An excerpt from Adman Madman by Rupangi Sharma and Prahlad Kakar
NB: Prahlad and I go back sixty-three years, so he is among the few l can classify as chaddi dost. I first saw him in knickers and hairy legs when his mum, a friend of my parents, brought him to the Sainik School Kunjpura in 1962; and told my father, who was its founder Principal and Army Signaler like Prahlad’s dad, “Eric you look after him now, I can’t manage.” There are many things I could say of our childhood, and I won’t write them down now, but a brief account of our schooldays may be read here.
As a self-professed madman, he’s permitted artistic license whilst committing memory to paper.
Pallu (for that was his nickname) and I never had anything in common, save our love for horses (we and our buddy Trilochan ‘Tippy’ Prabhakar often galloped through the Haryana countryside with the cold winter wind blowing through our hats); and our Bohemian irreverence. And that he adopted my parents as his own. He and his dear wife Mitali, who has also been a close friend; have lived life on their own terms, and we have spent many happy times together. Let me add that I heard Mitali telling a friend of hers once that she liked me because I was the only chap who could take Pallu’s chaddis off ! Not surprising that.
So keep rolling you old rascal; and hang on as long as you can. Love to both of you.
And thanks to the author of this introduction. Dilip
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Editor’s Note: Prahlad Kakar’s memoir, Adman Madman, co-written with Rupangi Sharma, is a treasure trove of unbelievable anecdotes—stories so wild they could only come from a man with a larger-than-life personality and an unmatched gift for storytelling. Outside of his illustrious career as one of India’s most iconic ad filmmakers, Kakar has lived a life that is as adventurous as it is entertaining. His unorthodox style, sharp wit, and boundless charisma shine through in every page, making the book a truly riveting read.
In this excerpt, Kakar recounts his childhood friendship with the celebrated academic Dilip Simeon, a former Naxalite whose life took a dramatic turn from rebellion to academia. Renowned for his incisive commentary and scholarship, Simeon has held prestigious positions at institutions like Princeton and SOAS, embodying a remarkable journey from rebellion to academia. I had the privilege of hearing Simeon lecture earlier this year, and it doesn’t come as a surprise that he shares a connection with Kakar—two extraordinary individuals shaped by extraordinary times.
This story of covert help, stolen goods, and silent support for rebellion is just one of the many unforgettable moments in Kakar’s memoir. The book masterfully blends personal and cultural reflections, offering a lens into the evolution of Indian advertising, society, and the daring exploits of Kakar himself.
Known for its engaging, no-holds-barred narrative style, Adman Madman is more than a memoir—it’s an inspiration for anyone fascinated by creativity, resilience, and the art of reinvention. Pick up a copy and prepare to be enthralled by the colorful, chaotic, and endlessly entertaining world of Prahlad Kakar.
Excerpt from Adman Madman
Our English teacher, Arthur David, grizzled and hard-bitten, was quite vindictive in small ways. I was his blue-eyed boy, not only because my English was impeccable, but also because of the football field incident. He had got the better of me as the ball trickled into the goal after ricocheting off my palms and crossing the line during a penalty shootout.
I noticed that he used to pick on a clean-cut, light-eyed boy called Dilip, who spoke excellent English and was good at his studies. It dawned on me after I got to know his surname that he was Colonel and Mrs Jean Simeon’s son. Mr. David had a bone to pick with the colonel and vindictively took it out on an unsuspecting Dilip. I would have hated to be in his shoes as he was baited and teased mercilessly because of his pedigree.
Dilip and I became terrific friends, as both of us were dismissed as angrez ki aulads. Because of my stream of pretty colourful, vituperative language that I used liberally on the parade ground, the Jat students would say, ‘Kakar, jo badi angrezi jhadta hai!’ Though I must say, Dilip worked hard to become a part of the Haryanvi crowd. He picked up the choicest of Jat abuses. He was an excellent horseman, and we also got along because of our shared love for horses.
Like me, Dilip didn’t join the services. He went to St Stephen’s College and majored in history. Post-school, we became even closer, as I spent my first year after school in Delhi, trying to get admission to a decent college, without much luck, thanks to my awful grades.
In his third year in college, Dilip Simeon suddenly went UG—the term romantically used by the many groupies and sympathizers of those who had gone underground—and became a Naxalite. He dropped off the map without a trace, and nobody knew where he was.
Dilip used to get along famously with my mother and loved her cooking, as most of my perpetually hungry college friends did. She always made sure to keep her fridge well stocked as a whole platoon of hungry college friends used to land up at odd hours to raid it.
So his worried parents finally got in touch with my mother, who seemed to be his only link with his past life. Though my mother’s link with Dilip was tenuous at best. He sometimes used to jump over our house’s back wall and come in through a conveniently open back door, kept unlatched at night, just in case. He would sneak in at the dead of night, wolf down some food from the fridge, wash the plates, and disappear the same way, drawing a smiley on a torn piece of paper.
That was the only way we knew of his comings and goings. Once he did not come for two months, and we worried and fretted, wondering whether he was okay or not. After two months of no nocturnal activity, the fridge was suddenly wiped clean one night, and we knew Dilip was back.
That was when the Naxal movement in West Bengal was at its heights. Indira Gandhi finally decided to break its back and wipe out the hardcore cadres of the Communist Party of India (Marxist–Leninist), whose motto was that political power comes from the barrel of a gun.
By that time, Colonel Simeon had retired from SSK and joined La Martiniere, Calcutta, as the principal. The then governor of West Bengal called Colonel and Mrs Simeon over for tea, and discreetly told them to get a hold of Dilip. He urged them to get him out of the country before the month ended, as he could not be responsible for Dilip’s safety.
The orders from the powers that be were unequivocal: ‘Take no prisoners!’
We always referred to our principal and his wife as ‘Pater’ and ‘Mater’ in school, so we left a message for Dilip in the fridge: ‘Call Pater! Urgent!’
He got the message in time and was whisked away by his parents to England, albeit kicking, biting, screaming, though not too loudly. And the rest is history.
West Bengal and Calcutta saw a bloodbath in the following months, and the Congress party never came back to power again.
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Of Bagpipes, Horses and Golden Orioles (2008)
Lt Col Eric Simeon’s hundredth birthday: October 29, 2018
Achintya Barua remembers Ranajit Guha
After the truth-shower 