The Hindu Business Line : Good business sense ‘lightens’ up the day for vendors

Local trains have turned Deepavali bazaars with everything on negotiated sale. Stand in a queue for 30 minutes at the railway counter, buy a second class ticket and board the local train. Even before the train moves out of Churchgate, vendors form a mobile buffet, serving hot samosas, sandwiches and cold water at Rs 10 per offering. They carry the stuff in plastic bags to make life a bit easy for the Mumbaikar.

At Mumbai Central station, a gentleman elbows others to get into the second class compartment. He is well but gaudily dressed in a brown pant, white shirt, green tie. He stands in the aisle and claps to get the attention of the samosa-munching Mumbaikar. “Bhaion aur bhanon, do minute. Ye, plastic cover aap kahin bhi laga sakthe hain; aaj ke Deepavali mein aap apne ghar sajaen. Bus Rs 20, aur phikar na karen, maal China mein bani hai (Brothers and sister, two minutes. You can dress your home this Deepavali with the Made in China plastic cover. It can be used anywhere),” he hails in Hindi.

After a minute sales talk, he wades through the coach handing over plastic covers to a few. Some check out the covers in detail, while others try to scale down the price to Rs 10. “Saab, mere ko bhi Deepavali manane ka hai (Saab, I also want to enjoy Deepavali),” he pleads and closes the deal at Rs 15 per piece. That becomes the floor price for others and the man in brown sells 10 pieces in the 10-minutes it takes to reach Dadar, where my friend alights to jump into the next coach. At Dadar, two Sikh boys in blue turbans and black uniforms board the train. They have maps of Mumbai, India and packs of playing cards with grinning King Khans and lovely Kareena Kapoors. They live in Mulund on the Central Railway and their father is a panthi, one of the boys had told me some time ago. They do not cry out their ware. They sidle around quietly and draw your attention with “maps, maps, India and Mumbai.”

Thankfully, they are not made in China which may disappoint my Marxist friends; they are made in some garage in Kandivili and one doubts whether they are to scale. But no matter. An elderly and hefty gentleman taking up the sitting space of two passengers says: “Bachhe hain (They are children)” and buys one map of Mumbai for Rs 10 and urges others to help the cause.

The two sell their stock of playing cards by the time the train touches Bandra with each pack costing Rs 20. They are aware of Deepavali nights being generally spent around card playing tables and it is good business sense to hawk the fastest moving items on Deepavali days.

At Bandra, they get down for another salesman to pitch his sales – this time of sketch and drawing books with colour pencils. He has no tie but the black pant decidedly does not go well with the maroon shirt though one thought his hair-do has a touch of Mahendra Singh Dhoni. To be fair, Dhoni has lots of hair style and little of cricket style, but that dear reader, is another matter for Dilip Vengsarkar to ponder.

This day nobody blamed Dhoni nor did the crowd take offence at the vendor. He has to look something to sell sketch books. He looks around and is a trifle disappointed over the absence of kids in the compartment. “Deepavali ke chutti mein bachhon ko drawing sikhaiye (Teach your kids drawing during Deepavali holidays),” he says in a soft introductory tone. If there were kids around they could nudge their parents to buy; but parents on a stand alone basis are hard-to-impress clients.

But this Deepavali, Goddess Lakshmi does not desert him. At Andheri station, some three families with kids push themselves into the compartment and my man smells business. In the 20 minutes to reach Borivili station, the man exhausts his stocks of sketch books, drawing books and colour pencils (all made in China); every book is sold at Rs 20 per piece with the colour pencils billed at Rs 10. The children turn quiet and the parents earn a respite. One got down at Borivili station along with the fellow. He went to a tea shop at the station, ordered a wada pav and tea. One heard him telling the tea shop owner, “Bhagwan bachaye, aaj din achha gaya (Thank God, the day went well).”

Crisp business deals are always closed in train journeys back home with none taking the morning trains. Possibly, the vendors realise that in the mornings, the Mumbaikar is tense gambling on the Sensex, going boom, boom like Afridi; and that in the evenings, the Mumbaikar will have some cash for the four days of Deepavali.

One watches as the Mumbaikar proudly tugs along packets of sweets or Cadbury’s Celebrations probably gifted by his boss, who is on his best behaviour with a tobacco-stained smile. The first smear of cheer on the face of a Mumbaikar has become a wide smile and he is evidently enjoying it.

When this writer first came to this blessed city, he was a bit surprised over the prayers to Goddess Lakshmi.

At home or for that matter in Calcutta or Kerala, Goddess Lakshmi always comes after Goddess Saraswati. One was taught to make money and scorn at others who made it. Money looks good on you, dirty on others, went the maxim.

One grasped the honesty in fervently praying to Goddess Lakshmi with “Shub Labh (Sacred Profit)” rangolis placed at her feet. Mumbai taught me to love money and I love it; I love it also on others.

P. Devarajan

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