The Business Covid
It happened on one of those bright summer afternoons when the sun was behaving like an unpaid recovery agent—relentless, aggressive, and unwilling to leave.
Inside our retail store, however, life was comfortable. The coolers were working, the salesmen were in reasonably good spirits, and the fabric counters were displaying their usual colorful optimism.
Then walked in a gentleman who, by all visible evidence, had been considerably successful in life.
He was well-dressed, confident, and accompanied by members of his family. More importantly—from the point of view of a retailer—he was buying. And buying enthusiastically.
Within a short while, our fabric counter began resembling a textile exhibition.
“This one.” “That one also.” “Show me something better.” “What about this cotton?”
“Keep it.” “Something for my son.” “Something for my brother.” “Take that one too.”
Our salesman, naturally, was delighted.
A customer buying twenty or twenty-five fabric lengths in one visit is the retail equivalent of spotting rain clouds during a drought.
Cottons were selected. Shirtings were approved. Trouser fabrics joined the procession. Some premium materials were added. Measurements were confirmed.
“Two and a half meters?” “Yes.”
“Three meters?” “Yes.”
“Cut it.” Snip. Another fabric. Snip. Another. Snip.
There is something wonderfully final about scissors cutting fabric.
A customer may change his mind while looking at a roll. He may change his mind while touching it. He may even change his mind after discussing its color for seventeen minutes with three family members.
But once the scissors move through the cloth, philosophy ends and commerce begins. At least that is what we believed.
Apparently, we had underestimated the Indian businessman.
The Billing Counter Awakening
Everything went smoothly until the gentleman reached the billing counter.
Then something remarkable happened.
The pleasant customer who had spent nearly an hour approving fabrics suddenly underwent a personality transformation. The buyer disappeared. The negotiator arrived.
“What discount will you give?”
Our staff explained the pricing. He smiled.
“No, no. I am buying so much. Give me your best price.”
The salesman explained what was possible. The gentleman remained unimpressed.
“This is not enough.” A larger discount was suggested. Still inadequate.
He wanted a special discount.
Now, “special discount” is one of the most fascinating phrases in Indian retail.
Nobody knows precisely what it means. The customer does not know. The salesman does not know. The accountant definitely does not know.
But everybody understands that it must be greater than whatever discount has already been offered.
Our salesman politely explained that the prices had already been communicated and, more importantly, that more than twenty fabrics had been cut according to the customer’s instructions.
The gentleman had another idea.
“If you cannot give me the discount, I will not take the goods.”
This was innovative. It was rather like ordering dinner, eating most of it and then announcing that payment would depend upon whether the restaurant reduced the price of the meal.
By now, I had been watching the conversation from a distance. Experience in retail teaches you to recognize certain warning signs.
When the customer’s voice becomes louder, the salesman’s smile becomes smaller, and nearby customers suddenly develop great interest in a conversation that has nothing to do with them, it is usually time for management to arrive.
I walked towards the billing counter.
Enter Management
I explained the position calmly.
“Sir, you selected these fabrics yourself. You approved every quantity. We cut them according to your instructions. Once fabric is cut, it is treated as sold.”
He continued negotiating. I repeated the point. He repeated his discount demand.
For a few moments, we appeared to be participating in a corporate meeting.
Nobody was saying anything new, but everybody felt compelled to say the old thing again with increasing seriousness.
His argument was straightforward: “I am buying a large quantity; therefore, I deserve the discount I want.”
Our argument was equally straightforward: “You were welcome to negotiate before asking us to cut twenty-five fabrics.”
The discussion began becoming unpleasant. That was when I decided to introduce technology into philosophy.
I pointed towards the CCTV system.
“Sir, the entire transaction has been recorded. Every selection, every approval, and every instruction to cut the fabrics is on camera. You can still choose to end this gracefully.”
The effect was impressive.
The CCTV camera, which until then had been silently observing human civilization, suddenly became our most persuasive salesman.
The gentleman paused. The volume dropped. The negotiation ended. He paid.
We packed the fabrics. He left.
No police. No lawyers. No breaking news. Civilization survived.
But the incident left behind something more irritating than an unpaid bill. It left behind a thought.
The Business Covid
There seems to be a virus strain spreading through parts of the marketplace.
I call it “The Business Covid.”
Its principal symptom is an uncontrollable desire to demand a discount. It affects people irrespective of income. In fact, strangely enough, sometimes the wealthier the customer, the stronger the symptoms.
A man may drive into your shop in a luxury car worth several million rupees, purchase expensive fabrics, and then invest twenty minutes of his life negotiating over a few hundred rupees.
This may not always be about money. Often, it is about victory. The discount becomes proof that the customer is clever. Paying the displayed price feels almost irresponsible.
One must bargain. One must negotiate. One must extract something.
Otherwise, what will one tell one’s friends? “I bought a shirt.” Very ordinary.
But say, “They were asking ₹4,000. I brought them down to ₹2,800.”
Now we have achievements. The shirt is secondary. The conquest is the product.
The Retailer Learns Quickly
Retailers, naturally, are excellent students of human behavior.
If customers want discounts, businesses eventually learn to manufacture them.
Suppose the honest price of an item is ₹2,000.
A foolish retailer may simply display the following:
₹2,500 – Very dangerous. The customer will stare at it suspiciously. “No discount?”
The wiser retailer understands psychology. His whole calculation of the discount is done in advance. Right from purchasing on special bulk prices to doing away with brand overload.
On top of the cuts in purchases, he calculates some festival offer and then an extra percentage discount for that day as a special price. This is not printed but offered as a surprise! BUT THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE ON ALL MERCHANDISE HE PURCHASES. HENCE, THE “UP TO” TAG IS NECESSARY
The customer buys it for approximately ₹2,300 and walks away radiant.
Nothing has changed economically. But emotionally, history has been made. The customer has not purchased a product. He has defeated the MRP.
The Great Indian MRP
Somewhere along the way, the printed price stopped being a price. It became an opening statement. A negotiating position.
A fictional number written mainly so that another number could later appear more attractive. This is why one encounters spectacular advertisements announcing “UP TO 70% OFF!” The phrase “up to” is one of marketing’s great constitutional protections.
Technically, one item somewhere in the building may indeed be 70% off. It may be an orange pair of trousers in size 26 manufactured during the previous government.
But the advertisement remains legally and emotionally magnificent. Customers enter expecting liberation.
Retailers prepare for negotiation. Salesmen begin with defensive positions.
Everybody knows the theater. Everybody participates. And then we complain that pricing lacks transparency.
We Tried Something Revolutionary
At our store, we have generally resisted this culture. Our approach has been embarrassingly old-fashioned.
We purchase selectively in bulk at compelling costs and ensure that we are in a position to give discounts over MRP.
Ensure a reasonable margin. Discount the merchandise fairly. Try to stick to that price. Or let go of the sale!
This is the strange economics of discount addiction.
Imagine two shops. Shop A sells a fabric at ₹1,800. No drama.
Shop B displays it at ₹2,500 and offers “25% OFF.” Final price: ₹1,875. The customer buys from Shop B.
He pays ₹75 more. He leaves happier. Later he tells someone: “They gave me a twenty-five percent discount.”
Technically, he lost ₹75. Psychologically, he won the World Cup.
The Virus Travels Outside Retail
This behavior is not confined to shops.
We bargain with vegetable vendors. We bargain with carpenters. We bargain with electricians. We bargain with small traders.
But when an airline charges ₹900 for selecting a seat we have already purchased on an aircraft we have already paid to travel in, we click Proceed.
When a hotel charges ₹100 for a bottle of water, we sip it respectfully.
When a digital platform adds “convenience fees,” “processing fees,” “platform fees” and perhaps someday “emotional support fees,” we accept the terms and conditions without disturbing anybody.
Apparently, bargaining courage has a market capitalization limit. We negotiate most aggressively with people who have the least institutional power. Which makes the phenomenon not merely economic.
It is behavioral.
Negotiation or Entitlement?
There is nothing wrong with negotiation.
Business needs negotiation. Buyers negotiate with suppliers. Companies negotiate contracts. Customers compare offers. Retailers compete. All perfectly healthy.
But negotiation changes character when one party assumes that the other has no right to say no. That is when negotiation becomes entitlement.
A discount should be a commercial possibility, not a constitutional right.
The seller should be allowed to say: “This is my fair price.” And the customer should be free to say the following: “Thank you. I will buy elsewhere.”
That is a market.
What happened at our counter was different. The goods had already been chosen, measured, and cut. The negotiation was being started after the seller’s options had been deliberately reduced.
That is not smart bargaining. It is pressure disguised as negotiation.
The Hidden Victim
Ironically, excessive discount-seeking eventually harms the very customer who practices it.
When retailers repeatedly face aggressive bargaining, they adapt.
Margins are increased. List prices rise. Negotiation buffers are built in. Honest pricing becomes risky. And then everyone must bargain just to reach the correct price.
The quiet customer pays more. The aggressive customer pays less. The retailer protects himself. The salesman becomes cynical.
And an entire market begins operating on the assumption that nobody means the number they first quote. Trust becomes inefficient. Suspicion becomes standard procedure.
The Real Cost of That Afternoon
Though I do remember the precise amount of that customer’s bill today, what I remember more vividly is the atmosphere after he left.
Our salesmen were disturbed. The pleasure of serving a large customer had disappeared. The transaction was financially successful. But emotionally, it was a loss.
That afternoon reminded me that every business transaction has two balance sheets. One records money. The other records behavior. The first may show profit. The second may quietly show bankruptcy.
Good business is not merely about winning. It is about allowing the other person to retain dignity while you protect your own. The best transactions end without either side feeling defeated. The buyer receives fair value. The seller receives a fair return.
Both leave with enough goodwill to meet again. Perhaps that is the vaccine for this strain of “Business Covid.”
Customers could stop assuming that every retailer is hiding a Swiss bank account inside the price tag. Retailers could stop designing fictional discounts merely to create fictional generosity.
We could quote sensible prices. Negotiate where appropriate. Accept a reasonable “no.” And occasionally—this may sound radical—simply pay a fair price for something we genuinely value.
No confrontation. No inflated MRP. No “manager ko bulao.” No ceremonial calculator. No billing-counter hostage negotiation.
Just a decent product, a decent price, and two decent people completing a transaction.
I admit it is not a particularly exciting retail strategy.
There is no flashing red board saying: MEGA SALE! No countdown clock. No “LAST 3 HOURS!” No “BUY NOW OR REGRET FOREVER!”
It offers only fairness. Unfortunately, fairness has always suffered from poor marketing.
Perhaps we should try advertising it.
FAIR PRICES — 0% OFF.
I suspect nobody would enter.
