An entrepreneur, filmmaker, and photographer, Varun Agarwal is now an author. When not arguing with Anu Aunty, he is busy running his three companies in Bangalore. For more details on the author, visit: http://www.facebook.com/anuauntybook http://www.facebook.com/varun.agarwal1 http://www.twitter.com/varun067 First published in 2012 by Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd. 7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj New Delhi 110002 Sales centres: Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu Kolkata Mumbai Copyright © Varun Agarwal 2012 Cover design and illustration: Jezreel Nathan This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This digital edition published in 2012 Varun Agarwal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. e-ISBN: 978-81-291-2185-1 All rights reserved. This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Dear Mum, If you ever find this book, don’t read beyond this point. If you do, please don’t disown me. You know I love you. Sincerely, Varun Disclaimer All the opinions expressed in this book are my own and are a result of the way in which my highly filmy mind interprets a particular situation. If I have inadvertently and unintentionally hurt someone through this book, well, too bad! Like always, I blame the heavy dose of Bollywood I grew up on for the over-the- top drama found in my writing. Contents ‘Dude, This Guy Can’t Write for Shit’ Part 1 ‘He Got Only 95 per cent, Ya’ Noon Wines—Scene 1 Noon Wines—Scene 2 ‘What Varooon, Still Sleeping at this Time?’ ‘Chickoo, Play Violin, na. Show Uncle and Aunty’ Mother Swear ‘Screw It, Let’s Do It’ The T-shirt Capital of India The Journey Begins Business Lessons from Aunties Anu Aunty Strikes BackBenchers Inc.? ‘Here Comes the Sun’ Part 2 ‘How Much for this Hoodie, Bro?’ The Adventures of Dr Swamy Dummies’ Guide to E-Commerce Dad’s Business www.almamaterstore.in Down Memory Lane Gujju Boy! Precursor to the Big Fight The Big Fight and a Lousy Offer Ladies’ Night The Old Man and the What? Let’s Get this Party Started Aunties in Hot Pursuit Business 101 Legal Eagle Kitty Party Rohit Gets a Girlfriend Apple is More than a Fruit Oh F**k and the Big Confession At Last it Happened! Part 3 Gujju Boy Strikes Back Ping! Let the Cash Register Ring! Let there be Facebook! Your Son is a Salesman? D-Day—Well, Almost D-Day Dawns Why this Kolaveri Di? Magic Numbers Angel in Disguise? Goodbye Anu Aunty? Alma Matters Part 4 ‘Varun, Get the Hell Out of my House’ Anu Aunty and Branding Hey Bro! Fast Forward Show Me the Money The Great Depression Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying The Greatest Day of My Life Thank God It’s Friday A Million Dollars? Are You Serious? ‘Mom, We’re on TV’ Back to Noon Wines Looking Ahead… Postscript Section A Section B Section C ‘Dude, This Guy Can’t Write for Shit’ So before I start, I want to tell you that this book narrates the true story of my journey of becoming an entrepreneur. Okay, fine, maybe some aspects of my personal life are a bit exaggerated, but this is my story. So, take it or leave it. This book simply relates all the experiences that I’ve been through while trying to start my company with my friend, Rohn Malhotra. People close to me know I am no writer. However, while writing this book, I really tried my best to stir up the inner Hemingway in me. But that’s where the problem lies. You see, there IS no inner Hemingway in me! So please don’t read the book and then go running around like an enthu cutlet *, telling your friends: ‘Dude, I read this book; it’s a good story but the guy can’t write for shit.’ I know that. My former English teacher is probably going to scream after reading this. I am a storyteller and not a writer, so don’t expect much. (The names of some of my friends have been changed at their request.) ___________________ * Enthu cutlet is a typical Bangalore word and refers to someone who gets over- excited about a variety of things like landing up at a restaurant before anyone else, making party plans on every occasion or even otherwise and putting up a status update on Facebook every two hours. Part 1 ‘He Got Only 95 per cent, Ya’ have a vivid memory of my first encounter with Anu Aunty. I was in the sixth grade and my mum had come to school to collect my report card. Mum had met her at a random kitty party and they struck up a friendship that lasts till date —ruining me in the process. While at school, I was always on the average side when it came to studies, and had no qualms about it. But that was before Anu Aunty breezed, or rather, thundered into my life. After collecting yet another disappointing report card, my mum was heading towards the door when she bumped into Anu Aunty. She was one of those women who always poked her nose into everyone else’s problem and sniffed for one even when there was none. She walked with an air of importance and pretended to know everything. She spoke in this characteristic sing-song style that never failed to annoy me. ‘Poo, haw are you ya?’ she gave my mum, Poornima, a friendly thwack with her heavyset arm. My mother quickly hid my report card in the folds of her sari and beamed. ‘I’m good, Anu,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know your son studies here. What a pleasant surprise.’ Hmm…I didn’t quite buy this. You see, Indian aunties always know what other aunties are up to, what their children do, how much their husbands earn, the latest dish they have learnt to cook, and a billion other things that will make your head spin. ‘I know ya. It is a pleasant surprise. So how did he do?’ Anu Aunty was salivating with curiosity. Okay, this was the bad part. Aunties hate it when they don’t have a good comeback. I had never given my mum a reason to boast about me and this moment couldn’t get worse. ‘You know how these boys are ya,’ my mother put on a tragic face. ‘They don’t study only.’ She looked at me accusingly, as though I had just failed the IIT entrance. I was eleven years old, for God’s sake! ‘But how has your Arjun done, Anu?’ my mum asked. Arjun was the blue-eyed boy of our class and the apple of teachers’ eyes. He could have an orgasm at the mention of exams and read textbooks with the same eagerness one reserved for Penthouse. He would always be interested in how much I had scored, pissing me off mightily. You remember that nerd in your school who would raise his hand every time a teacher asked a question? Arjun was that fucking nerd. ‘Oh! Arjun hasn’t done well this time, ya Poo. I’m really surprised by this boy.’ Anu Aunty sighed. I smiled for the first time that day. What? A glimmer of hope? Maybe for once he screwed up? ‘How much did he score, Anu?’ my mum asked with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Only 95 per cent.’ Anu Aunty shook her head in dismay. That is when I was introduced to the devious and sadistic world of Anu Aunty. She had this innate ability to make you feel extremely bad about yourself. 95 per cent not only implied that Arjun had topped the class, but the entire sixth grade as well. ‘Haw, but that’s brilliant ya, Anu.’ My mother looked so impressed that one would think Arjun had received the Nobel Prize. I wondered fleetingly if this would be a good time to break the news that my Maths teacher wanted to meet my parents next week. ‘No ya, Poo, I had set a target of 98 per cent for him. He knows very well he is not getting his G.I. Joe now.’ Who the fuck scores 95 per cent and asks for a G.I. Joe? Anu Aunty wagged her fat finger at me.‘Varoon, you need to study hard, son. Stop giving your mum so much trouble ya. Remember, no studies, no future. Anyways, chalo, I’ll go now. Have to drop Arjun for his violin classes also.’ And with that Anu Aunty turned around and left us in the dust. My mum was awestruck. It was as if Virendar Sehwag had met Sachin Tendulkar for the first time. What was worse, she wanted to turn me into Arjun’s clone now. Noon Wines—Scene 1 t was the summer of 2009 and I had just come back from Mumbai after a small holiday. Rohn Malhotra, aka Mal, a close friend of mine from school, had just finished writing his GMAT exams. Having scored an enviable 740, he deemed it extremely necessary to get wasted one night and called everyone to Noon Wines. Noon Wines is one of Bangalore’s oldest pubs and the chicken pakodas and beer there are to die for. Of late this has become a pre-party hub, attracting a lot of hot girls who in turn attract a lot of desperate guys like us. Since ‘chicks’ were always in attendance, I wasn’t surprised to find Devika there. Devika was the resident hottie at Sophia High School, and had been on the mind of every puberty-hitting student at Bishop Cotton Boys’ School back in the days. In fact, catching a glimpse of Devika before exams was considered auspicious by many. Manjeet, a close Surd friend of mine, even held the unique distinction of shaking her hand once! She was tall, very pretty and had a child- like innocence about her. Her eyes were so mesmerising, they could cast a magical spell on those that met their gaze. So anyway, to take our story forward, I was the first one to reach Noon Wines and was, as usual, kept waiting. What was worse was that I had been played in by the ‘Dude, be there in two minutes’ rule. Well, the rule is if your friend claims he is on the way, and is X minutes away, you simply add fifteen to it. Thus, I did something that I knew would make everyone hurry up. ‘Dude, where you?’ I asked one of my friends. ‘On my way bro, will be there in five minutes,’ he said. ‘Dude, come fast. Devika is here.’ ‘Whaaat? I’m coming now, Bob,’ he shrieked and hung up. It is very interesting to note the use of the word ‘Bob’ here. This varies in different parts of the country. Down south we have ‘macha’, up north we have ‘bhai’, ‘man’ is applicable all over India—but ‘Bob’ is something you’ll hear only in Bangalore. Something like, ‘Hey Bob, check out the low-cut that Neha is wearing, Bob.’