Gurus in Pinstripes

Some will ask you to walk on fire. Most tell you things you already know. And yet, curiously, ‘life coaches’ have so many takers in India these days. What’s going on?

American motivational speaker Zig Ziglar was known for proclaiming that he could hear God speak. God would often visit him as he floated around in his trademark arrow-shaped swimming pool in Dallas, or interrupt his telephone calls with such divine advice as, “If Ziglar would leave it up to Him, He would take care of the little things for Ziglar”, referring to Himself in the third person. In turn, Ziglar, a born-again Christian, took this as a sign of God wanting him to take care of other people, specifically by offering them what he thought was most important in this fast-moving world—some well-meaning advice based on his Christian beliefs. Sample this: “The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what you want most for what you want right now.”

Since when did we need a motivational speaker to tell us what we already know? But going by this cottage industry’s success, people do want to hear what they already know from someone else before they actually try being happy. The ‘self-actualisation’ industry has come a long way from when Ziglar started in the 1970s. And though they don’t go about saying God speaks to them, or even using the word ‘advice’, they all know that a vast majority of people need to be told to be happy. They market themselves in various guises—motivational speakers, life coaches and self-help book authors—but what they sell is the same thing: happiness, or at least an illusion of it.

In India, we learnt how to buy happiness a little late. Motivational speaker Priya Kumar, author of I Am another You, who has been holding seminars for 13 years now, says, “The demand is huge—for motivational speakers, life coaches, the works. But supply is limited. I feel that only when you speak from your own experience do you have an audience. Most of the new ones are just talking through what they have read or heard, and refer to PowerPoint presentations. Maybe in a few years, they will be rocking.”

Right now, the force seems to be with Priya. Her seminars make clients eat and walk on fire. “I had seen this guy do it, and I was like, ‘he is God’. When I did it, I was like, ‘I am God’,” she laughs. “There is too much pressure now for everything. You get a BlackBerry, and then you want an iPhone. The only way to get happiness is to know you can do anything. That’s what I help them believe. I walk on fire, they walk, and they are saved.”

For someone selling happiness, Omesh Kandalkar is young, only 29 years old. A research analyst for a medium-sized firm by day and life coach by night, he charges Rs 40,000 for a six-month session with clients but says he recently realised he shouldn’t. “Happiness is not chargeable. Now I will reduce the cost so everyone can gain from it.” With his laptop bag, Omesh looks like any hard-working Mumbaikar, sweating as he walks through the crowd at Andheri Station. We are sceptical. Shouldn’t he radiate some kind of aura? Then, as he orders green tea at a coffee shop and sits back, he smiles radiantly and leans forth with a disarming gesture, “So, what can I do to help?” That could be his tagline. He seems to have read our mind.

“Yes, I was always a good listener. Maybe that’s why people open up to me.” Omesh realised he had an inner agony aunt in him while studying in Australia. He started off by helping friends through career and relationship problems. Soon, strangers were asking him for answers, and with some added insight gleaned from self-help books by Anthony Robbins and Buddhist writings, he was ready with them. This year, he has around 40 clients, including students who don’t know how to get ahead, businessmen who can’t enjoy their wealth, and housewives who doubt their husbands. He offers his services both through phone and personal meetings once a week. “I just tell them to do 110 per cent introspection on a daily basis. Ask themselves what they did in the day and if it was bad or good, and then repeat the good. And good things will happen to them. And happiness will come.”

Malti Bhojwani doesn’t use words like ‘good’ and ‘bad’. She prefers alternatives like ‘empowering’ and ‘discouraging’. She also takes care never to use the word ‘problems’; in her world, there are only ‘challenges’. The 40-year-old looks pretty ‘life coachish’ to us. Slender, confident, well-spoken and well-heeled. She became a life coach by doing a multitude of courses on being a life coach after her own life nearly fell apart. She was married at 19, divorced at 26, and had a young daughter to look after. But the main reason she needed to be A-okay was so that she could have a good working relationship with her ex-husband for her daughter’s sake. “I actually did a course to self- actualise my pain. I found it and dealt with it. And now my ex-husband and I are friends. It was super empowering.”

After coaching Indian clients from Australia over the phone for nine years, Malti decided to return to Mumbai last year. “It’s not about giving them advice, but making them aware of the choices that they have in life. I just help you find your own truths. What works for me is that I have empathy, experience and am non-judgmental.” Many of her clients are battling weight issues, or dating married men, or just dating men who would never, ever marry them. “Some send me pictures of their food, asking if it’s okay to eat it. I throw the question back, ‘Do you think you could eat it? Then where is your commitment?’ ” She works on herself as well all the time. “I do pilates four times a week, am well dressed and am always training more to learn more. I am very aware of my body, moods and emotions now, and that’s what I help my clients with as well.”

Sitting with Omesh and Malti is like being on a psychiatrist’s couch. After a while, they ask you questions about your life and say things like, “Well, you know what you want, so why not go after it?” They ask you to rate yourself on different aspects of your life: love, relationship, parents, work and fitness. You do that, and it’s plain to see—you are not happy. If getting a personal life coach is too daunting, a motivational speaker is an easy alternative. Sign up for a seminar, sit around, and if you get bored, walk out.

Motivational speaker Simarjeet Singh asks for three hours to change your life. His seminars, unlike Priya Kumar’s which are full of wit and brimstone, are about being serious about being happy. He walks animatedly in front of a screen that screams ‘Will a 3-hour seminar change your life?’ He is 32 years old and a former hotelier from Jalandhar, but his accent places him halfway between America and India. He holds up his hand whenever he wants an answer from the crowd. Sometimes he asks them to shout “Yes, we can!” and sometimes “I am a believer!” In the beginning, the crowd sniggers (“Isn’t this silly?”), but comes round eventually. “I always knew I had a gift for talking to people,” he says. His seminars deal with finding talents and overcoming weaknesses. And then there is the clinching cliché: “I don’t have ready-made answers. I help people help themselves.” Even Benjamin Franklin has used this line, but Singh has a confidence that makes it sound like he coined it.

That life coaches find so many takers despite their stock phrases echoing one another’s, at one level, marks a turning point in Indian society. In the early 90s, we saw people call up a radio station for advice in that brilliant sitcom Frasier and thought Americans needed therapy all the time but not Indians. We were too well sorted out for that. Well, no longer (or so we thought). Those who go to life coaches say that it enriches their lives.

Take the case of this computer expert who has tried many ways to find happiness—Art of Living, yoga, religion, etcetera. He met Malti through a friend, and decided he was going to let her guide him. “Let me give you an example. I had stage fright. But Malti told me to focus only on my song. And I just kept thinking of what she said. Now, I am a natural at a karaoke bar.” But didn’t he already know how to change his life? “Obviously, you know,” he says, “but this works for me, and I will talk to her as long as I need to. She makes me turn negatives into positives. I haven’t even thought of not needing her yet.”

Another client, an owner of a textile company, approached Malti a few months ago with spouse problems that were affecting his work. A life coach seemed necessary. “Yes, I know people will say ‘What is a life coach?’ But I am open to new things, new people. We all know what to do. But you need someone to check on you. Self-motivation is very hard. Malti told me that when everything was at its worst, one needed to stretch oneself the most. And so I worked on every aspect of me.” He hired a nutritionist, ran on a treadmill (all the while imagining a flat stomach as Malti had told him to), and started writing a journal of gratitude. “I write every night, and I know I have so much to thank for.” In fact, he himself sounds rather life coachish now, spouting lines like, “You are answerable for your own life”, “Don’t try and control your partner”, “Don’t look for love outside your relationship.” Now when he has a row with his wife, he stays calm and so does she. “That’s how it should work, right?” he asks, content.

The textile company owner still wants to work with Malti as long as it takes to be completely ‘evolved’—which is what Jaspal Singh of Takia Software wants for his employees. Singh is clear: if employees are unhappy, output will suffer. That’s why he got Simarjeet aboard for lectures. “He talks about team building, gets us into huddles, and that feeling lingers on much after the session. The best companies will tell you that employees need to work on personal happiness to ensure growth. And people like Simarjeet tell us ways of achieving that.” But why would he be needed if even your parents could tell you that you need confidence in yourself? Richa Pandey, 24, who attended a Simarjeet seminar as part of her induction programme for Samsung, feels that’s because people take the advice of close ones “for granted”. Observes she, “Sometimes you need a stranger to tell you something for you to use that advice.”

Whether these life coaches and motivational speakers really help achieve happiness and self-worth is debatable, but one thing is clear—they make you aware of things you don’t pay attention to. The famous motivational speaker Anthony Robins once said, “Beliefs have the power to create and the power to destroy. Human beings have the awesome ability to take any experience of their lives and create a meaning that disempowers them or one that can literally save their lives.”

Or, if you’re in the mood for something snappy and cynical, somebody else once said, “Get a life, not a coach.”

—

It’s 10 pm at a suburban pub in Mumbai. Vicky and his understudy are ready to close in on their kill. Their kind of prey has to be female, pretty and susceptible to charm and some flattery. The guru-chela relationship is obvious. Vicky claims to be an investment banker by day and dating coach by night. He is inspired by international pick-up artists like Mystery, who wrote a book called—hold your breath—The Mystery Method: How to Get Beautiful Women Into Bed. Unlike Mystery, a strapping 6ft hunk, Vicky is understated, almost geeky chic. His calling in life: to make sure socially handicapped men go out there and make ‘friends’ easily. “It’s not about getting laid tonight, it’s just about having the courage to talk to whoever it may be, men or women,” says Vicky, sipping his glass of Merlot. His understudy this evening is a marketing professional. He pays Vicky Rs 50,000 for a month’s instruction in the dark arts of scoring with women in dark spaces. He is your Average Joe, enthusiastic and ready to push his limits. Tonight, this means wearing a giant Afro wig. Once he’s worn it, they practise a few exchanges.

Vicky: “Nice wig.”

Understudy: (Fumbles ) “Err…”

Vicky: “Let’s start again, ‘Nice wig’.”

Understudy: “You like it?”

Vicky: “Okayy, try me.”

Understudy: “Nice wig.”

Vicky: “If you like this, wait till you see the rest of me.”

Point made. We pick up our drinks and make our way over to the karaoke area, where things are in full swing. The understudy is turning heads with his wig, and you can see a few men snickering. But then a couple of guys come over and shake his hand and say, “You look great.” Soon there are many thumps and laughs being passed around, and Vicky jokes, “He’s a hoot. He’s going to remove his shirt and dance on the tables soon.” The understudy laughs gingerly, but it’s clear the confidence is seeping in. Vicky is insistent on setting a good example, and just never lets up. He zeroes in on a pretty girl with a tiny dress. “Nice dress,” he says. She smiles, “Thank you.” Vicky doesn’t let go. “I have the same one in purple.” She now peers at him more closely and laughs, “I am sure you look real pretty in it,” and some more giggles follow.

But there’s no point stopping at one. He whispers sweet nothings into strange girls’ ears all night, and they all giggle. And then they all whisper back. The ‘I think you’re cute, but I am not a lech, just a witty stranger’ is working out pretty well. “It’s all in the way you talk. Some of my clients are middle-aged men who come and say, ‘Teach me how to network.’ They are CEOs of big companies and my heart goes out to them. It’s just about learning a few tricks.”

But what if the girls happen to be with protective brothers or boy friends? “Then I just start with the men,’ he says. “Talk to them, make friends with them, and they may just lead you to the girl themselves.”

His understudy is slowly getting used to being the centre of attention. Nursing a beer, he finds himself suddenly standing in the middle of the room, croaking out Pretty Woman. The girls look at his innocent face, most of it shrouded by the Afro, and smile. Someone says, “Aww, let’s sing along with him. He seems so sweet.” And then the whole room is singing, ‘Pretty Woman, walking down the street’. Once the spotlight is off, the understudy emerges grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t sing for nuts, but Vicky makes me do all this so that I believe in myself. And I love doing this. I don’t think I could have ever done this if not for him.” He is interrupted by a sweet-faced girl tugging at his wig—“I just had a bet with my friends to see if it was real or not.” The understudy smiles indulgently, “If you like this, wait till you see the rest of me.” Ka-ching!

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