‘I became an observer of my life as a fly on the wall’: How adman Prahlad Kakar wrote his memoir

When you think of advertising in India, one name which stands out is that of Prahlad Kakar. His colourful life, (mis)adventures, and entrepreneurial instincts form the core of his memoir Adman Madman: Unapologetically Prahlad, which he co-wrote with Rupangi Sharma.

At the Kasauli Literature Festival (KLF), Kakar talked to Scroll about his life, early influences, advertising, and the changing face of the industry in the age of the attention economy. Excerpts from the conversation:

Since you co-wrote this book with Rupangi Sharma, what process did you employ to work together with her?
I tried dictating the book, which didn’t work because the articulation became flabby, repetitive, and loose. An enormous amount of editing was needed. Then, during the process of working on the book, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, so we started working on Google Docs and discussing the structure [of the book] over video calls. We both decided that it’d be much better and more accurate for me to write in long hand, which became a pain in the arse. Who in the world writes in longhand today? Anyway, because I can’t type I started writing in the long hand, and Rupangi’s workload became much lighter consequently. However, my spelling is atrocious, and my handwriting illegible, which Rupangi and my wife Mitali struggled to decipher.

I wrote one chapter at a time and took a break as if I had finished writing the whole book which is why it took so long [two years]. Rupangi would then edit these chapters and tighten the prose before sending it to me for finalisation. Initially, it was supposed to be a 40,000-word book but then it ended up being an 85,000-word memoir and still had lots to come. I had to truncate it – the last decade doesn’t feature, which is where I’d have talked about the slowing-down phase, diversifying into many things, and my serial entrepreneur Khujli. But everyone threw up their hands in horror, saying that they couldn’t publish such a fat book and that nobody would read it. I did suggest two things though, and neither was accepted with grace or humour. One was to package two books in a box cover: Phase 1 and Phase 2, and sell two for the price of one. The second one was that we weaponise the book. Use a very hard, double cover for it so that women could not only read it but use it as a self-defence weapon. If you hit somebody with it, they stay hit.

Adman Madman is a potpourri of several zubaans, if I can say so. Could you reflect on the use of language and style in this book, and what unique opportunities narrating your life story this way rendered you?
When I started working on it, I became an observer of my life as a fly on the wall. So, I wrote as it happened. I was amazed at the fact that one human being could be in so much trouble in one lifetime. Also, what helped was that I suffer from a rare creative disease called lucid dreaming, where dreams and reality become seamless, so I couldn’t separate dreams from reality, or vice versa, but I know that 99 per cent of incidents [I narrate] are real because they involved real people and real incidents.

Anyway, as I wrote it in longhand with a lot of cursing and swearing that went with it, from the benefit of hindsight, I can say that it’s the beauty of longhand writing that the book almost feels like an audiobook. The way the sentences are constructed here is how I actually talk. Even if someone knows me remotely, they’ll say: Saala, I could hear him speak. It’ll be very interesting when we make it into an audiobook because I’m going to narrate it myself. Each chapter will be a hilarious podcast.

Is it because we’re living in the age of the attention economy?
Yes, because people have lost their patience with long, drawn-out, and predictable narratives. They want something original, short and sweet, so it’d be nice to have an episodic narration, leaving listeners on a high, making them think: Ab aage kya hoga, kalia? (What’s going to happen next?)

But what I feel connected with the readers is that I wrote as it happened. All my memories came back [to me] with such clarity and detail that from the smell and sound of the jungles in Dehradun to the dusty plains of Panipat where I studied to the many parties that I attended to the women I courted and the kind of influence they had on me and the way they moulded my life, I wanted to capture not only the details but also the texture and smell of the moment [that helped the storytelling].

Recently, in a conversation, a friend, who is a digital marketer, expressed his disappointment regarding people not reading much. What importance do you place on people wanting to enter the advertising industry exposing themselves to literature from around the world?
That’s true: no one is reading nowadays. I feel reading is the key to creativity because it allows us to take leaps of faith while imagining things. And your imagination is fired by your life experiences. Two things that make a person creative are travel and social interaction. When you interact with a variety of people, you become a collector of experiences. [From this] whole album of nefarious characters whom you met; you can put any of them in your stories. As their idiosyncrasies, habits, and attitudes are all real, you don’t have to conceive anything from the figment of your imagination. You just have to juxtapose these characters with your life experiences and with the visualisations of the books you’ve read.

I feel the process of creativity is reading prose and converting it into visual poetry if you’re in the business of advertising.

Reading your memoir signals that in the most fundamental ways your life was impacted by the presence of extremely influential women. I’d say Shamma’s life lessons would’ve certainly broken something in you – as Jerry Pinto calls formative, early-year experiences. Could you share a bit about these women making deep impressions on you and influencing your life-choices?
Oh, they absolutely did. Not only Shamma Habibullah (house help), but also Usha Katrak (Kakar’s boss, and one of the heads at Advertising and Sales Promotion Co. [ASP]), starting from my mother, who was widowed very early and had the responsibility of raising my sister and I single-handedly.

Of course, when I was very young – 12 or 13, going through hormonal changes, I blamed her for being a very attractive widow, bringing all the attention to us, which I detested. I was very intolerant towards her and whatever she stood for. We constantly fought and disagreed on several things. Until I turned 22, I didn’t realise how tough it was to raise two children by a single mother, who gave us a fabulous education, which was enviable for the time, and at great cost to herself. Not to forget, Mrs Alexander – my principal and English teacher [in school in Dehradun]. I had such a tremendous crush on her, which is why I always wanted to be first in her class be it poetry or elocution. To date, I still remember most of the poems she taught me at the time.

Why do you think ads are not as popular – or have a recall value – compared to the ones back in the day? For example, your Dil Maange More! and Yehi Hai Right Choice Baby! Aha! What challenges do you think advertisers face today that don’t help achieve it?
Today, unfortunately, advertising has become corporatised to death. Billing is everything to people in suits, who’ve taken over the business. They feel that if they keep appeasing the clients, then their billing will go up, not realising that [it] slowly kills the brand like the goose that laid the golden eggs. The client is no longer a perishable mortal but a demigod with commandments like Thou shall not laugh at me or my brand. So, inevitably, people in this business have been forcibly sanitised to produce mediocre work. Occasionally, when you see ads like the Cred ad or the Google Search: Reunion ad by Amit Sharma (director and co-founder, Chrome Pictures), then audiences sit up and take notice because the rest of the advertisements are [unengaging]. Today, everyone is playing safe, hiding behind mediocrity.

Which brings me to the next question: while being sensitive is necessary, there’s also a tendency to appear woke and indulge in performative ad-making in today’s age and time of increasing political correctness. What are your views on creativity getting impacted because of this performativity?
The impact is that people have lost the ability to laugh at themselves.

For example, I am unsure if we can say something like Mera number kab ayega! – which had such a universal appeal. When you lose the ability to laugh at yourself, it shows your insecurity. The need for constantly trying to prove yourself is nothing but a lack of self-confidence, which we had in plenty in the 90s. For example, the best Sardar jokes I ever heard were told by Sardars. It’s not the case anymore. Everything has become a holy cow.

What are your views on memes as advertising tools? Do you remember something that made a lasting impression on you or any that’s your favourite?
Yes, they’re useful because you can get away with a meme, as there’s a risqué factor to it, but people do laugh at them for a while and then, they move on.

Memes also bring a bit of relief because they allow a certain degree of liberty that mainstream advertising doesn’t. But again, today, one has to be careful. A meme cannot be too loaded. While using memes, people should remember that when you try too hard to be funny, then you’re not, so just keep it natural and spontaneous.

Could you help share what are the impacts AI is having on the advertising industry?
It’s a great tool but not a replacement for creativity. The AI can’t imagine for you. Yes, it can collate information, but it doesn’t have the potential to describe the visual and emotional impact when you experience something on your own. Also, it doesn’t dream, which is essential for creativity. What’s missing is value. Real success is the value that you create, which is quantifiable; not the money aspect, which is a byproduct of value [generated].

Per Mohammed Khan, as the book jacket reveals, you are a tea connoisseur and an aspiring sperm donor. Could you share the tea you find the most flavourful and delectable? And where are you when it comes to your aspiration to become a sperm donor?
As I come from Dehradun and even married into a tea family, tea has been an important part of my upbringing and later life. But after much experimentation, I’ve found the right combination that serves me well. You get it when you mix 50 per cent of the Chamong tea, which is an organically grown, Darjeeling tea with any good Assam CTC – again 50 per cent. Brew the mix for exactly three-and-a-half minutes to get the perfect blend of flavour, strength, and colour. With a hint of milk and a touch of honey, you’re set for the day.

Regarding the sperm-donor career: that’s an in-house joke actually between [Mohammed] Khan and me. When he saw my three sons, who took after my wife – and thank god are very good-looking – he told me that I had missed my real vocation in life…that had I offered myself as a sperm donor, with guaranteed boys, I’d have been become a millionaire and [remained] greatly in demand.