Doing a somer-salt

Sometime in the early 1990s

Mr Ramu opened his tiffin box: it was curd rice again.

He used to eat curd rice about seven times a day, which is why there were more blocks in his heart than in our water supply, and his best friends were plumber-cardiologists. And, when he was not eating curd rice, he ran two companies, of which we had invested in one, Sundar Nutritions in Chennai.

The company was set up to produce iron-fortified salt, which - at least if you read the report that recommended that we invest - had a market that was as endless as the south Pacific ocean.  Or, if you think that the analogy is limiting and does not do justice to Ramu, let me amend this to, as endless as the calls offering me a free personal loan.  

Ramu’s daughter had developed the technology - at least that is what they said and ICICI had no reason to think otherwise (or think wise), being touchingly ingenuous and deeply trusting (try not to laugh please).  Dad+daughter+pomeranian had a small production facility on the outskirts of Chennai and so life, you could argue, was all set.

The only minor issue was that there were no sales. Not one of India’s millions wanted to buy his salt and, as someone who had had a free sample once, I made the case with my boss, Sudhir, that the salt was just not worth, well, its salt, which, to complete a litany of disgraceful puns, was rubbing iron-fortified salt into the wound.

Every time I met Curd Rice Ramu, he would speak optimistically of the Tamil Nadu Government’s impending plan to include this salt in their mid-day meal (without curd rice) scheme.  He would then complain about the corruption inherent in the system being the block (roadblock, you imbecile, not the ones in his myocardium). And everytime I’d return from the meeting convinced that we needed to exit this investment the day before yesterday.  My boss heartily agreed - another hearty pun - but no one above was ready to bell the pomeranian (that would be adding in-salt to injury.  Gosh, that was bad).

When I once visited him, I happened to mention in conversation that I was going to buy my first-ever car soon. “My son-in-law’s Premier Padmini is up for sale,” he replied, “it’s a good car and he wants only 65000 for it.”  Back then, 65000 was around three-fourths my annual salary, but a new Maruti would be two years of slave labour.  

So I reasoned - in my perfectly rational way - that the son-in-law he had chosen (which he admitted to doing) would probably live on curd rice anyways and hence be utterly unable to misuse the car by, say, doing a Sonic Spiral Jump or something. So, I drove back from Chennai in this Premier Padmini, now christened Rockstar Moto, and sent him the cheque in a day.

The next Sunday, while I was driving Rockstar Moto to Whitefield, the tail pipe fell off. It was pointed out to me by a passing motorcyclist (when he had stopped laughing), who noticed it trailing the car a few feet behind. When I took the car for repair to the local mechanic, he opened the hood and, with a look of utter delight, pointed out that this was the worst car he had ever seen and could I please leave the car and a blank cheque with him and come back in a month?

In the ensuing days, I made two significant disinvestments:

- The company’s shareholding in Sundar Nutritions was sold back to Curd Rice Ramu, for the equivalent of a few bags of Sona Masoori

- The car was driven back to Chennai and sold at about Rs 18.50 per kilo