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?

We can miss things by a second and loss them forever. A whole lot of things; even a loving grandfather.

It was our Christmas vacation, and we, Vinod, Prabha and me, were thrilled to be at Edamon, a place where our grandparents used to live alone. We came here to spend the whole ten days’ vacation.

Edamon has a nostalgic grasp in our lives. We used to live there earlier. We finished our primary schooling in this majestic land… the slinky canal flowing beside our house took us the first lessons of swimming… We rode our first cycle through the dust-filled roads of this place… The caning I had received with screech from Joykutty sir in the 4th standard of Govt Lower Primary School has its piquant reminiscence even toGday. I along with my brother, used to buy beedis from Pathumma Beevi’s shop and smoke them all hiding in Guard sir’s murky rubber estate! By now, you must have got a clear hint that how poignantly we had been affected by this place. Well, let’s come back; I will tell you more about Edamon later in another story.

Upon our arrival, Christmas was officially announced in the house. A beam of smile had dawned and spread across the old parent’s faces; like a beam of light cheep into a closed room all of a sudden. A flamboyant Christmas tree was put up, adorned with hanged lightings, color papers and stars. Our grandpa was an expert in making Christmas stars. As our arrival was pre-decided, he had already made all the arrangements to make stars. He cut bamboo in to small bendy sticks, and tied them with tags. With the help of papers and glue, he finally carved out an attractive star, which had six big corners. We hanged it in front of the tree and lighted a candle inside it.

A Christmas carol was performed in front of the tree and there was no other audience other than our exhilarated grandparents. We were treated with kisses. It’s great to be blessed by your grandparents, isn’t it?

The night was amazing. All the five of us slept on a single bed specially made. Stories were told, upon which dreams weaved wings and one of the most beautiful and obsessing nights was being flowed away.

The next day was a Sunday. The morning was promising a long day to kick-start our vacation lookouts. Swimming, trekking, fishing and every groovy option was on the list, and to begin with, church going wasn’t an option but a must-to-do.

Breakfast was on the table and everyone except my brother and me was there. We weren’t in the premises. Later we were told that our grandmother called us as aloud as she could. But those calls weren’t reaching our eardrums.

We missed a breakfast with our grandfather.

It was with our grandpa that we used to go to church. This day, he felt uneasy and we started off alone.

We missed him walking with us.

Before we could reach the church, Panikkathi, our helper came from home and told us that our grandfather was not well and he wanted to urgently meet us.

We ran back. We didn't talk anything. We threw our legs roughly into the dried up rice fields and their narrow walkable bunds; three hearts beat at the same rumbling pace!

On the way, we heard someone saying, 'He is no more'. We didn’t hear it.

But the sight at home wasn’t familiar to us. We had never seen so many people standing near our small house before. Cornered here and there, they threw silence at each other. Their gloomy eyes stared at us mercifully and attended us with care as we slowly stepped into the house.

In front of us, our grand father was lying, blanketed, like a white cloud flowing in the air of prayers. His eyes were closed like a flower fell on the ground. His toes were tied and nose was blocked. Smell of agarbatti filled our senses and we felt that it was not him who was lying there.

Tears were not stopped. The love he gave us came out as tears and we had nothing to stop them. Was he just a grandfather to us? No way. He was our teacher; he taught us in the Sunday schools. He was our mate in the fields. He was our fruit-vendor; he gave us from mangoes to jackfruits to eggfruits. He was our friend; with whom we took baths in the nostalgic rivulet called chirattakonam. Nearby that rivulet, he had secretly fed a rat-snake christened by him as ‘kumar’. One day we found him feeding Kumar and that made us jealous of the snake. We were attached to him so intensely. Above all that he was a gentle man we could take pride of. V K George. That’ was not just a name for him. That was an address.

At that moment, we didn’t really realize what were about to miss. Tears had sunk our emotions and sobbings our thinking. We were sure of only one thing that our grandfather was not going to be with us any more. That no other home-made star would adorn our Christmas trees. That neither he would walk with us to the fields nor bring sweetest jackfruits freshly picked.

There was a smile on his face. It shined his face like the way the stars he made shined our faces. Looking at me it said, "never miss a chance to be with your parents, ever in your life!"

Young sister of mine later told me that she had seen the soul of our grandpa riding up in the air like a seraph, tinted by the scented smoke hailed from agarbattis burnt in front of his dead body. His spirit was white in colour.

No, I didn’t intend it. Don’t call it a prank.

April Fool’s Day takes me back to the past like a mad cow chewing all day’s grubby grass-rolls with a fascinating smile. With a demure slightness, the day pings back all those ‘horseplays and fooling arounds’!

A simple prank proved out to be a bit worrisome last year. I had called up my friend 3G’s (name changed to provoke him) momma in Kerala and gave her some shocking news! I informed her that he got married in Mumbai and was coming back home. With ample seriousness and convincing voiceover, she was told that this wife of him was a Punjabi, the only daughter in her family and hence the Sardarjis in Mumbai were about to make a riot in search of the girl. 3G was on his way of eloping with his wife.

The poor lady just asked me what I was saying as she couldn’t believe what I was saying. Her voice tapered and she was about to break down. She made a shrill cry and handed over the phone to his sister, who was watching all these.

Poor 3G, no one in this planet can think of him doing like that. Why about eloping and marrying, he even stays away from looking at a girl right for a while! But this mom believed with pain that her son got changed once he came to Mumbai 2 months before.

His sister told me that her mom was not feeling well. I couldn’t hold it any more as I got frightened that something wrong would happen. I told her that it was a prank directed by me. Though she did not really understand the meaning of April Fool’s day, she didn’t abuse me over the phone!

During my schooling days with my brother, innovative pranks used to give us brakeless laughter. Once we had created a ‘paper tiger’. We coiled rubber bands tightly on a matchstick and wrapped it in gift wrapper. At various crucial points on the walkway, we placed them and hid near to watch the fun. I still remember one of our innocent victims who took it with utmost care. After confirming that no one was watching him, he opened it like a greedy dog ragging a food trash. In a moment, he got shocked as the rubber band loosened matchstick and it created a krrrrrrrrrrrrr sound on the paper! Sure, our victim was not having a nice time! Wasn’t it creaky?

Another outstanding prank I did was with a friend, Jose. We superglued coins on some public places and roads. And the result was beyond our laughing limits!

Along with its fun, April Fool’s day has its difficult moments too. As an active prankster, you tend to disbelieve others even if they tell you actual facts. Theeppathi Muthalali died on April 1, but we refused to believe the person who first brought the news. Muthalali was a businessman and he used to run the main grocery store in Edamon, a place where we used to live. By the time we confirmed his death, he went under the soil.

One more April Fool’s day is in. My friends, I don’t really know what I should do to all of you. But 3G, Joseph and Jose, be sure, there is something on your way!! And of course, you too dear Jackass!!