IF THE traffic in Mumbai were not already gridlocked, it would be brought to a standstill. Crowds of people, stretching several blocks back, are converging on foot towards an auditorium in the south of the city. Outside it there are seven TV satellite-transmission vans, a battery of photographers, giant fans to cool the faithful, policemen and a Caucasian meathead-for-hire to keep an eye on them. It's not a Lady Gaga concert or a visit by Barack Obama. It's the annual general meeting of Reliance Industries, India's largest firm, run by its richest person, Mukesh Ambani. This is one of those rare moments when you can lecture a man who some say is the only person in India who is more powerful than the government.
When, at 11am precisely, the curtain finally rises over the stage and he rises to make a prayer sign towards the vast ranks of gathered shareholders, they rise together to applaud him back. If Berkshire Hathaway's annual gathering is the Woodstock of American investing, then Reliance Industry's shindig is its Indian equivalent. People from all over—Calcutta, Bangalore and Gujarat—have travelled here for today. There are precocious kids, elderly women clutching handwritten notes, worthy retirees with strong views on refinery design, and eccentrics with plastic bags full of the accounts of obscure subsidiaries which they say reveal a conspiracy.
And in the middle of it all, in the centre of the stage, his board of directors on either side, calm, dignified, word perfect, with his hair slicked back and a giant picture of his late father hanging behind him, is Mr Ambani. He reminds the audience that he has been coming to these events for 35 years, since he was a boy accompanying his dad, a former petrol-pump attendant who created an industrial power house. Dhirubhai Ambani created something else too: the idea of bypassing the financial establishment and selling his firm's shares to India's masses. He attracted them in droves in the 1970s and 1980s and many have stayed loyal and become rich as a result.
It is partly to this history that his son, Mukesh, now appeals. Reliance Industries is a superb example of a firm moving backwards along the value chain: in the 1970s it made textiles, by the 1980s it was making the raw material, polyester, by the 1990s it was making the chemicals that made the polyester, and the last decade has been about producing and generating the oil and gas those chemicals ultimately derive from. The next ten years, says Mr Ambani, will be about two new themes: the Indian consumer, to serve whom Reliance is building a big retailing operation, and the digitisation of all walks of life, in anticipation of which Reliance is expanding into broadband and content.
Enough of what the chairman thinks. There follow views from the shareholders: no fewer that 48 of whom have applied for and been granted permission to speak. They stand on podiums next to the stage, like "X-Factor" contestants, with red lights that flash if they have nattered for too long. There is, of course, lots of nonsense: gratuitous flattery, complaints about the ice-cream coupons the attendees got last year ("all ice and no cream"), proposals that Mr Ambani's wife, who is sitting and beaming in the front row, should join the board, and reflections on the relative freshness of Australian and Kashmiri apples. But there are also some impressively financially literate and self-assured speakers too, not least the frail old lady who peppers her deafening Hindi with English phrases such as "market capitalisation" and "shareholder value".
They ask the harder questions. Why is the share price depressed and will more cash be returned to shareholders? Why does the state prevent Reliance from realising a market price for the gas it produces, and why are its gas fields pumping less than expected? Will the new ventures overlap with the interests of Mr Mukesh's younger brother, Anil? He split from Mukesh and Reliance Industries in 2005, taking with him its telecoms, power generation, and finance divisions. Executives of his mobile business have been charged by investigators as part of the telecoms scandal that has gripped India, enraged the public and, presumably, infuriated his big brother. The loudest cheer of the day comes from an investor who denounces "black money" and asks Mr Mukesh Ambani to do so too.
To all, the cranks and the critics, the sycophants and the serious, Mr Ambani listens carefully, nodding and taking notes. This gathering, after all, has been part of the family trade for over 30 years. It is only after the third hour that he grows impatient, pinching the bridge of his nose and asking the speakers to be brief. Most obey but a few carry on regardless or even argue back: it is not often that one gets the chance to talk back to a man worth $27 billion. Just after 2pm Mr Ambani stands and makes his closing remarks. "We hear you loud and clear," he says, on increasing the dividend. But shareholders have to be in for the long haul, too. "All of us are big boys," he says. "We don't expect overnight rewards."
The final ritual is almost evangelical. Mr Ambani proposes motions and devotees in the front rows leap to raise their hand to second him. Then, to applause, the curtain over the stage falls again. It is over for another year. Outside the auditorium, Avinash Pure, a retired civil servant, is preparing to head back to the railway station. He says he bought his shares several decades ago for about 10 Rupees a piece and now that they are worth over 900, he is considering taking profits. Somehow, though, it seems likely that he will be here next year.
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