Magic, Magician & Piyush Pandey: Always playing on the front foot

The finest way to honour a master storyteller is to reach into his potli and draw out a few gems: stories steeped in the warmth of everyday life. But Piyush Pandey’s true legacy goes beyond his craft of storytelling. It lies in his conviction that, on the pitch of life, one must always bat on the front foot.

“Hello, hello…do I sound as good as Mr Bachchan…his rich baritone set the tone for our maiden on-the-record conversation. A fleeting seconds later, Piyush Pandey would burst into his quintessential guffaw: loud, deep, mesmerising, and honest. With every cackle, his bushy moustache would quiver with excitement. His face lit up, his pupils dilated, and his eyes stopped observing. They started talking. That’s how my first meeting with the advertising maestro began in 2015. A decade ago, a rookie writer--I was interviewing Piyush sir for The Economic Times’ Brand Equity--expected magic from the seasoned storyteller.

The magician, though, was in a mood to teach miracles of life. “Your first line has to be a laughter line…it needs to connect,” underlined the advertising guru, dishing out my first lesson in marketing, branding, advertising, and life. “Front foot pe khel, aur khul ke hans (play on the front foot and have a hearty laugh),” the God of advertising was in his element, and the disciple was stunned by the honesty of the conversation. “You need to remember that if you have taken a wonderful catch, it’s only because somebody bowled a great ball,” he reckoned, alluding to the fact that advertisers must not take credit for something that is not entirely theirs. Advertising, he would underline, can only support a great product. It can never sell a mediocre product. “A good product is a great ball, and a good advertising is a wonderful catch,” he smiled.

A wonderful catch, a great ball, batting on front foot…cricket analogies dotted the vocabulary of the Ranji Trophy cricketer who joined Ogilvy India in 1982. “Once you are on a pitch, you need to bat. You can’t say, "I will come tomorrow or day after,” he would strap his free-flowing conversation with yet another cricketing analogy to drive home the point that one must always make the most of the opportunity. “Jab pitch pe hai, baat mat kar. Batting kar (when you are on the pitch, bat. Don’t talk),” was his way of dishing a message that action matters more than talk. Indeed, he was a man of action who walked the talk. My first meeting prepared the ground for another one, and over the next few years, we met a couple of times.

A yawning Delhi-Mumbai divide--I was based out of the national capital and my idol was in the financial capital--robbed me off my chances of meeting him regularly. But what bridged the divide was an uptick in our interaction--sharp, short calls—over the phone. “Tu kitni baar number badalta hai,” (how many times do you change your number) he would fume over my incorrigible habit of changing mobile numbers.

Years passed by, I moved on from The Economic Times to Forbes India, but two things didn’t change. First, my vexing habit of changing numbers. “Kitni baar save karunga (how many times will I save),” Piyush sir would chide me, get back to the business, underlining the second thing that remained constant: his knack for stories. “Chal bata, kya poochna hai (Tell me, what do you want to ask),” would be the next question, and we would slip into a memorable conversation.

Mr Bachchan & a wonderful catch

Last week, the chain of our intermittent conversations got snapped. Piyush sir’s fulfilling innings came to an abrupt end. Now, nobody would ask ‘chal bata, kya poochna hai.’ Now, I won’t get to hear a voice that would ask: hello…do I sound as good as Mr Bachchan? Now, I don’t know if there would be an advertising genius who would let the bowler take the credit for a ‘wonderful catch.’  

Life, however, moves on. And the best way to pay homage to an advertising icon is to recount untold and little-known fascinating anecdotes that shaped his rich advertising journey.

One such tale revolves around the famous Cadbury Dairy Milk campaign—Yes, you got it right. It was the dancing girl commercial on a cricket field--in 1994.

It was a classic dilemma for the brand as well as the advertising agencies. Cadbury wanted to widen its appeal beyond kids. They, along with the marketing and advertising agency, had been trying their best for four-five years to change the market. But the needle wouldn’t move. Piyush sir explained why: The fear of losing what you have is a classic dilemma. You want to have adults but you don’t want to abandon kids. The result? Minor tweaks in strategy, and the needle didn’t move. “When you need a change, you need a change. Small changes don’t make it happen,” he underlined. Though the brand had been trying to insert adults into the conversations and commercials, it was not noticeable.

Meanwhile, the perception of the brand as a ‘brand of, and for the kids’ smothered any change in embracing adults. Tweaks, obviously, were not helping. Piyush sir explained the problem with limited rejigging in his distinctive cricket analogy. If a batter is playing on the front foot, and his feet is just an inch outside the crease, it’s known only to the batter. “When you are playing on the front foot, it should be seen by all,” he said, sharing his predicament as well.

Risk, leap of faith & magic

Back in 1994, it was indeed a Catch-22 for the advertising honcho. Cadbury was an important business for Ogilvy, and any drastic repositioning of the brand came with the risk of losing the account if things went south. “There was a risk. And it was a big risk,” he said, and took the gambit of the commercial where a young girl is seen dancing like a child on a cricket field. It was not choreographed. It was not practised. And here was the next challenge: how to convince the client to take that leap of faith?

So, the adman picked the reference from an old Steve Martin movie, and showed it to the client. The idea was to make them watch and feel how the film would look when a similar kind of dance is done by a young girl. “It seemed like a good idea, but the girl dancing the way she did was unthinkable,” recounted the adman. “This was magic,” he said, underlining another slice of life. At times, he noted, you start something with a belief that there is a great potential. But eventually what it actualises into is even bigger than the original idea. “There was a risk but it paid off,” he confessed.

There was yet another risky adventure that the brilliant adman pulled off. “In this case, I put my neck on the line,” he recalled an incident in early 90s. The agency was preparing to pitch for a cement brand of one of the top Indian multinationals. The team had worked on the campaign for 20 days, but just three days before the pitch, something irked the adman. One of the seniors, he revealed, asked him to start from scratch. “I defied his orders, and decided to quit if the campaign was changed,” he recalled, and underlined the inherent risk in the move. “Had the campaign not worked, I would have been looking for a job,” he said.

The campaign, though, not only worked, it was nothing short of magic. “Two things were on my side: my belief, and God,” he smiled, and gave credit to one more person. “My managing director took a big bet on me,” he said. His reply intrigued me. How did he manage to win him over, especially when there was more than perceptible resistance? How did he manage to convince him about his idea which might have flopped as well? How did he manage to win the battle without a fight? I thought it was pure magic. But the adman termed it as his trade craft, and explained how it works. “You hold somebody's hand into something that they don't believe in, and then persuade them into it,” he explained. Though the act of defiance might have been perceived as blasphemous in the corporate world, the intent behind the act was what made Piyush Pandey special. “If you believe in something, then don't give it up easily,” he said.

Okay, but what if your magical idea doesn’t make any sense to your boss? What do you do? Walk out? “Leave the job,” I asked. The maestro flashed an enigmatic smile. “You can threaten to walk out, but don’t walk out of the idea,” he said. “I have never gone home. I have never left the table,” he pointed.

Observe, talk & slice of life

Yes, he never left the table. And the ones sitting on the table were privileged to enjoy his discerning point of view, which emanated from his habit of observing things around him. “A lot of my work is a slice of life. I love talking to people, observing them, and taking a mental note of what is happening around them,” he said.

Take, for instance, the famous Fevicol bus commercial. The idea was to show how people travel in a crammed local train in Mumbai. At rush hour, compartments heave with people packed shoulder to shoulder. And the only breathing space is the door. That’s where the regulars stand, hanging out, one hand gripping the metal bar, and the other clutching a backpack or tiffin. The idea was brilliantly executed in outdoor and print campaigns. But when it came to making a film, the train was replaced by a bus.

What, interestingly, didn’t change was how people travelled in overloaded buses across India, even in adman’s home state of Rajasthan. “It’s an image that you have seen so many times…and as you grow up, it sticks in your mind,” he said. That’s the origin of the Fevicol bus commercial. The visual of a swaying bus groaning under the weight of people clinging to every inch of space was nothing but a slice of life.  

Another memorable ‘slice of life’ moment was ‘chal meri Luna.’ Surprisingly, this endearing tagline originates from a visit to a Bata store where Piyush Pandey and his mother would go to purchase his school shoes. “There was a red, wooden horse at the shop,” he recalled and explained how a seven-year-old would react upon seeing the toy. He would sit on it, his hands gripping the curved handles of the saddle, and then the horse would begin to swing. “By the time my mother bought the shoes, I would be seated on the horse, swinging vigourously and shouting chal mere ghode…(run, my horse),”  he recounted, and then joined the dots. “Chal mere ghode became chal meri Luna,” he smiled. Stories, he underlined, are always around us. “The lovable characters in the commercials come from observation,” he noted.

Emotions, warmth & honesty

Character comes from observation. Indeed. But the magic happens when one starts questioning the beliefs and perceptions tied around them. “Who decided that truck aata hai aur bus aati hai? Scooter chalta hai but motorcycle chalti hai,” he asked, noting that Indians love to have a gender for inanimate objects. And this observation played its part in one more blockbuster campaign for Bajaj Pulsar: Definitely Male!

The backstory is fascinating. Piyush Pandey and his team were travelling to Pune to pitch for Bajaj Pulsar. The team was brimming with excitement and confidence. “They had put together interesting campaigns,” he recalled. Then, somewhere along the way, at a breakfast stop in Lonavala—about seventy kilometres from Pune—the plan changed. “We are not going to present anything that we have worked on,” the adman suddenly declared. The team froze. What had he eaten? What made him abandon a well-thought plan? But panic gave way to a silent reassurance as the team quickly sensed that Piyush Pandey had something up his sleeve.

A few hours later, the adman walked up to Rajiv Bajaj and the marketing head. “I have an idea that I want to narrate,” he requested. Three minutes later, Definitely Male was born.

The pitch was simple, and the argument was compelling: If you are making a sturdy, masculine bike, then it has to be a male. “Ye motorcycle chalegi nahin, ye motorcycle chalega,” said the son of the soil who made ‘Hindi’ proudly sit next to ‘English’ in the corporate boardrooms and advertising war rooms. The credit for the Pulsar campaign—in a quintessential Piyush Pandey style—went to the bowler. “The magic happened because of the person you are talking to. People might say Rajiv Bajaj is blunt. I would say he is honest. He is a front foot player. He said: fine, let’s move on with the idea,” he recounted. “To take a decision like this would not have been easy for many. But that’s Rajiv,” he added.

Okay. And who’s Piyush Pandey? Words can’t describe the magician who added soul to the commercials. His advertisements--much like his life--were loaded with emotions, warmth, and honesty. Okay, but can the God of advertising make mistakes? After all, to err is human. As usual, I expected a candid reply. I was not disappointed. “I have had my shares,” he confessed, “but what matters is not the mistakes made.”

The advertising maestro explained his take by referring to the batting maestro. During his umpteen centuries and double hundreds, Sachin Tendulkar might have played a few streaky shots. “But none got him out,” he said. The ‘Little Genius’ might have been beaten a number of times, the ball might have hit his pads a few times, and there would have been appeals as well. “But he carried on,” he said. “This is what matters in life. Keep batting. Keep scoring,” he underlined in one of his interactions.  

At his core, Piyush Pandey embodied hope, optimism and infectious happiness. And to his teasing quip--Hello…do I sound as good as Mr Bachchan—I have an answer: Sir, you might not sound like him, but here’s the truth. Both of you are in a class of your own. Both are true masters of their craft that only a few might be able to match or master. R.I.P, sir.