Half-way through my shave, right cheek smooth, left one lathered, I got a cold call. The voice asks, “Is this Narendra Kansur?” I correct, “Kusnur.” He replies, “I am Sangeet Naukri Ghusanewala, CEO of India's first MPA called Ullu Banao.”
I hang up but our man calls again. He explains that MPA stands for Music Placement Agency. I reply that I am not a musician. And he says, "Precisely. That's your qualification, as long as you love music. And we can offer various jobs to make you an overnight millionaire.”
Exciting. But Mr Ghusanewala, how? He says, “To begin with, you can become a consultant on how to rehash old Hindi film songs. As you know, today's composers can't produce anything new. So they take old songs and murder them.”
I love those songs, so don’t want to pinch them. And you are talking blue, cold-blooded murder? He retorts, “Na na na, you just suggest the old songs which can be recycled. The musicians will murder them on their own. You get ₹1 lakh per suggestion.”
Wow, this is getting tempting. I say done, but any other ideas? Ghusanewala shoots back, “Of course. We have a position for vice president, Tone Correction. You see, some singers are supposed to sing in C Minor but sing in F Sharp. Instead of ‘Komal Rishabh’, they sing in ‘Teevra Madhyam’. Make dance numbers sound like funeral elegies and vice versa..."
So how can I help? Boom comes the reply, “Technology, my friend. Press buttons to make them sound closer to the actual note. Even if you don't get ‘Komal Rishabh’, you can aim for ‘Shuddha Gandhar’. My research analyst told me it's closer than ‘Teevra Madhyam’, Mr Kansur.”
Ooofff! “It's Kusnur. The word "kansur' means someone slightly off-key but not totally like in 'besur', which some of these singers are,” I almost yell. But quieten after he says, “₹2 lakh per singer. And we have 23 such artistes.”
Now, I want to grab the offer. But had a doubt. What's your musical background, Mr Ghusanewala? Prompt reply, “Does it matter? It's all about enterprise and business. My basic investment comes through crowd-funding by some 5,000 idiots…”
Oh, I see. So what else can I do? Ghusanewala has his script ready. “This is most rewarding. Teach singers how to lip-sync on stage. Justin Bieber did it recently, Mariah Carey and Milli Vanilli in the past. Our Indian singers still don't know the art. Their mouths are shut when their videos show all their 32 teeth.”
And another one. He says, “Also, how to get 2 million YouTube views and go viral overnight, with the same five family members and friends clicking your song non-stop for hours.”
Brilliant ideas, Sir. You're a genius. Can we meet tomorrow? I have other thoughts. “Tell me now, tell me now,” Ghusanewala sang in ‘Komal Nishad’ of Taar Saptak . I almost felt like tone-correcting him, but couldn't dare to be rude. Big money, after all.
Idea Number One: teach not only singers but actors how to lip-sync. Second: train classical musicians how to become a Pandit or Ustad three months after their first performance. Three: groom musicians how to pamper senior artistes so they get the right breaks, talented or not. Four: make them masters in attending high-profile parties and post selfies across social media. Maybe a PowerPoint presentation on 'The Tricks of shameless self-promotion'.
Ghusanewala sounds like he’s jumping in his chair. He squeals, “Yes, yes, yes. Will discuss all monies with you. Just come over, Mr Kansur. Tomorrow morning, 9 am. Continental breakfast. You deserve Taj Land's End.”
I am getting used to my new name. I ask, “Can I be addressed as Dhinchak Kansur in all official communication?”
Ghusanewala chuckled, “I told you my company name. Now, ullu banaao toh achchi tarah se banaao , Dhinchak Pooj... sorry Kansur Ji.”
