There’s a storm in the T cup

As I strolled into the Willingdon Club verandah, Mrs Piloo saw me and waved me over. Sitting at their usual table overlooking the lawns, the four elegantly attired Parsi women, the merry bairees of bawadom as they called themselves, with coiffered hair, appeared to be having a lively discussion.  Having been bheja fried enough over never ending debates on the fallout of demonetisation, long term, short term and even middle term, I happily joined them, looking forward to getting regaled by the latest Bawaji gossip or some whimsical stories of their ilk.

But that evening, as it turned out, the four friends were in the midst of a heated exchange. On a topic that apparently had been agitating this remarkable community greatly and keeping them awake at night! No, I am not referring to their existence which is threatened by imminent extinction much like the Bengal Tiger.  They were engaged in mastakmaari over the ekdum urgent issue of finding a Parsi heir to the Tata empire. 

With the same dogged insistence with which Mrs Pestonji scoured the countryside for husbands for her daughters, my friends were also determined to find a solution to the great Corporation’s current dilemma — To Choose or Not to Choose and who to Choose! Ms Vazifdar, the ex-principal of one of the city’s prestigious schools, was all in support of Adi Godrej. A firm believer that if there was one thing you could expect from the man, it was that he’d keep the Tata lockers safe. No sooner had Ms Vazifdar suggested his name when Mrs Screwala piped in to offer the name of the textile tycoon. Her reason was, “I have always loved the soft sheets from Bombay Dyeing.

But his Britannia biscuits arent as majhenoo buttery as Shrewsbury.” However, Mrs Piloo with her bifocals perched half way down her nose and Victorian pearl brooch would have none of it and cautioned — “There are strong differences these days between Tatas and Nusli and what if it became a slanging match like a Parsi Panchayat meeting with chair throwing and bad language. And you know, Nusli will never throw in the towel.”  She cackled at her own pun.

What followed next, ranged from the absurd to the desperate. Names as disparate and varied as Freddie Mercury (he was after all born Farookh Bulsara) to Boman Irani were suggested and rejected. Even as I meekly tried to point out that the Queen frontman was no more, I was shot down with a, “We most definitely can’t have someone who wears tights on stage and then sings, I want to break free.” While the quartet agreed that Shiamak Davar was a good option as he could make everyone dance to his tunes, his name was rejected unanimously along with `Bend it like Boman’ in that same instant because Bollywood style tamasha wouldn’t suit the gravitas of the Tata office. Mrs Pestonji suggested aapro Zubin in their stead. After all he handled an entire orchestra, so managing Tatas would be easy and he would definitely strike all the right notes….One of the others suggested capable doctors Rusi Soonawala or Farokh Udwadia. In these days of surgical strikes, they could make incisive cuts where necessary. Mrs Vazifdar piped in with Farokh Engineer….after all, the great cricketer had such safe hands.

As the discussion continued, and we indulged in much bhonoo about nothing, and the waiters refilled our rum and coke at regular intervals, I was emboldened to put in my two bits. “What are your thoughts about Indra Nooyi?

Or, N Chandrasekaran? Both of them have the credentials required to lead the group,” I offered cautiously. If Mrs Pestonji’s gasp of outrage was anything to go by, I realised I was in grave danger of never being invited into the enthralling company of these ladies ever again. She shouted with a booming voice that could be audible across an entire baug “How can you say such a thing? They will spill their sambar chutney boardroom na carpet upar and leave behind the lingering odour of curry leaves...” Alas, my one and only attempt at contributing to this gripping interchange was drowned out on the stigma of culinary spillage.

Other Parsi billionaires and corporate czars such as Karan Bilimoria and Noshir Kaka did not fare any better. Beer had no place in the hallowed halls of Bombay House whose denizens sipped nothing but the finest Tetley Tea while the Mckinsey head was shot down with a “Who is this Kaka chokra?” response. The argument also followed that the Tatas had always been understated and did not believe in ostentatious display of their assets. So naturally, the Poona resident, new owner of Lincoln House, could not be the right horse for Bombay House. 

In the spirit of encouraging diversity, Ms Screwala suggested Anu Aga whose interest in philanthropy would suit the Group’s image. Her grace and thandaa maatla jevo sabhaav also made her particularly attractive. But the guillotine didn’t spare the poor Thermax leader either. “I’ve heard she works late every evening. Can you imagine what life would become for aapri bechari Villoo?” One of the other interjected, `Do you remember Bachi’s funny comment, ‘’Aye dil hai mushkil, jeena yahan, mujhe hataya, no one bachaya, yeh hai Bombay House, meri Jaan’’.

The club crowd appeared to be slowly thinning, but we seemed to be no closer to finding a solution. Worried and fretful, Mrs Screwala threw in a wild card suggestion that the Tatas place an ad in the Jam-e-Jamshed or Parsiana, inviting nominations for the Tata Chairmanship. But the others threw up their hands in horror at the thought. One of them with steely determination declared that between the Camas, Jeejeebhoys, Readymoneys and Petits, surely there must be one capable person to take the mantle.

No nearer to finding a name than we’d been three hours ago, Mrs Piloo finally said, “Whatever you may say, nobody brings as much peace to my mind as aapro Ratan, maara kaleja no tukro. 

A pleasant silence and then a Corus of approval followed her suggestion. 

All four seemed to be satisfied with this option! As for me, I realised how valuable this free flowing discourse had been, even if it had bordered on the absurd at times, and took comfort in that democracy did indeed allow a freedom of choices. Having arrived at this meethoo consensus we bid each other fond Ta-tas as we departed.

The author is Chairman of RPG Enterprises.