SALESMEN AND GENES
by
Iqbal
Sachdeva
‘Salesmen are born and not made’, I
argued with Henry, the regional sales manager of our company in Calcutta.
‘No,’ said Henry, ‘You can make
anything out of anybody.’
Henry, a 6'3" tall American with a
quarter century of experience in several countries of Asia, was known for his
skills, dress sense and mannerism.
As the clock struck
10.30 am, Henry got up from his chair and said: ‘Excuse me, I have to be with my boys before
they leave for the market.’ And he walked out of the room expecting me to come trailing
behind.
Out in the main hall, about a dozen
city salesmen stood in a row waiting for his inspection. Henry would stop to
shake hands with each one, pass a comment or two and get back the nods.
‘You have not shaved your bushy beard
today, Bhowmik. Why? I think you need one badly. Take care, my boy.
‘Look at your dirty collars, Puri. Your
wife did not keep a clean shirt for you today. Is she OK?
‘What is wrong with your tie, Sondhi?
There is something odd. It does not
match with your turban.’
‘What do your swollen eyes tell, Amrit?
Had you a late night or one too many with a dealer friend? Take care man!’
‘Looks you ran out of money to get a
haircut on the weekend, Mithun. Borrow some from me if you will.’
‘Hey Chand! look at your boots and bag. When did you
shine them last, you lazy lout?’
‘And show me your price list and catalogue once again. Have you updated it? Don’t you quote old prices
once again, Dimpy boy.’
‘Hey Shoki! I must send you to a public speaking course, next week. I think
you are doing a good job.
‘Listen man, Listen! I know you are
a big talker. But that’s not the only thing you need. Listen to your customers.
Every complaint is an opportunity to sell more. Remember, Furtado.’
‘And all of you listen boys. The target for the day is 1
million, equally divided amongst the 10 of you. No excuses. Good Luck and Good
Selling!’
Back in the office, Henry turned to me and said:’ My men
must look good. If they look good, they do good.’
‘But coming back to our discussion, salesmen must have
something in common, the gift of the gab, which God gives only to some,’ I
said.
‘Well,’ said Henry, the name of the game is not selling a
razor blade to Rajneesh, but satisfying the needs of the customer. I will tell
you a story. Once a dealer wanted a first class salesman to sell a 1914 (first
World War) vintage diesel engine he was stuck with. Quite a few came for the
job, but none agreed to sell the machine. But one said he would try.’
‘How?’ asked the dealer. ‘Because I am a second class
salesman. The first class was the one who sold it to you in 1914,’ said the
man.
‘So the moral of the story is, that you don’t have to be
born a super salesman. You have to learn to sell,’ said Henry, adding, ‘ even
if you are the son of a super salesman, there is no guarantee that you will be
a great salesman. Genes don’t work that way.’
‘Yea! I guess you are right.
Everybody can be what everybody wants to be in life, even the Salesmen,
and even Saints and Scoundrels.’ I replied thoughtfully.
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