Bill Bernbach, the most quotable of all the advertising Gods, once said, "It's not a principle till it costs you money.' It is only as an entrepreneur (I wish there was a less ostentatious word for this), that I fully understood the genius of that simple sentence. +

We are a people with pliable moral and ethical standards. Chalta hai, jugaad, we are like this only, kindly adjust, tedhi ungli, patli gully are cute verbal disguises for dishonesty. Taking liberties with the letter of the law has alway been okay. +

To us the law is not a diktat. It's a challenge. Like escaping from a mystery room. We rewrite and re-interpret the laws for ourselves in a more amenable, comfortable, acceptable, practical, convenient, benevolent manner.
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And then we make abiding by this rewritten legal framework our way of life. In fact, we've made it a very cool thing as well. Giving and getting proxy at attendance, fudging a concession form, traveling by bus and claiming air fare, padding up travel expenses... +

... borrowing petrol and medical bills, copying in exams, getting rent bills from your own Dad, taking payment in a spouse's name, paying part in black, buying without a bill, using peons and office cars for personal work, bribing a traffic cop, ... +

... using the services of a tout at the RTO, greasing a TTE's palm, finding a railway contact to release EQ for non emergencies, buying booze and washing machines from the army canteen, getting fitness and sickness certificates without check ups... +

Rana's mother insisted he call his father Pitaji. Not Papa, Baba, Babuji, and definitely not Daddy. 'But Ma,' he used to complain, 'this is the 21st century, not pracheen Bharat'. 'That's why I'm not asking you to call him Pitashri', she would retort. +

On the other hand, Sweety's mother, a very modern lady indeed, made sure she (Sweety) called her father Daddy. He didn't mind being called anything. Pop, Dad, Baba, Daddykins, Popsy.. as long as he got his quota of hugs and kisses from his darling daughter. +

Rana grew into a strapping young man. Earning raised (but respectful) eyebrows, when his friends heard him call his father Pitaji. But Pitaji deserved that honour. For he was an honourable man. +

He worked long night shifts at a distant factory 6 days of the week. At home, he was kind, loving, and indulgent during the few hours he was awake. His wife cherished his diligence, discipline, and devotion to her. She fed him well, and made sure he got his rest. +

Every morning at the factory, he'd hand over duty to Daddy, the Day Manager, and head home. Daddy worked all day till Pitaji returned to relieve him. On Wednesday, both of them took a much deserved break, when the factory had its weekly holiday. +

My father likes to brag. Specially about his athletic abilities. Truth is, he does manage to catch the toast before it falls to the floor. At half his age, I can't do that. "Keeper's reflexes", he says. The rest of us exchange 'there he goes again' glances. Mom just smiles. +

We've heard his 'I could have played for India' story a few times. About how one dropped catch in a crucial match cost him his India berth. How he quit the game after that. And became an actuary. Instead of people studying his stats, he studied theirs. +

It's true that his keeper-reflexes have saved many a pickle jar, egg, and tea cup. He has thumbed his nose at gravity so often. we jokingly call him Rakesh Sharma. He'd have preferred Kiri or Rod or Alan. +

Here's his story. Years ago, his team was one wicket away from victory. The opponents two runs away. The pitch was crumbling. Dogra bowled a beaut. The ball pitched and reared up. It took the bat's shoulder and sailed towards him. That was the India cap flying into his hands. +

Tragically, along with the ball, a clod from the disintegrating pitch flew up too. Dad's eyes stayed on the clod. While the ball mockingly wafted by him. And rolled over the rope. It was a catch Kachra could have taken. +

A watchman in our society, on an average, lasts 3 months. Just when we get a hang of each other's eccentricities, he disappears. So you have to start all over with the new man. 'Don't ever ring my bell twice... I carry my bags myself, thank you... '. And so on. +

Rakesh was different. He looked 16, though he was 21. Wide eyed, eager, sincere to a fault. He would magically get to the gate before you could honk, he'd never miss a courier, the water tank never got empty on his watch, the cars he washed sparkled. +

Before Rakesh, we had a run of disastrous men. He was like Kapil Dev walking in at 17 for 5. In a couple of days, we knew we had a keeper. Like those animated drops of lubricant in Castrol ads, Rakesh was everywhere at the same time, keeping our Society humming efficiently. +

Residents competed with each other to offer him a snack, a cup of tea, a t shirt from a sales conference, an old mobile phone. They all made small talk with him. Like writers on a talent show production, they discovered his back story. Jaunpur. Sick father. 2 sisters. Cows. +

He worked days in our society. And nights at another. He had no home in Mumbai. Yet he showed no signs of fatigue. Even Mrs.Menon had no complaint. That's saying something. Her last complaint was, '..the watchman makes loud noises brushing his teeth... unacceptable..' +

This isn't a story set in the year everyone loves to hate. In fact, that was a pretty good year for Rahul. It suited him well. He was anyway an expert at staying indoors and shunning human company. +

He liked nothing more than to make two packets of Maggi using three sachets of tastemaker, a cup of tea brewed for precisely 150 seconds, and then settle down on his chair that was specifically chosen because it could rest the plate and cup on its broad arms. And a book too. +

He'd sit there and think thoughts like 'Even my name is so lame. It's the default option every copywriter uses while writing an ad about a young executive. Don't they know most Rahuls are in their fifties now?' +

Anyway, what I am about to narrate happened a year before the big bad one. On the day that the world has arbitrarily decided to burden with great import. New Year's Eve. A day that really meant nothing to Rahul. But late that evening basic arithmetic caught up with him. +

He had run out of tastemaker. There were six packets of noodles on his shelf, their throats slit, robbed of their magical sachets with the mysterious powers. Sealed with rubber bands, the packets stared back blandly at Rahul. +