CHAPTER 8

HITCHHIKING TO WORK IN MUMBAI

Focusing on your own actions moves you
through the distractions.

Sometimes we feel stuck because there seems to be too much to do in any day. Families rush through breakfast, rush to school, rush to beat the traffic to work, then deal with all the boss’s demands. Will we make the 6:45 train home or have to wait another hour and miss dinner? How did we forget to call Mom and Dad last week? What about the prescription that’s been waiting at the pharmacy for two days? Why did I ever volunteer to be a soccer coach for the kids on Saturday? I can’t believe I have to pay that parking ticket when I was just running in to the dry cleaner for two minutes . . . And then one day you look at your child, your spouse, or yourself in the mirror and realize that twenty years have raced by.

With distractions and challenges around every corner, it’s easy to feel as if we’re running around a hamster wheel and getting nowhere. How can we fit in more risks, adventures, and unknowns when our plate already seems overflowing? We’ve all been there.

But my goal in this chapter is to take away your excuses for feeling overloaded. I’ll introduce you to a man with an impossible commute, a nearly impossible job, and only one day off each week. Working for a day alongside this sales representative in India’s busiest and likely most complex city helped me realize how important it is to have a purpose, to serve others, and to keep moving forward.

Tushar was waiting for me at 9:45 a.m., as he had promised. I found him in the lobby of my hotel, among a handful of men with cell phones attached to their ears. I introduced myself, put out my hand, and received the soft handshake that I had gotten used to receiving from so many in India.

I had spent a few weeks in the field in 1997, riding along with a sales rep in India, and I was excited by the chance to do it again. I wanted to see what it was like to be a sales rep in our modern times in one of the most complex and challenging areas of India—Mumbai.

With a population of more than 20 million people, Mumbai is a city like no other. It’s the financial capital of India, the home of Bollywood and billionaires, but also has some of the world’s biggest slums. Given the city’s diverse, overcrowded, complex culture and its dilapidated infrastructure, it seemed like the perfect place to see modern India collide with old India amid chaos.

“Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to spend the day with you in the field, Tushar. I really appreciate it,” I said. I politely waited for his reply, but he shook his head and smiled. To fill the silence while we were waiting for the car to come around to the front of the hotel, I made some small talk.

“How long did it take you to get here? I know that Mumbai traffic is pretty bad in the morning, and especially on a Monday. Do you live far from here?”

Casually, he responded, “Not far. About fifteen kilometers. It took me about two hours to get here.”

Shocked, and feeling a little guilty that it took him so long to get to the hotel, I suggested a cup of tea or coffee in the lobby before we proceeded to the field. He declined, saying that he’d had his breakfast at home.

We proceeded to the revolving door of the hotel and went outside to wait for the rental car and driver. Because he was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company, I assumed Tushar had a company scooter or something, so I asked him where he would leave his scooter while we were meeting with his customers in the field.

“I don’t have a scooter, sir. Company doesn’t give us a car or a scooter.”

“So how did you get here?” I asked in amazement.

With a smile, he answered, “I stopped a few motorcycles.”

“You did what?”

“I stopped a motorcycle that was headed in my direction and then hopped on, and then another towards the airport, and then the last one towards here.”

I was surprised and asked him to show me how he would stop a motorcycle to give him a ride.

Waving his right hand by his waist as if he were petting a large dog, he said, “You wave your hand to signal that you want the motorcycle driver to slow down. Then he stops and you ask him to drop you a few kilometers, because he’s headed that way anyway. But you have to know when to get off. That’s the hard part.”

“So you hitchhiked on three different motorcycles?”

“Yes, I guess that’s what you call it.”

“Is it common?”

“Yes, a lot of people do it. It’s the only way around in the city. The company doesn’t give us transportation.”

I expected him to be a little unhappy or disappointed, so I said, “Too bad.”

Without a hint of sarcasm or disappointment, and with a genuine smile, he said, “Not a problem, sir. No issue.”

We got into the rental car with the local driver and headed to Tushar’s sales territory. It was supposed to take about an hour and half, so I started asking Tushar about how he works, what products he promotes, how his customers perceive his job, and about the day-to-day challenges of being a sales rep in one of the toughest territories in the world.

Tushar had been with his company for seventeen years and was at ease with himself and his surroundings. He had neither the overenthusiasm of a young, ambitious man just out of college nor the stale persona of someone who’s been there and done that. His job was to provide doctors with medical and scientific information about his company’s products, which the doctors would then use when recommending a medication to their patients.

Tushar’s main product was also sold by about a dozen or so competitors, who offered exactly the same product under different brand names. But there was one small difference between his company’s product and those of his competitors: his product was slightly more expensive. Tough job, especially in India, where most people live on less than a dollar a day.

On our way, I asked how he saw the evolution of the sales force these days. How had things changed, given the growth of the Indian economy? What were the age groups of the sales force? Were they older or younger? How much did they make these days? How was morale? How had changes in technology changed the sales job in India? As a former salesperson, I am always curious about the changing nature and evolution of the field.

“It hasn’t changed much since the last time, probably,” he answered. “We have a lot more younger generation coming in, but they never seem to stick around in one job for too long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they typically enter the sales profession with another company, work for three or four years maximum, then hop over to our company to get the brand on their résumé. Often they are getting paid the same as those of us who have been here longer . . . and are loyal.”

I thought this might be a sore point, so I suggested we change the topic.

“I don’t mind talking about it anymore. It used to bother me a great deal at first, and sometimes it still does. That someone else is making more money simply because they came from another company. Or if they’re in a higher position because of some internal political reasons. I don’t think about it.”

Then we arrived at one of the largest hospitals Tushar was going to take me to, JJ Hospital. It’s a government hospital, and I felt familiar nausea as we walked in and saw crowds of people everywhere. White bandages covering an eye; blood-stained shirts that seemed to have dried over a day or so; the smell of ammonia diluted with brown water. It seemed that good old-fashioned government hospitals hadn’t changed since I’d last been in one in the late 1970s, when I lived in India.

One of Tushar’s colleagues, who covered that territory and that specific hospital account, met us in the lobby to take us upstairs to meet one of the most important customers, a cardiologist. It was only 11:30 a.m. and already about ninety degrees. There was a throng of people waiting for an elevator that probably hadn’t been serviced since the 1950s, and I began to get a little nervous about being in such a hot, tight space with sick patients.

One of the patients standing in front of us began coughing—one of those deep coughs that take about a minute to finish.

I am so outta here. I am not about to get in that rusty sardine can with him.

I suggested that taking the stairs might be good, for some exercise.

As we arrived on the sixth floor, huffing a little, I saw sick patients all over the floor of the long hallway—some recovering, some just admitted, some eating with their families along the corridor, with nothing but thin, whitish sheets to separate them from the coldness of the floor. They were just lying there. No beds. No room.

Walking through the maze of sick patients, Tushar encouraged me to keep walking, assuring me that this was normal.

When we arrived at the cardiac catheterization lab, we were told that the doctor was not available.

“The doctor asked us to meet him here at this time,” Tushar pleaded with the head nurse, who directed us to the small waiting area that served as a doctors’ lounge. It was about eight feet by eight feet and had two small sofas with torn cushions that seemed to be burned around the side. As we waited, and waited, and waited, we realized that the doctor we were waiting to see was doing an emergency procedure.

After an hour and half, we finally got to see the doctor, who walked up to us with his surgeon’s gear still on and put out his hand to say hello. We started talking while his nurse took off his gear, and then he sat to chat. He had a calm demeanor and seemed to be on friendly terms with Tushar. I realized that, because I was a visitor from headquarters, Tushar had taken me to some of his friendlier customers, but he still had a clear grasp of the product and a terrific, genuine relationship with the doctor.

After a few minutes, the nurse ran in and told the doctor he was needed in the operating room. That was our cue. We said thank you and took our leave.

Apparently feeling a little guilty that we had spent two hours waiting for a two-minute sales call, Tushar said, “Monday mornings are tough.”

“I’ve been there, Tushar. No need to explain. Don’t worry. I understand completely.”

As we headed into Mumbai traffic toward the next hospital, I asked Tushar about his life, whether he had a family, how old he was, and how long he’d been a rep. He told me his son was in a local college and his wife was at home. He didn’t make a lot of money, by any means, but he seemed content.

“The twentieth of the month is always the hardest,” he said. That was the day the bills were due. “But we make it work somehow. No issue.”

For the next few hours, we visited a handful of other customers spread throughout a more modern building, about an hour away from JJ Hospital. This hospital was a little cleaner because it was private and served Mumbai’s middle class. Nonetheless, it was very crowded, not only with patients but also with lots of sales reps from competing companies.

The waiting area for our next doctor was packed with patients. We took a seat, waiting for the nurse or receptionist to call our name.

“Mondays are tough,” Tushar repeated, and I was getting the feeling that my request to spend a day in the field with a Mumbai sales rep had made his life a little difficult that day.

While we waited, I tried to make him a little more comfortable by asking him more about his family and what he did on the weekends. Like most sales reps in India, Tushar worked six days a week, Sunday being his only day off. Most weeknights, he was in the field meeting his customers until about 10 p.m.

“They are more relaxed from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m., after they’ve finished seeing their patients,” he said. “I feel great when I get to talk with them so openly around that time. We’re all a little more relaxed then.”

On his day off, for the previous several years, Tushar, his wife, and a handful of neighbors had gone door to door around their neighborhood, asking people to donate old newspapers and magazines, which they sold by the pound to a wholesaler. Then they took the money to a secondhand medical supplier and bought old medical devices—crutches, wheelchairs retrofitted for India’s dirt roads, neck braces, arm devices, and so on. And one Sunday every month they went to a village about four or five hours from Mumbai and held a health fair, donating these supplies to handicapped kids living in rural poverty.

As Tushar was telling me this story of his life outside of work, I was in awe, thinking what a wonderful thing this was to do. I also noticed a great enthusiasm on his face that I hadn’t seen all day. I started to get choked up as he showed me the photos of handicapped kids in the charity’s homemade brochure, which he carried with him in his backpack. It breaks your heart.

Just then, a competitor’s sales rep arrived. He was younger man with serious intentions of impressing the manager he was traveling with that day by getting past all the patients in the waiting room. I had to shake myself out of thinking about those little kids when the door opened and the doctor was about to call in his next patient.

Tushar somehow managed to get in front of the line of seven people and throw in his “Hello, sir” with a smile. The doctor saw him and told his staff to ask the patient to wait for a few minutes while he met with Tushar and me.

The sales call with the doctor went very well. Tushar initiated a brief but substantive conversation about some information that the doctor had not seen on previous visits, and after a few minutes we were done. We thanked the doctor for his valuable time and headed back to the waiting room.

As we stepped outside the door, about a dozen people rose, all thinking they would be next. Among the growing crowd there seemed to be more competitor sales reps, waiting for their chance.

“Do you know any of the competitor reps?” I asked. “Or how they’re promoting their products? Or how they’re positioning your product?”

“Not really,” he answered.

I was surprised at his response, so I inquired further.

“Don’t you want to be prepared and understand how to promote against them?”

“Why bother about them when I can do nothing about them and they change so frequently?” he answered, almost philosophically.

There was something about Tushar that intrigued me. During the two-hour car ride back to the hotel, he seemed as relaxed and comfortable as he had been in the morning. I asked how he dealt with all those competitors.

“I mean, how do you sell against sales reps who are promoting the exact same product, only a different brand? The competition is overwhelming. You don’t have the basic transportation required to get around. You have to step over sick and bleeding patients to walk into the clinic to see your customers for perhaps one to two minutes. You have to fight with seven other sales reps just to be seen. It’s a madhouse. It’s a really difficult job. You’ve got so many people doing exactly what you do. How do you continue to move forward? It’s amazing that you are able to be as successful as you are!”

Looking out the window as we drove by skyscrapers worth billions of U.S. dollars yet overlooking one of the poorest slums in all of Asia, he explained, “I don’t worry about them because that serves no purpose. Rather, it is better to fix yourself and your mind than to try to understand other people. You can get lost in trying to think about what others say, think, or do.”

He started to paint the colors around his story and it began to become clearer. A few years before, Tushar had been a very anxious and stressed-out person. He was a type A personality who used to plan, prepare, and execute. He was highly trained, motivated, and intent on high performance. He did what he was told to do—precall analysis, postcall analysis, paperwork, expense reports, sales reports, and the rest. But the stress was hurting him.

He was overloaded by more information, more competitors to track, more complexity in trying to figure out his customers, increasing unpredictability in a growing but fragile economy, and he became overwhelmed, angry, and frustrated. He didn’t know what to do because there was so much coming at him so fast.

Then the monsoon came. It was a year of severe flooding like no other year in the streets of Mumbai. On his way home to his humble apartment he saw many people made homeless by the monsoon, and he made up his mind to do something to help them. Tushar and his wife took all the food out of their meager cupboard and put it into a bag. Then they carried it to the nearest makeshift tent where some of the homeless were living and gave it all away.

That night, he told me, he carried home a joy he hadn’t felt in years. He suggested to his wife that they ought to do more of that, because it was so important to help others, and she mentioned a guru from her home city of Chennai who spoke fervently about giving to others as a way of gaining salvation for the soul. Skeptical but a little curious, Tushar went to see the guru speak. He was sold.

And so began Tushar’s transformation from what he described as a stressed person, overthinking about others, to a more serene man who now knew where to focus.

“I started to realize that what I was trying to do was to force things around me to change. Very easily, I would get so upset at what other people would say or do. But my guru taught me to mind my own business. To let things be as they are and not worry about what others do but to mind what I do. To concentrate all my efforts on improving myself.”

Excited about sharing an open secret, he explained further.

“Before, when a street beggar would ask me for money, I would say no because I knew that he might not use that money for food but instead waste it on alcohol or drugs. But my guru said, ‘That’s not your concern. You take the action that you take without minding what the beggar does. Don’t have opinions of others. Don’t let the opinions of others affect you. Just let all opinions be still. Let the thoughts and actions of others be still.’

“I became happier the moment I stopped putting my attention on others. Now I don’t worry about trying to understand others or try to change others. What I work on changing is me.”

As we finished our trip together that evening, my body was exhausted but my soul was refreshed. I had learned a valuable lesson that day, not only about how a sales rep in Mumbai promotes his products with very little sophisticated technology, amid the logistical nightmare of getting around, with cutthroat competition and a complex environment, but also about how our own thoughts can prevent us from moving forward in life and succeeding in chaos. In the process of reordering his own thinking, Tushar also had realized that he was better off directing his thoughts at himself and focusing his actions toward serving others rather than spending energy on all the distractions of life.