JUBAIL, 14 October 2006 — I have a deep-rooted aversion to offering substitutions of any kind to anyone, be it a computer or a soft drink. This has a history connected to my maiden entry into the employment market and the unceremoniously melodramatic conclusion of that otherwise jovial chapter.
At 21 when I graduated in English literature my brain had already turned into a replica of a British cemetery with statistical data on the life and death of literary giants from Chaucer to Thomas Hardy. I always wondered why universities were competing with each other to exclude the living men and women of letters from their venerable curriculums. Maybe an unknown commandment ‘Thou shall not study the living’ might have been in force somewhere.
My father glanced through my certificate and blurted out a solemn soliloquy — ‘Common sense still continues to be the rank outsider in any university curriculum’. He ordered me to move to a far away city in search of gainful employment. Though I took his orders as a sacrilege to my youthful dreams, I boarded the train to urban misery the next day.
Newly opened superstores that sold A to Z of everything under one roof accepted me as salesman. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Confused, lost & misguided but somehow happy. The manager looked like a recently retired sumo wrestler but he was patronizing.
One day an old lady came to the counter and asked for Vinolia soap. I politely told her that it was currently out of stock. She stood there for a few seconds and left without buying anything. I had no idea that my sumo star manager was observing me keenly. As soon as the old lady left the store, he beckoned me to his side.
“Never allow a customer to leave the store without buying something. Always offer substitutes when we are out of stock for any item. If we don’t have Lux, offer Rexona. If we don’t have Rexona, offer Santoor. If we don’t have coconut oil, encourage the customer to try olive oil.” The litany of substitutions went on for quite sometime and concluded with a not-so-friendly pat on my shoulder.
My tryst with customers continued. Then came the chic. She was the in thing of everything feminine. I could not take my eyes away from her. Like a ballerina on a dancing floor she moved toward me. Everyone was looking at me with envy and jealousy. “I need some toilet paper”
I thought that even her voice was perfumed but to my horror I found out that our stock of toilet paper had run out. From the corner of my eye I could see the sumo wrestler watching my every move. My mind started a frantic search for a substitute.
Eureka! I found it. With all the charm I could muster, I told her, “Sorry we don’t have toilet paper. But why don’t you try sandpaper? We have a sufficient stock of excellent quality sandpaper.”
The response was instantaneous. I learned in the toughest way that the sumo wrestler look on the person of my manager was not faked.
