny new money from the shiny rich advertisers helped me buy her shiny new clothes.
And as if I already didn’t have enough stress balancing Anita’s mood swings, my Atty fantasies, and the demands of keeping my success constant, I got a notice at work one day.
“It’s from the censor board,” said Dubey as he handed it to me, “Someone called Vinay Sahni.”

Sahni. It is hard to describe my reaction for when I first heard from him and the censor board. Imagine if you’re having your favourite dream, a dream so realistic that you become entirely convinced that that particular dream is reality. You smile your way through the five minutes which in your dream feels like an entire month. And then someone pinches you and reminds you that life, with all its brief glimpses of hope, is actually pretty shit. Sahni was that pinch.
“What the fuck do I do now?” I threw the notice at Arora.
“This is really bad sir,” his thoughts blended with mine, “Bad things are happening.”
I wasn’t going to stop. It was cringing to now even think of showing family-friendly movies all day again. Why do that, when there is a whole city of viewers waiting to watch something else?
Nothing else bothered me anymore. I wasn’t worried that I was losing my friendships. I wasn’t worried that I was already losing the passion in my married life. I wasn’t even worried that I was losing my mind.
The world went on, revolving with its peaks and troughs, but I only saw the channel. I didn’t respond to the censor board’s warning, but I couldn’t let it go off my mind either.
“Sir, did you hear about what happened in Gujrat?” Arora asked a few days later.
“What happened?”
“You don’t watch the news, sir? Hindus and Muslims are rioting against each other in Gujrat. There have been massacres, sir! Terrible sir, terrible.”
“I don’t care,” I lost my desire to sound warm-blooded, “Let Hindus and Muslims kill each other. My wife is Christian, so that’s what I’m supposed to be. I have the censors to worry about.”
A day later, Deepu Chachu told me that the price of tomato was skyrocketing. Or was it the price of potato? I didn’t bother, because the only thing I had to worry about was the nettlesome price of primetime nudity.

Anita and I had gone out to dinner at a five-star hotel. Because that’s what we did now, since we were rich.
“One note,” I chomped on my Paneer Lababdar, “Just one warning note. And it has messed everything up.”
“I told you,” she said, “But you wouldn’t listen. You never listen, Azad. This is what happens when you do immoral things.”
“I wasn’t being immoral,” I had to check her before she makes it into a bigger deal, “And anyways, it’s not such a big deal. I will just show some cat and mouse family movies for a week, and then slowly re-introduce the cash cow…”
Anita wasn’t eating. I only noticed it after I had finished.
“Now what is wrong with you?” I asked.
“I can’t believe what you’ve become,” she scoffed, “You didn’t come to church on Friday. You’re showing porn, mostly to teenagers…”
“It’s not fucking porn, okay?”
We fell quiet once again. I didn’t really mind Anita’s silent treatment, just as long as it didn’t last too long. But this time, it did.

Bubbles was over the following evening looking plumper than ever. She and Anita spent the entire time gossiping and munching away in the kitchen.
I marched in, still feeding off the adrenaline of another busy day at work. “Oh, Hi Bubbles,” I said, ignoring Anita, who was probably still ignoring me, “You’re only looking a little bigger than I last saw you.”
This was the sure shot way to get Anita speaking again, and she complied, “Don’t you dare talk to my sister like that, you pervert.”
“I’ll talk to whoever I want, however I want, and whenever I want,” I took a circle around the kitchen, reclaiming my kingdom.”
“God, you’re so rude, Azad.”
“Rude? It’s funny – you weren’t worrying about my rudeness when I bought you that cell phone.”
Anita grimaced and turned to her sister, “Just ignore him Bubbles; there is no point in talking to a foul-mouthed ungodly man like him.”
“Foul-mouthed?” I bellowed, “I said ‘fuck’ once yesterday. Once. How about giving me some credit for all that time I actually listened to you and watched my language?”
“There, you just said it again,” she screamed, “Get out of the kitchen Azad.”
“Why don’t you and your fat-ass sister both get the fuck out of my house?”
Oooh. I think I went too far right there. Nevertheless, Anita ushered Bubbles out. Bubbles, who had been quiet throughout, finally sent me a parting shot.
“You are an indecent man, Azad Shanker.”
I closed the door behind them. Decency. People are only as decent as they think they are.

I was working late with Arora when someone knocked at the office door.
“Who could be here right now?” I asked, looking over at Atty’s empty desk, in futile hope that she had forgotten something.
Before I could get up, a group of men let themselves in, adorned in matching white kurtas and carrying matching black machine guns.
“What the fuck?”
Leading them was a bald, moustached, giant of a man, “Azad Shanker?” he asked in an unsurprisingly heavy voice.
Do I want to be me right now? “Yes,” I quivered.
“Good,” he said, before motioning to the men behind him. Two of them stepped forward and grabbed me.
My brain couldn’t put together new sentences, “What the fuck?” it told me to repeat.
“Rajju Bhai has called for you,” he said, “You’re rich now, Shanker. You need his protection.” Then he peeked over at Arora, who was rubbing his nails together nervously. “Take him too.”
Yeti is most definitely real.