How I Found Myself Selling an Amusement Park in a Territory No One Wanted

My first full-time job was as a sales executive with a travel agency in Santacruz (West), Mumbai — then Bombay. I was the last one hired in a team of twelve, and I got the territory nobody else wanted: New Bombay and Kalina.

That first day, I spoke to the Sales Manager, the owner, the partner, the accountant, travel agents, and bus drivers. The agency was famous for its fleet of luxury buses that ran on schedule to various parts of the state and beyond. I got some brochures of what I was supposed to sell, a reasonable brief about my target market and customer segment, and a reporting form with a prospect tracker.

What was I selling? EsselWorld — a new amusement park that had just opened. The agency was appointed as the GSA, General Sales Agent. Built on one of the outlying islands of Mumbai, it was apparently great: the latest and most modern rides, excellent eating outlets, massive roller coasters. The works.

My target market? Schools.

By the end of the first week, every other salesperson had an impressive list of prospects, first contacts done, and one had already received a verbal commitment for fifty students from a single grade.

Me? I had found that my New Bombay territory was enormous — kilometres and kilometres of yet-to-be-developed marshland, forest, hilly, rural and semi-urban terrain, mainly an industrial zone. To give you a comparison, one colleague had Borivali (about 12 sqkm), another had Bandra, Khar, Santacruz, Vile Parle on the western line (approx 12 sqkm). New Bombay was more than 150 sqkms at that time. Good news? There were educational institutions scattered somewhere within that territory. How many? No one knew. Where? No one seemed to know. Kalina was slightly better; there were schools. I just had to figure out how to map them.

By the end of the first week I had made four sales calls, those were the only four on my prospect list, and none of them were enthusiastic about hauling their students to a location two and a half hours away at a price roughly ten times higher than the usual annual picnic budget per student.

My colleagues were sympathetic — most were a couple of years older than me and always encouraging. The Sales Manager was fair, focused, and a hard taskmaster, but he treated me the same as anyone else.

My only achievement in Week 1 was that when the EsselWorld honcho visited on the weekend, I asked if I could come and see the park. That led to the agency owner sending almost everyone to EsselWorld on a bus the very next day.

By the end of the second week, I realised there was no point attending the daily office briefing. The Sales Manager initially insisted. I explained the situation: I had to change two buses to reach my territory, about two hours one way. I used to leave home at 8 am to get to Vashi — the beginning of my territory and the only developed area — by 10.30. Once I got off the bus there was no transport, not even rickshaws, not that I could have afforded one. So I walked everywhere. The environment was dusty, as developing areas are. If I needed to reach the next suburb it meant waiting for a bus or an occasional six-seater, or hitching a ride on a tempo or a truck. When I found a school, I usually had to wait at least an hour before I got to meet the administrator. That waiting gave me a lot of time to watch the children and talk with them. They were always curious, always full of questions. Most came from very humble backgrounds, like our family.

This was 1992. No mobile, no internet, not even a computer at home or in the office. Everything was pen and paper. We did not have a telephone at home either. I decided that Mondays were a good day to go to the office, make calls, sit with the telephone directory, and build a list of schools. Thinking also gives you new ideas. Some schools began by 7 or 7.30 am, so I started leaving home at 6. I got there faster, always found seats on the buses, and covered more schools in a day.

In the fourth week I got lucky. One of my neighbours was the principal of a women's university, and she gave me one name: the principal of a convent school in Kalina. For the next three days I went to the school until I was finally able to meet Sister Mary. And that changed everything.

Sister Mary gave me an hour of her break time. She listened, she asked questions. We spoke about a whole lot of things — childhood, growing up, how education was changing, how a visit to an amusement park of such grandeur could shift a child's sense of what the world contained, the hardships of schools without private funding, the economically challenged backgrounds of most of the children.

"It will be difficult to convince principals," she said. "They wish and pray for change but can't imagine how the school would pay for the experience."

"Imagine!" I suddenly exclaimed. "They don't need to imagine. What if I could take the principals to EsselWorld and they could see for themselves? Do you think that would work?"

Sister Mary looked at me. "Why are you crying?"

I touched my face and realised I was overwhelmed by some thought — maybe that of those children never experiencing a wonder like this, maybe the earnestness of Sister Mary, maybe the thought of Father Anthony D'Souza who was principal of the school I went to in Juhu as a child. I don't know the reason.

"You studied with Father Anthony?"

I hadn't realised I was thinking aloud. I did know that the human mind worked in different ways and that I had to do a better job of keeping my composure.

"Don't change," she admonished me. "Come with me."

She took me to the office and in the next fifteen minutes called a senior principal, spoke to her at length, then spoke to three others and made me talk to each of them.

Over the next two weeks I met seventy-three principals, vice principals and administrators of schools, colleges, vocational centres, and polytechnics across Kalina, Vashi, Nerul, Sanpada, and CBD Belapur — in groups, usually at one school with nearby educators dropping in. In the evenings I argued with the agency bosses, trying to get them to give me a bus to take the principals to the park. "If they come and see it, they will want their children to picnic there. Trust me, they will understand the value."

At the start of the third month I was the only executive with no sales. The others had brought in orders; three were fighting for the lead position with accumulated tallies of two hundred and twenty-five, two hundred and fifty, three hundred students.

Meanwhile, my principals had agreed on a date and done the necessary coordination. The final list had fifty-five school decision makers from nineteen schools and colleges, which meant we needed two buses. The agency would not budge. In frustration, I finally said: "I will pay for one bus. Please sponsor the other."

The Sales Manager would not sanction it, mainly because he was not authorised to. "It is a matter of principle. Everyone will ask for free trips."

"I will pay for both buses. At least waive their entry fees."

He informed the owner with his recommendation. The owner called me to his office and said: "The bus charges are waived. You have done your best, and that is all that is required in this company — commitment. It is my job to take the risk."

I accompanied all of them — including Sister Mary — to EsselWorld. The park staff and the agency staff did a fabulous job, drawing forty, fifty, sixty-year-olds onto rides, keeping the snacks and lunch service moving, the safety and medical staff professional and generous in answering questions.

On the way back, we were all exhausted but every one of them had gone back to their youth. I knew each of them by name now. Sister Mary sat beside me and said quietly, "Sanjay, the staff told me you fought for this trip and are paying for the bus from your own salary."

"No, no. The owner is sponsoring this trip. Don't worry."

"But why did you take such a risk?"

"Imagine if even some of the children are able to come here. Imagine how they will feel. This is a world-class amusement park. They may be inspired to work hard for a better life."

"You have done your best," she said. "I am sure God will find a way."

Sister Mary was the first to send in an order: the entire secondary school, grades six through ten, three hundred students. Over the next three weeks, eleven of my principals sent in orders — including three who sent the whole school. By the start of the fourth month, together they had ensured I had outsold the entire sales team three times over.

I accompanied each of the trips, partly because the principals had asked me to, but mostly because I wanted to see the children at the park. Even now, my eyes well up from the memory of the wonder and joy on their faces.

Decades later, when our firstborn was old enough, we made the trip to EsselWorld together. The wonder was there.