-Samyukta Ganesh Iyer
Former CMO – Sephora, Baskin Robbins, Kaya| CEO & Founder, The Simple Thing| Brand Strategist| Executive Leadership and Team Coach| Storyteller | Culture Builder
It begins at dawn in Rajkot. A milkman cycles past half-awake homes, his bell chiming like the city’s alarm clock. In one of those homes, a woman stands before a wall freshly primed for repainting. Her husband waves a shade card like an election manifesto. “This pink?” She shakes her head. “No. Mera wala pink.” He smiles. The wall glows, the air smells faintly of turpentine and dreams. Every home speaks. Har ghar kuch kehta hai.
By eight, the streets are awake. Buses honk, vendors shout, people bargain, and on the back of one battered truck, someone has written Fevicol ka jod hai. A traffic jam forms, a policeman shrugs, and someone jokes, “Yeh toh Fevicol wala jam hai.” The entire lane laughs, united by a one-liner older than most memes.
At a tea stall, the day brews slowly. Steam curls into the morning sun. A college kid, a bank clerk, a tailor, and a grandmother share a wooden bench. The chaiwala stirs his pot, tasting for balance, and says, “Swad apnepan ka.” He has never seen the ad, but he lives it.
Across the road, a shopkeeper unboxes Cadbury bars and arranges them near the cash counter. A child stares, eyes wide. The father says no. The boy sulks. The shopkeeper grins and quietly slips him one. The father sighs, defeated but smiling. Kuch khaas hai zindagi mein.
Afternoon burns bright. A small boy throws a tennis ball across a dry field; his sister sprints, catches, twirls, and laughs. The world feels a little lighter, like a Fevicol bus running on happiness. Under a banyan tree, a group of drivers nap. A pug trots by, tail wagging, faithful as a habit. A stranger whistles and it follows. You and I, in this beautiful world.
Evening arrives with a softer light. The milkman has done his rounds, the tea stall is now crowded again. The college kid from the morning returns, now with a friend. The grandmother is gone, but her cup still sits on the counter, a film of tea on top. Life continues, sticky with small kindnesses.
Night falls on the newly painted home. The wall has dried into a soft pink that looks like peace. The woman lights a diya, the husband switches on the TV, and the warm baritone fills the room, calm, grounded, Indian. “Har ghar kuch kehta hai,” the voice says again, and the house seems to listen. Somewhere in that line lies the secret of our advertising, our storytelling, our soul.
We thought he was writing ads. He was writing us. The people, the pauses, the punchlines that became proverbs.
Story by Bharat. Dialogue by Piyush Pandey.
Because he knew that this country doesn’t just sell. It smiles. It argues. It listens. It remembers. And sometimes, when the wall dries just right, it even sings.
