Bartending at a battery
company
By Prakash Subbarao
As you may have gathered by
now, I was a management trainee at Chloride India Limited in 1976.
Chloride was a British
Multinational that made the incredible profit of Rs 4 crores on a turnover
of Rs 24 crores in those days. That made it the bluest of blue chip
companies, possibly ahead of most other MNCs of that day.
The then Managing Director of Chloride was Johar Sengupta, widely rated as
a financial wizard. And the Calcutta of the 1970’s ruled the Indian
management roost, being the cynosure of all corporate eyes. Brooke Bond,
ITC, ICI, Union Carbide, Metal Box……………we at Chloride rubbed shoulders
with all of them.
Johar Sengupta (or JS, as he was known in Chloride circles) was a legend.
Picture a tall (maybe around 5 foot 10 ins.) slender man of wheatish
complexion, wearing glasses. He’s clean shaven and looks remarkably
relaxed at all times. He is invariably formally dressed in a suit and tie,
except on Saturdays when he comes to the office in designer jeans. He
speaks with a trace of a British accent mixed with a Bengali one.
Rumour has it that he has never missed a match at Wimbledon.
People whisper that he dislikes Sati Kuckreja, the head of marketing. By
extension, that puts all of us marketing guys in the enemy camp, so to
speak. We are clearly aware of the finance-marketing divide and that the
marketing clout is pretty poor in Chloride. Maybe it’s our karma, we tell
ourselves.
We management trainees go about secure in the knowledge that the great
man does not know that we exist.
This gives us confidence.
If it comes to war we
wouldn’t get shot at; we are ghosts; invisible for the time being. If, in
the distant future, we are thrust up the corporate ladder our ugly mugs
would be duly memorized by the enemy but for the time being all is well.
We are invisible.
Or so we (erroneously) think.
Imagine my great shock when one day I am busy doing my own thing in the
marketing services department when I get a call from his secretary. “JS
wants to see you” she blandly informs me.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t know” she
says.
“When?” I ask.
“Right now” she says.
Panic sets in.
My palms instantly start sweating. I do a quick check list on any goof ups
that I have left exposed. As far as I can recall, I have covered my tracks
quite well and dusted all mishaps and misadventures under the rug. And yet
here is the great JS bypassing protocol………….bypassing my boss’s boss’s
boss’s boss and asking to see me in the flesh. I wonder what he wants, I
think to myself. I get up and head for the big man’s office on the second
floor of Chloride House.
When I get there I see an equally flustered Ashoke Dutt waiting in the
ante room. Ashoke, as you know by now, is also a fellow management
trainee.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“JS wants to see me” he tersely replies. “F*&k! I wonder what I did
wrong!”
I feel exactly the same way.
I tell him that I am in the same boat as he is. It is comforting to know
that one won’t be stood against a wall and shot alone; that one will have
company.
Ten minutes later, with our pulses racing and our hearts in our mouth we
are ushered into the great man’s office. It’s the first time that I have
been there. It’s enormous!
He is sitting a good thirty feet away and I am acutely conscious of his
gaze on us as we walk towards him. Huge plate glass windows give one a
terrific view of Chowringhee and the Calcutta Club opposite but we are in
no mood to enjoy the view.
He is on the phone. Talking in Bengali! My perception of a MD, especially
the MD of an organization as blue chip as Chloride, is one who would be
snooty as hell and talk in clipped British accents and be a hypocrite to
boot. And yet here is JS sitting back and comfortably conversing in
Bengali!
He waves us to a seat and we nervously perch ourselves on the edge wishing
he’d get off that damn phone and shoot us between the eyes post haste. The
wait is worse than death!
Finally after what seems to be eternity he puts the phone down. He looks
at us and smiles. “So how are you boys doing?” he asks. “OK” we mumble.
It’s best to keep all conversation to monosyllables, we reason.
He tries to draw us into conversation but we know that we are part of the
enemy camp, the marketing department. If nothing else, we will keep our
mouths shut and not betray our bosses. That’s our position.
After a few minutes he gives up and we are relieved. He’s getting to the
point.
“My secretary has an assignment for you guys” he says. “Ask her on your
way out”.
“Yes sir!” we say and rush out of his office. It’s a long walk to the door
but we half walk, half run. “Phew!” Ashoke and I say simultaneously after
we are out.
His secretary is looking at us and smiling. “So how did your meeting with
JS go?” she asks, her eyes twinkling? (Mrs. Rozario, a plump fifty plus
matron was his secretary). “Fine” we both mumble.
“JS is throwing a party this evening at his place in Alipur: she tells us.
He will be serving very expensive liquor. He doesn’t want the caterers,
Trinca’s, marrowing (knocking off) the stuff. You understand?”
We nod.
“So he wants the two of you to stand behind the bar and keep an eye on
things – especially the expensive liquor. Can you do that?” she asks.
Ashoke and I look at each other. “Yes ma’am! We can do it” we tell her.
Suddenly we feel lighter. We have had a fresh lease of life. We aren’t to
be exterminated, after all!
That evening at 7 p.m. sharp we are at the MD’s residence. We look at his
place in awe. It’s like a palace! There is a massive gate, which is open.
There’s no moat, but obviously this isn’t a castle.
Lovely lights adorn the gates. Two latest model Chevrolet cars stand in
the drive way. There is a huge lawn, beautifully landscaped. The grapevine
has told us that the MD is divorced but lives with his girlfriend. That’s
why there are two Chevy’s. One for him, one for her, they say. We agree to
look out discretely for the “other lady”. But never set eyes on her.
We ring the bell.
An old fashioned butler opens the door. It’s all very British.
“I will tell Sahib that you are here” he tells us and floats away. We look
around. We are in a hall full of antiques and artifacts. We are amazed; we
are at a loss for words.
The great man comes to see in after about ten minutes. “Hi boys!” he
breezily greets us.
“Good evening, sir!” we say, with fresh enthusiasm. JS is by now an old
friend. I suddenly realize with a start that I have stopped thinking of
him as an enemy.
“Keep an eye on the liquor consumption” he warns us. I am serving Napoleon
VVSOP, Royal Salute and stuff like that and I don’t want the caterers
knocking it off.”
“Yes sir!” we tell him. We almost salute.
Soon the party gets under way. It’s on the lawns. The caterers have set up
camp at one end and created a makeshift bar there. Ashoke and I position
ourselves ten feet behind the bar where our steely gaze will miss nothing.
The “Who’s Who” of Calcutta is there. From Sir Bhaskar Mitter to Mudaliar
of ICI to Desmond Doig of The Statesman. There’s no one of a ranking less
than a managing director or a chairman here, we marvel.
As the party lightens up, Ashoke and I venture to have a drink. I have
always wanted to enjoy a good brandy, so I opt for a Napoleon VVSOP.
Ashoke prefers a whisky so he plonks for a Royal Salute. All the while we
are partaking of the snacks that are continuously being served – chicken tikka kabab, cheese and pineapple sticks and so on.
After our second drink I suggest to Ashoke that we try the cigars. There
are Cuban cigars lying around. I have, so far, been smoking the India
Kings cigarettes that the waiters have been offering. “Good idea!” says
Ashoke, and we retreat a strategic ten feet into the shadows to avoid
scrutiny, all the while puffing on our Romeo y Julietta Cuban cigars.
A little later a flushed JS comes to us. “Here boys! Keep these keys safe
for me!” he commands and hands over a heavy key chain. “Give it to me
after the party!” We are thrilled. It’s the first sign of intimacy with
the great man! Clearly we are zooming up the corporate ladder this
evening, albeit as bartenders!
A little later JS comes up to us. He is weaving an unsteady step. “Hey
boys! What are you doing behind the bar? Come and join the party!” and
saying that he literally drags Ashoke and me to the party. I find it
extremely embarrassing to tell people, who politely ask me what I am
doing, that I am a management trainee.” Of Ashoke, there is no sign. He’s
freaking out somewhere.
The party ends at 3 a.m.
The guests have left.
We hand JS his key bunch.
“Take tomorrow off, guys!” he tells us.
That’s the best news we have heard in a long time!
Epilogue
Apparently we handled ourselves well because JS always insisted that we be
behind the bar at his parties. We attended several such events. I loved
each and every one of them. JS showed himself to be a warm-hearted guy and
there was no hierarchy in place.
It all came to an end when I was transferred to Madras.
Shortly thereafter I left Chloride.
I never saw JS again.
But the warmth that he showed us management trainees warmed the cockles of
my heart.
Thank you Johar, wherever you are!
<Prakash's note: Ashoke Dutt left Chloride shortly thereafter and went
to the US to study. He returned to India to Citibank and grew to become
Country Manager of Citibank India. I never met him after I moved to Madras. I recently heard that JS had passed away. I hope he is happy in heaven as God's Financial Advisor and weaves an unsteady step with the Lord after working hours a la the booze. >
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