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It was 1982. As students of management studies at the University of Allahabad we were conducting the annual seminar on concepts and principles of management. It was planned to be a grand affair, with students from various management institutes invited to participate and speakers from industry and academia. To make it a success we needed funds, and the more elaborate the program became, the more funds were needed to cover accommodation, local transport, meals, cultural events, et al.
Costs were spiralling and sponsorships were few and far between. Local companies had chipped in, but that wasn’t enough. We were at our wits’ end. I was part of the special fundraising committee and under tremendous pressure. Suddenly I had an idea and shared it with my dear friend, the late Syed Asif Ali. We decided to make a quick trip to Bombay to seek company sponsorships. We had a list of companies to contact immediately on arrival. Most of them — Cadbury, Hindustan Lever, Tata, Bajaj, Indian Oil, Shipping Corporation of India, etc — were cold calls.
After two days we nearly broke down in despair. Each time we asked to meet someone we heard the same refrain, "Sorry, he’s in a meeting.” What is this dreaded word "meeting,” we wondered? (Now, after 40 years in the business, I still am trying to fathom that.) We had managed to get a mere three people to listen to and give us some help by way of an advertisement for the souvenir.
On the last afternoon Asif had some pressing personal work so he buzzed off to meet a friend. I walked around Flora Fountain looking for a cold drink to stave off the humidity when I suddenly stumbled upon an arched entrance which read Bombay House. "Aaah, this is it… The head office of the Tatas... This is where the corporate communications head or public relations manager would be,” I thought. It was about 5.45 in the evening and folks were streaming out, some almost running. There was a rather timid looking guard at the foot of a very elegant wooden staircase. I asked him where the marketing/corporate communication office was. He pointed upstairs. In the good old days there was no frisking, no identity cards, no electronic barriers.
As soon as I reached the first floor, I saw a wooden door and heard some sounds coming from behind it. Without ado, I knocked and pushed the door open to find a frail looking, Anglo-Indian man with his glasses perched rather low on his nose, looking up from his papers. "Yes?” he inquired. I was a bit frazzled as I didn’t know who he was. "Sir, I have come to meet the corporate communications head of Tatas,” I said. He nearly snorted and replied, "Young man, this is Tata Group (chairman) Mr J. R. D. Tata’s (JRD) office. How did you get here?” I pleaded innocently: "I have come from Allahabad. Can I meet Mr J. R. D. Tata please? I need him to help us with a souvenir ad, for our seminar.” The gent almost choked on his own laughter, "You want to meet Mr Tata for a souvenir ad? He’s very busy and can’t meet you now. Leave the papers with me and we will see what we can do.”
Just then the door connecting two rooms swung open and out walked JRD himself with some papers to hand over to his personal assistant, Raymond D’Souza.
I grabbed my chance. Quickly taking a few steps towards him, I stuck out my hand and said, "Hello Mr Tata, my name is Navroze Dhondy, and I have come from Allahabad!” Tata held my hand in a handshake: firm yet gentle. With a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face he remarked, "Navroze from Allahabad? You’re a Parsi, aren’t you?” I quickly nodded and the "Yes Sir” that followed was the fastest I had ever blurted out. "What brings you here to meet me?” he asked. I trembled before answering, "Mr Tata, we wanted to get a souvenir ad for our brochure as we are conducting a seminar on management at the management department.”
For a moment I thought that was the end of my little dream… but instead I got a big smile. Putting his arm around my shoulders he took me into his room, a very large one painted in light teal, with a beautiful mahogany table. There were some lovely table lamps glowing with warm orange light, but nothing compared to the warmth of the great man who had ushered in a 20-year-old into a world of disbelief.
For the next 30 minutes we had the most fascinating chat. A conversation during which he recalled that when he was a young pilot Allahabad was one of the five compulsory stops for the London-Melbourne Air Race in the 1930s. But, most importantly, he wanted to know about the management department of the University, which he reminded me was referred to as the Oxford of the East and, of course, the Parsi community in Allahabad. He was curious about why so many Parsi families had moved to Allahabad. When I told him that the community was engaged in diverse fields, the discussion became deeper. There was a childlike keenness to know.
In the bargain I was treated to some very special tea served in fine china, along with cookies. For a young student to experience this in the company of a living legend was a dream come true. After two cups of tea, he suddenly looked at his watch and said, "Oh, Navroze, I didn’t realize how much time has zipped by… I have to meet someone so I am sorry we will have to end this very interesting discussion. Thank you so much for giving me such insights into Allahabad… By the way, what souvenir ad did you mention?”
I told him that the papers were outside with his secretary.
He walked me out to the antechamber, spoke with the gent there, and signed the form I had carried, immediately approving the Tata ad for a princely sum of Rs 5,000. He quickly shook my hand, smiled warmly and said, "Best of luck, young man” before disappearing through the connecting door. For a few seconds I stood transfixed, gazing at the door as it swung shut. What a lesson in humility, modesty and people management I had experienced! From one of the most powerful persons in the country who had made me feel like a king.
But the story doesn’t end there. In 1987 I was working at the advertising agency Lintas in Bombay and lived near Kemps Corner. One Saturday evening while waiting for the signal to turn green so I could cross the road, I saw a car draw up at the zebra crossing. Through the car window I spotted JRD, who was busy reading, possibly the Afternoon Despatch & Courier or the mid-day newspaper. I hastened my step, reached the car and tapped on the window. JRD looked up, somewhat perplexed. He rolled down the window and said "Yes?” I yelled out over the loud traffic noise at Kemps Corner: "Hello, Mr Tata, remember me? Navroze, from Allahabad.” His quizzical expression changed into to a big grin, as he replied, "Ah yes, how are you?” and he stuck his hand out for a quick shake.
The signal turned from red to green and his white Mercedes (I think that’s the car he was in) whizzed up and over the Kemps Corner flyover.

Dhondy posted this on the 119th anniversary of Tata’s birth on July 29, 2023. Parsiana has reproduced it with his consent.