The lights dimmed. The projector light cut though the darkness of the room. The screen lit up. Samira took the floor, as the opening slide shimmered on the slightly undulating screen. Nerves pinched, mouth feeling like sandpaper, the words seemed to falter on the tip of her tongue. She reached out for the glass of water and took a few long sips. The voice in her head said: It’s yours for the taking. Go for it, Sam.
“Good morning everyone! When we look at data, we tend to look at the obvious patterns, associations and causalities — things that reassure us, vindicate our actions. Thus satisfied, we look at doing more of the same, albeit better and bigger. But, I contend, not always smarter. We overlook the subplots; the small little bumps that tell the other stories.
“Today, Gameplan hopes to persuade you to see one such emerging story, the story that we think your brand should be built around. The story that will take your brand closer to your consumers, their real needs — and, more importantly, create a brand that values them.”
From the back of the room, Rumi smiled, flashing her a thumbs-up. She felt in control after that initial intro. She took flight.
“You’ve been trying to target young mothers post their first pregnancy. And your communication has been trying to persuade them to use your products to take away the post pregnancy stretch marks. The tone has been mostly that of ‘medical advice’ — cold and impersonal. Your sales did well for some years but as we know, it has begin to plateau. As our research shows, and also the expressions that these young mothers have articulated in the qualitative interviews, we are perhaps missing the mark. We need to talk to the ‘woman’ instead, not the ‘post-pregnancy mother.’”
Even through the muted light in the room, she could see that she had made some impact. After setting up the main proposition, ‘For the Woman in You,’ she handed over the baton to Sikander to present the creative. As she sat down, some of the clients nodded to her. The creative had done a good job. Bang on strategy. The presentation went like knife through butter. The clients clapped. “It’s indeed a very interesting take Ms. Murshid, and we are definitely onto something here,” said one of the directors.
Sam walked up to Sikander and said, “Good job!”
“You too. I am impressed. That was the coolest game-changer of an opening!” Mr. Creative Hotshot has some humility, it seems,mused Sam. She was beginning to develop a liking for him.
In the parking lot, Rahman, the CD, came up to her, “Well, Badal bhai will be proud of you. That was a brilliant presentation. Methinks we have a budding star here!”
Sam thanked him and blushed. She smiled to herself as she made towards the office microbus.
“Take the day off, Sam. That was good work.” Jon said.
Dhaka Log: Four
It feels good to tick off the items from the to-do list. Pitch done. Jon and Rahim won over. Icebreaking with Mr. Creative Hotshot done. And, Shadab Sattar? He is conspicuously absent. Need to find out more. Talk with Ma and Baba next?
Her father was feeding on his staple diet of current news, almost drowning in the heaps of Bangla and English newspapers, when she walked in, but he looked over the edge of his reading glasses and enquired, “All good?”
Surprised to see her back that early, her mother asked, “What happened? Some nashta?”
“The pitch went well, Baba … I’ll have something after a shower, Ma.” This was the right moment to find out about the photograph from the orphanage. She cleared the lump that was beginning to form in her throat and said, her heart thumping uncontrollably, “I need to talk to the two of you, if that’s alright.”
“What’s it about?” Her mother asked, as she exchanged a look with her husband, but Sam had already disappeared into her room.
A delicious nashtaspread awaited her when she came back after a shower; her appetite, though, was gone. Her palm was sweaty from clutching at the envelope — a piece of her closeted past. In her head she phrased and rephrased what she would say, or how she would say it; it was tougher than the presentation. Her parents were seated at the dining table.
Her mother said, “Eat first. Are you planning to go back to the US again? Is Dhaka not working out for you? Is that it?”
“Dolon! Please, let her say what she wants to say. Baba, eat first. Let’s celebrate your pitch and then …”
“Baba, Ma, you two are the most important people in my life. Whatever I am today is because of the countless sacrifices you’ve made, and God knows how difficult they were. It wasn’t easy to provide for the education. I know that you have had to struggle through a lot — Baba’s work troubles, your relationship, my going away, Baba’s health, starting all over again — everything tested you to the limits and you persevered through it, not letting the flames touch me, not once. I am ever grateful for that. I might have been little but I understood all that you, and us as a family, went through. I’m proud of the values you have instilled in me. You are the kind of parents that every child deserves. Thank you …”
“Samira, what’s gotten into you …?” Her mother asked in a shaky voice. Mr. Murshid reached out and squeezed his wife’s hand.
“You must know that whatever disagreements we have, I will never stopping loving you. You will always be my Ma and Baba. But, I think I deserve to know the truth ...”
“Samira, enough, please, what gibberish is this …?” Her mother’s eyes were moist.
Sam pushed the envelope across the table towards them. They both looked at it but neither of them reached out for it.
Her mother just murmured, “Allah!”