Philip Kotler is a well-known marketing guru. After him, I would prefer Mathiyas, Mani and Naseer Bhai. Standing together, they had developed a well-planned marketing technique that spun wonders. Rather than a marketing mantra, this wonderful idea should be addressed as a drama, perfectly enacted to attract attention and create action, and its success could stand atop of all those written and recited Marketing theories to play buffoon of them.

Their world was not as big as you might have believed by chance. Instead, they operated in the premise of a petite bus stand situated in the heart of Pathanamthitta, a small town in Kerala. What they sold was nothing but Idlis. Fresh and homemade.

Pathanamthitta needs an introduction.

It has been the slowest town I have ever been to. In my memories, the town lies like a long snail forgot to move on. In a better contrast, it is like a precious chronograph kept slow, consciously by God. Letting people to stay longer and laud.

Garlanded by mountain buds and silhouetted by trees, the town could impress its strongest seal in anyone’s mind. Hidden behind the posters announcing jewelry inaugurations and futile party congresses, trees and electric posts on roadsides would throw you a smile; like a baby, who felt shy for being found naked. Spotted with people walking, like affected by the nothingness of constant hartals ritually announced, the roads would lead you to eternal jubilation. In fact, they would pilot you like a tourist guide. Protruded into the walkways and public roads, with tempting bust-boards, jewelry shops and silk sari showrooms would invite you, like harlots flying winks to take you in. You would wink back and keep walking. Private buses, named affectionately after their owners' wives and kids, would slap you with wind blown like cyclones, as their silly drivers keep on overtaking each other as though they are in Formula One.

You would be stolen. From you.

Standing some years apart, grating the memories the town gave when I was a young, supple boy, a student of Catholicate College, I have no stop for words. Like a beehive, memory-bees twirl around me, buzzing notes of fun and honeyed hilarity.

The Three Marketeers is half imaginary and half true. A sphinx story. Half-human half-animal type. Hah, a story, which has actually a half story in it!

It was said that initially, three were doing individual idli selling at various points in Pathanamthitta. What united them was severe competition from new idli market entrants, and so they stood together, like old dogs unite to fight the new ones. Like senior players fight the juniors. It was essential.

The marketing gimmick was simple. With the handheld packets of Idlis, Mani would enter a bus, which was parked in the bus stand to start off in a while. For a time, he would look at the passengers with a smile, which would return him some curious frowns back. In a clear-cut, sweet-tongued language he would depict the qualities of the idli he was carrying. ‘Fresh and home made’. ‘Salted and non-sticky’ ‘Chutney made of fried coconut grates’ ‘Only five Rupees per serve’ ‘If don’t like don’t pay’ etc etc.

Nobody would even seem to be interested. All his audience would turn their heads and look for something interesting outside the windows. Except one person; Mathiyas.

Dressed in a glowing jubba (A gents wear like kurta, rich middle aged men use to wear in Kerala) Mathiyas would look like a rich Malayali entrepreneur owning Rubber estates in Kottayam. The Golden (gold-like) ornaments on his body would substantiate that he belonged to one of those ‘achayans’ cult.

In loud, imposing voice he would call Mani; “Dey Ivde Vaa”

Looking at the Idli packets and its seller, Mathiyas would then ask for one sample Idli…; “Orennam kodu nokkatte”. Before jabbing the idli into his wide open mouth, he would sweetly remind that he wouldn’t pay if it was not tasty.

Like forcibly sinking the sun into the sea, he would soak the idli neck-deep into the chutney and then take a bite. He would relish the idli in his mouth, as if he had found the best idli ever, and look around to spread the ‘good news’ among his fellow passengers. He would look at Mani and say, “Super! Adipoli Idli, I wouldn’t mind eating the whole what you have”

Wondered by the big man’s grand appreciation of the Idlis, people would look at Mani. If such a gentleman can eat in the bus like an ordinary man, why shouldn’t we, they would think. One by one, they would buy Idlis and eat.

Cut to Naseer Bhai. Wrapped in a Mulla’s attire, he would call Mani from outside. Like his favorite Idli seller in the town, he would talk to Mani. He would bring in the good qualities of the Idlis and declare how much his family liked the Idlis. At the end, he would ask for 2 packets for his family and leave the scene.

What would happen next should be called as a festival of idlis. People, who hesitated to buy the Idlis initially, turn the scene upside down. All of them would buy, some of them would eat there itself, some would take home, some would buy again, some would ask for more chutney and some would even request for a free home delivery. Mani would serve them all, like an obliged attendant.

In the evenings, the Three Marketeers would sit together in the crown of a nearby hill called Chuttippara and share the profit of the day, which would be more than 3 folds of their basic expenses.

Though for a short time, they did wonderful business. Later, it was said that they had gone to Gulf as part of extending their business.

Mr. Kotler, are you listening?