GOOD morning, I’m here to tell you about this great new offer,’’ I practise in my most beseeching voice. Staring back at me from the mirror is a desperate face, similar to the ones I’ve dismissed from my doorstep so many times. The face of someone who’s about to take her first turn as a door-to-door salesgirl.Bars of lemon- and strawberry-scented Harmony soaps clutched in one hand, my jhola laden with more, I’m ready to take on my first customer. The sultry weather has already styled the fatigued look that I need to evoke sympathy. Appropriately outfitted in a simple salwar-kameez, I saunter through the gates of the River Park housing complex in Mumbai’s western suburbs. To my relief, the guards don’t bother to stop me. Is that a bad sign? Mrs Sudha Bakshi on the first floor is about to help me find out. The door swings open, and the face of a two-year-old appears. A shrill screech assaults my ear drums: ‘‘Mummmmmyyyy!’’ Before I can recover, there is Mrs Bakshi, clutching her belan and looking most fearsome. ‘‘Good afternoon,’’ I stutter. ‘‘Would you like to buy some fragrant Harmony soaps?’’ A second’s wait, and the door slams in my face. Time to try a different home and tactic. They really should change that commercial to har door kuch kehta hain because you can tell a lot about people from their front doors. It may sound like sour grapes, but the Bakshis’ knocker—with a scowling gargoyle—was positively devilish. The Sharmas, on the other hand, have a simple white door—no frills, no evil aura. An elderly housewife, with streaks of white in her hair, answers the door. ‘‘Yes beta?’’ she asks gently. Before I know it, I am calling her aunty, and going over the sales pitch again. ‘‘Beta, salespeople are not allowed in the building. You’ll get into trouble if you get caught,’’ she says, quick to add that she will not report me. With a wink and a friendly smile, she closes the door quietly, providing some succour to my ego, deeply wounded on the first floor. ‘‘Try the neighbours,’’ she offers. “They’re shopaholics.’’So I do a 180 º turn and find myself at the Panjabis’ doorstep. Mrs Panjabi turns out to be an affable woman with a full-bodied laugh. Before I can say anything, she steps out. ‘‘What are you selling?’’ Taken aback by her prescience, I mumble ‘‘soaps, fragrant soaps,’’ thinking in my head, ‘I’m not marketing James Bond.’ ‘‘Just Rs 8, on the market they’re priced at Rs 10,’’ I add hopefully. When she offers me a tumbler of water, I know my first sale is in the bag. One down, it’s time to switch to a more effective and demanding technique called ‘Just for you.’ Though statistics guarantee results, my capacity to butter is about to be tested. So I head off to the B wing of River Park. (The guards glance curiously at me. Are they catching on?) Eenee,meenie, myna, mo, I think I’ll go to the fifth floor. The Lambas’ doorbell jingles a Wish You A Merry Christmas tune, but the face that appeared may as well have belonged to the Grinch. Nevertheless, this is no time to be cowed.‘‘Good afternoon, may I take a minute of your time?’’ An encouraging nod softens the stern countenance, and the rest as they say, is sales history. I am at my best, telling her about the special offer and even pitching a ‘buy two, get one free’ scheme. Ultimately, she buys two. On the way out, the guard hurries towards me, but I am faster. One thing I’ve learned is that few salespeople land up uninvited anymore. Direct marketing has given a facelift to door-to-door selling, and it means no more aimless bell hopping. They call, make appointments and turn up in business suits. But then, it’s not half as much fun as being insulted, thrown out, and still making a sale.
