The space sellers

Iqbal Sachdeva

If advertising is the life blood of a newspaper, space sellers are those articulate men and women who provide the daily blood transfusion to many publications. They sell dreams to the dream merchants, with no guarantee of returns, whatsoever.

“You are, perhaps, the youngest and handsome publicity manager, I have ever met,” exclaimed Katty, from a women’s magazine, as she took a deep puff at her pencil long cigarette pipe. I was 23, and worked in a tractor marketing company and had often heard such compliments.

Katty was a middle aged woman from Bombay, perhaps 39, nearly six feet tall in a low cut dress who hypnotised me into signing a release order for six full pages worth rupees thirty thousand those days. She took the order, shook my hand warmly, and left. I realised then that advertising tractors in a women’s magazine was more ridiculous than advertising condoms, but the damage had already been done. So when I hastened to make a confession to my kind-hearted boss, he said smilingly: “Don’t worry, my boy, we shall advertise our kitchen appliances of our sister company.”

Anandi was an aggressive sales woman from News Flag and known for her unique ways of doing business. She fixed up a meeting at 5 pm in my office one day. “I am flying to London tomorrow, and you are an important person on our list. I have been asked to talk to you before I depart,” she said in one breath while settling down in the chair.

I offered her a Coke which she gladly accepted. “How is the weather outside?” I asked the usual question. “Oh! It’s getting better. It’s cloudy and it might rain,” she replied with a smile. Her eyes brightened as she started off with her sales pitch about circulation, readership profile, cost effectiveness and demure editorial contents. “Companies like yours cannot afford to stay out of News Flag,” she said, as she spread back issues of the publication on my desk. She showed several ‘centre spread’ advertisements of some well known advertisers. Anandi was a charming lady, but for her slightly yellow front tooth.

The Coke had since arrived and was waiting. “I think, it’s time to go. Most people have already left,” I suggested. “It must be raining outside. I would like to make my last point, while we finish the Coke,” saying this, Anandi flashed out a pint of Rum from her large bag and topped up the glasses. “Cheers!” she said raising the toast and I, with no choice left, responded. “Don’t you think, it was a wonderful evening?” she said, while we took the elevators. “And don’t forget News Flag, we need your support,” she said, pressed my hand with affection and departed.

MS, who represented Sandhi, South India’s leading daily, had his own selling style. “For me selling vegetables and space is the same thing. If you don’t sell vegetables fast enough, they will perish and the unsold space will vanish— a loss to me and the paper,” he explained.

MS, on his very first meeting was warm, as if he knew me for ages. He took my business card, and God knows when he took my birth date and home address. A letter of thanks followed his visit. A few weeks later, I was pleasantly surprised when someone delivered flowers and greetings card from MS at my house on my birthday.

By now we had become friends and went for a couple of business lunches and shared the usual gossip. MS would often drop into my office unannounced, and I would not mind. But all these months, he never discussed business.

Come November, I myself phoned him to seek information about Sandhi to include it into our media plan for the next years’ marketing plan. MS promptly responded with information, yet never made a sales pitch. “Thank you, Sir for patronising Sandhi”, he said.

More than quarter century has passed since. I don’t know where Katty is. Anandi is a high profile freelance journalist and masquerades as a politician, but MS, with his black beard turned silver grey, continues to transfuse blood into several publications. His sparkling white kurta pyjama, psychedelic turban and radiant face even today exude the same friendly warmth.