Ad-da? By choice?

Ok – that’s what I am – an ‘Ad’-da! I have all the qualifications – I am a Bengali, an adman and I work outside Calcutta. What more could you ask? So Ad-da is here and it seems to stay. But then there is always a time when you pause, you reflect, you pontificate and other such words borrowed from the thesaurus on the shelf nearest you. How the hell did I get into advertising in the first place?
Hmm. Now is that a trick question? Quick mental scan and the answer hits me right in the solar plexus. Gasping and wheezing, reality lovingly takes me in her arms. I am in advertising because of one thing and one thing alone – DENIAL! Yes, denial is what has made me what I am (or am not) today. Denial has been my driving force, my inspiration, my V8 engine and hopefully will not go on to be my nemesis.
Let me cast some light on this murky subject. Not that I can for the life of me understand why anyone would be interested in reading why I am in advertising. But then wonders never cease! So just in case…
Well, let me begin at the beginning and end at the end. When I was very young, my foolish young mind entertained notions of being a doctor or even better a veterinary surgeon. My parents beamed at the first notion and scowled at the second. But their worries and ambitions were soon set to rest when I encountered a many-headed monster called Chemistry. As I lost round after round in my bouts with this canny opponent I decided that the time had come to revise my future professional life. Thus my life was shaped by denial – in this case, chemistry which denied me the chance to save some lives through my brilliant medical skill. However, the truth be told, I do still get a chance to save trees, tigers, water and sundry other ‘save-able and award-able’ objects through my ads.
Anyway, moving on to the next stage of denial. I decided that such being the case let me add some alphabets to my name – MBA seemed quite suitable. But then I got to know there was some creature I had to tame first – a CAT or something. Undaunted I whistled up all my animal magnetism and swaggered ahead. Couple of preparatory lessons and perusal of a few sample papers later I retreated, a trifle scratched. Denied passage by this feline fiend, I collected myself and resolved to stay a CAT aspirant forever. If not anything else it was a fitting reply to everyone who asked about my future plans. ‘Ohhh I am going to sit for the CAT’ – say this with a jaunty enough air and not only do you impress the person who posed the query, you actually begin to believe it yourself.

Suddenly shaken out of this stupor by friends landing plum jobs and not-to-be-scoffed-at salaries, I fell back on my sole capability – the English language. Racking my brains as to how I could exchange my hold over this language for cold hard cash, or at least a crisp cheque, I was not so subtly steered by a concerned acquaintance towards a newspaper office. That’s it I realized. Journalism – that’s what I was meant for – but hang on, how come I never thought of this before? Aaaah yes, probably because most of my acquaintance with newspapers was confined to when my dog was being housetrained.
Be that as it may I was actually convinced for about two and a half minutes that I had found my vocation in life. But then the mental machinery started rolling and denial tripped me up again. Now you may well ask where the hell did denial creep in here? But you see it did – and with a vengeance at that! With a jolt, I suddenly realized that before you write the news you actually have to collect it!!! Follow that train of thought and see where it leads. Of course, you get it – you actually have to run around in the sun, go to godforsaken places and collect material for all the stuff you write. My God! Narrow escape – phew! So there you go again – it’s sheer cussedness on part of the sun – denial, 100% denial. Solar intervention denied me my place in the journalistic sun!
Drifting along, doing nothing and getting better at it day by day, I suddenly and ineplicably (pardon my short-term memory loss) found myself in an ad agency, having a verbal duel with a myopic and presumably constipated receptionist. The bone of contention was believe it or not, the Creative Director. While she was adamant I would not meet him, I was adamant that I be directed towards this noble personage. Actually the word Director had impressed me no end. My mulish behaviour made an ass out of the receptionist at last and she went to all the trouble of picking up the phone and calling this lofty personage on the intercom. Soon, I was in the presence of greatness and after mumbling incoherently for about a minute or so I was left standing with a couple of pages in my hand – a sheet grandly titled Copy Test. Wondering exactly what I was supposed to copy I left the office threatening to be back with the Copy Test and bitterly casting aspersions on the parenthood of DENIAL which was obviously guilty of slacking on the job here, leaving me with no option but actually trying for a real job. And,believe it or not, getting it … sigh!