What is good service? Home-grown traders and shopkeepers, in my experience, seem to have a better idea of service than many of the new-fangled corporate entities who advertise their service quality from the rooftops. The new service cadre of boys and girls at shop counters with their perfunctory smiles seem to have been trained to believe that service begins and ends with “how may I help you sir” or “have a good day, Madam.”
A recent experience led to this conclusion. A department store in a plaza had a sewing machine on sale, and was offering it at a discount. However, there was no salesperson at the store who could demonstrate the use of the machine, or indeed, even explain its basic features.
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
I thought it might be a better idea to look for a sewing machine at a specialised store and called up a yellow pages telephone service for some names. No sooner had I got the shop names than I got a call from one of them (for the yellow pages service also alerts the party concerned of the business enquiries).
“Give me your address,” said a Mr Jain, calling from Swati Sewing machines, which eventually turned out to be a small but well-stocked shed-like shop in the middle of a crowded market in suburban Malad. “I am sending my man right away to your house with all the brochures for sewing machines.” I insisted on visiting his shop instead. There, everything was practical and functional; there was no intricate glass or chrome or granite — wooden benches and tables, wooden shelves, and a single chair and desk, at which sat manager Mr Jain.
He had sewing machines imported from China and Switzerland; he had local unbranded machines that he said were workhorses at one-fourth the cost of a branded one. He said they could take any degree of ill treatment without falling apart, but you needed faith and guts to buy an unbranded machine like that, you needed to just believe him. He had a machine for every possible customer, from the housewife, to the professional designer, to the roadside tailor. What did I want, what would I use a machine for?
He quickly shortlisted two machines for me; they cost only half the model that I had originally considered at the plaza (and which he could have easily sold to me). Then, he summoned a boy in greasy clothes, who was hanging around. He was introduced as Sharma. This boy proceeded to take a sheet of cloth and demonstrate every facility of each of the shortlisted machines. Tea and soft drinks were ordered for me. And during the demonstration, Mr Jain kept up a constant chatter. Did I know that there is a man whose name is Hitler Yadav? He had received a letter from someone with that name!
CONTENTION OF CONTENTMENT
I finally left his shop with one of the shortlisted machines. With the machine came an hour of free tutorials at home from the flunkey in greasy clothes. And, any time I had a problem, Sharma, the resourceful, could be sent home, Jain assured me.
My romantic notions of a bygone store culture were shattered after a conversation regarding this with a friend, who said this wouldn't be economically possible if the country wanted an inclusive 9 per cent growth rate. Many of the ‘service luxuries' that we are used to possibly depended on the unorganised nature of the business.
In an organised business, the flunkey would probably be paid much more. The flunkey was working for so little because, in all likelihood, he had nowhere to stay, and Jain probably allowed him to sleep in the shop, and even cook for himself. In an organised place, there would be rules governing the flunkey's employment and work conditions.
However, I couldn't help but feel that the flunkey and Jain were both happy and contented. I haven't seen happy people at a new telecom service store or a private bank's service desk. But who is to explain that in the face of theory?