Philip Kotler Is Passe

 

Marketing has its 4 ‘P’s.

So do Bongs  who travel in Calcutta buses (the male ones, I must be careful to emphasise).  The 4 ‘P’s of Bongs in Buses are: Phight, Pheesh, Phone and Phootball.

Calcutta buses were all made around the time shock absorbers were just an idea. but the bongs aren't concerned.  Bongs board them partly because they need to go somewhere, but the larger, deeper reason is simple:  every Cal bus doubles up as a free-for-all arena to express a Bong’s views in the most uninhibited manner.  In general, the Bong in Bus will phight about anything and if the fare has been revised to the minutest degree, it’s fair to expect a sequel to the Bolshevik revolution.  Nobody stays neutral, of course - you could get the worst from both sides.  In the deeper philosophy of cooperation, everyone joins in with spirit and verve, has his say, disagrees with everyone else and mutters under his breath with an air of superiority.  It’s really win-win.  

When he speaks on the Phone, the Bong in Bus can get positively splenetic, splaying his hands, eyes narrowed and staring at the imaginary opponent, the words rattled off at top speed, with a series of insults, each sentence ending with a rhetorical question.  Once I heard a fellow call the chap on the other end something related to a dog (kukkoor), after which he called him - or so it seemed - a stale fish (maach) and continue in the Natural History vein. The other fellow was up to scratch too, but this guy wasn’t listening and I had to lean it closer since the conversation wasn't on speaker, which seems to have got the fellow to think that I was part of it and he began staring at me with virulence.    

The only time the Bong in Bus is silent on the phone is when his better half gives him an earful, such episodes being regular and most lively (for the party of the second part).  When the women in Calcutta buses have an opinion, they do not just express it, they imprint it on stake, much like the common Bee Eater impales its prey.  

I have had many rides, but my shortest in a Cal bus was when, after boarding at Gariahat, I smelt the presence of at least four pheesh, one of which was in an advanced stage of digestion in someone’s intestine.  But pheesh is everywhere in the Cal bus: on top at times, under a seat, in a bag or box and the conductor no doubt neutered his sensory glands with his first salary.

When silence reigns in the back of a bus where the men stand or sit, with their heads uniformly down staring at their mobiles, you know it’s phootball time.  Often, phootball will be interrupted with phight, but these are listless efforts, for the Bong’s attention is on a higher plane.  Occasionally, the Bong in Bus will slap his thigh in irritation and freely curse, and when there is goal by his favourite team, he will slap his thigh in joy and freely curse.  

And, on a philosophical note, if he has reached his destination, but the match is engrossing and he has a seat, he will continue, for the journey, you see, is the destination.