Sylvester da Cunha: Ad world’s utterly butterly brilliant visionary passes away

"In a way, the Amul Butter advertising is a reflection of the man himself: Intelligent, witty, incisive."

It was the winter of 1969. I was working in London at the time and had come to Bombay on my way home in Hyderabad after six years. While I had no intention of returning permanently, I was curious about the state of advertising in India.

Sylvester da Cunha: Ad world’s utterly butterly brilliant visionary passes away

Since I had a couple of days to kill, I thought I’d meet up with a couple of creatives and see what was cooking.

But who?

It wasn’t that difficult. In the bland grey scene of advertising mediocrity, one and only one piece of advertising was screaming for attention: the Amul hoardings. I had to meet the man behind the iconic work – Sylvester da Cunha.

We hit if off instantly. As luck would have it, Sylvie was coming to Hyderabad and a week later we were sitting in the hallowed bar of the Secunderabad Club, guzzling whisky, while a strong friendship was taking root. “Mo, I am starting my own agency next year. Why don’t you come back and join me?”

Great guy. Doing great work. One year later I was back home as Creative Director of da Cunha Associates.

Think about it. Just three hoardings in India’s largest metro dominated the city’s consciousness.

In a way, the Amul Butter advertising is a reflection of the man himself: Intelligent, witty, incisive.

And above all, very correct. Sylvie was very particular about that. The line of what was proper and decent was never to be crossed.

An outstanding example of a classic Amul Butter hoarding was when Pakistan were playing a test series against India, and Zaheer Abbas was in full flow, hitting century after century.

And up went the hoarding: “Zaheer, Abbas!”

In the next innings, Zaheer got out for a duck, and up went a footnote on the same hoarding: Thank you!

I know of no other advertising phenomenon that has put a smile on a nation’s face for over 50 years, and continues to do so to this day.

At da Cunha’s there were rules. Unwritten rules. In an industry always scrambling for new business, and spending thousands of rupees on fancy presentations, Sylvie never ‘pitched’ for business.

If a client wanted to work with da Cunha, it was always Sylvie’s call whether he wanted to work with them. And a big budget wasn’t a good enough reason for him to take on an account. Sylvester da Cunha was not for sale.

Unwritten Rule no 2 was that Sylvie would not attend a meeting at the client’s office. The mountain had to come to Mohammed. I beg your pardon, I meant Sylvie!

And the meetings themselves were an absolute delight. Have you seen the new play? Wasn’t he fabulous? How was the anniversary dinner? Have you been to this new restaurant? Then the boring stuff: the advertising.

Sylvie ran his agency the old-fashioned way: transparency in his dealings, integrity in communication, and the fairest, kindest boss in a dog-eat-dog business.

I may have learnt my advertising from the gurus in London, but I learnt an awful lot about how to run an ad agency from Sylvie.

Returning from the funeral this evening, I couldn’t resist glancing at the all-too-familiar Amul hoarding on Marine Drive. I noticed the Amul boys were there, but the sweet little Amul girl with the chubby cheeks was missing.

I suspect she is shedding a tear somewhere private, mourning the passing of her creator.

(Mohammed Khan is the chairman of Enterprise Advertising)