08 June,2026 11:12 AM IST | Mumbai | Sunil Warrier
Illustration/Uday Mohite
A man and a woman behind the ubiquitous safety door of every Mumbai flat start a polite conversation. "Sir, hum BMC se aaye hain Census survey ke liye. Can we speak with you for a couple of minutes," they ask. You nod in acquiescence. A few ticks in a book the woman is holding, and five seconds later, the job is done. "Thank you, sir," and they are ready to leave for the neighbouring flat. The perfunctory eye contact is enough for one to discern the lack of any threat. You offer them water, but they decline politely. And that's that.
But not everyone is alike. There were reports of non-cooperation, intimidation, and verbal assaults as government employees went about doing their jobs. In today's times of connectivity, perhaps the government needs to find a way to conduct an online or voice survey that's genuine.
Before the advent and growth of the internet, going door-to-door, as was done for the Maratha survey a couple of years back, was one of the options. The other being standing at railway stations, catching the eye of a prospect who looks willing to sacrifice a few minutes to answer questions that will be ticked off in a clumsily held, thin bunch of sheets of paper. Usually, the answers are in yes or no; occasionally, they extend to a few sentences.
Some 40 years ago, there were a few reputed market survey organisations that had offices in Nariman Point and Tardeo. The offices were anything but spectacular. Moderately furnished, there would be just a handful of regular employees. Their client base was largely consumer-oriented companies that manufactured products like soap powder, soaps, chocolates, etc. Any guesses on who would be the surveyors? Collegians, young graduates seeking bigger jobs like me and some friends.
What was in it for us? R70-90 and a paid-for vada pav for lunch. A chance to discover different parts of Mumbai. An opportunity to improve communication skills, meet co-youngsters and peers, and meet people of diverse backgrounds. An experience certificate was extremely valuable. It was exposure to life and a peek into the crystal ball for a look into the future world of employment.
It certainly was not an easy job. The questionnaire had targeted people to be surveyed. For example, a woman had to be interviewed if the product was a detergent or a soap. She may not agree to be questioned. You could try to fabricate the answers. But there was always the risk of the supervisor exposing you, as he compulsorily does random checking to ensure the veracity of the answers. If you got caught, there went a weekly package of R360, seven vada pavs and future employment in the survey organisation. Usually, the survey would extend for a week.
A typical day would begin at 9 am. You would have been told about the area and the meeting spot by the supervisor the previous day. He would hand out the questionnaire, and a briefing would follow under a tree. "No cheating, otherwise, you know the result," would be the supervisor's final words.
We are at Worli seaface for a survey on soap powder that's soon to be launched. The company is keen to find out popularity of its competitor.
You knock on the door. The househelp opens. "Memsaab hai," you ask. Strangely, you are led to a bedroom. The woman, who appears to be in her 30s, understands why you are there. She agrees to answer the question and points to the bed. You raise an eyebrow. She smiles. You begin the interview in the most unimaginable and uncomfortable position.
It progresses smoothly when the husband enters. Fearing the worst, you quickly make a move. The woman softly pulls you down, indicating that you remain seated. The husband says nothing. Interview completed, you want to make a quick exit, but the woman offers you tea and biscuits, and wants to have a conversation. The husband is squirming. It is not known if the supervisor got a mouthful when he went to check.
On another day, the meeting point is Juhu. The product is still a detergent. Unknowingly, you walk into the house of the Azmis. The househelp is asked for the "woman of the house". Out comes Shaukat Azmi. She asks you to be seated on a âgaddi' (beds on the floor). While diligently answering the questions, you hear a voice from an inner room and see the person only after the curtains are pulled. "Kaun hai, ammi?' You see Shabana Azmi.
The next product which needs a survey is a high-end cooking oil. The supervisor picks tony Linking Road in Bandra for the first day. After sharing a vada pav with the watchman, you are allowed into a building. "Jaldi wapas aana," he says between potato swallows. Two âwomen of the house' agree to be interviewed. Target achieved; you are leaving the building when you hear a voice admonishing someone in Tamil. Young and upcoming actor Meenakshi Seshadri is sliding down the staircase railing with an angry âamma' in tow.
Were the answers of any use to the company that commissioned the survey? Did it know that some of the answers could be fabricated? Did the supervisor genuinely go back to the surveyed house to check your âhonesty'? What happened to the papers that accumulated in the survey? You certainly don't have the answers.
Today, it is very easy to do a market survey. Post a question on social media platform or share a Google sheet via WhatsApp. 8/10 are certain to respond. What it doesn't give the surveyor is an opportunity to improve life skills and chance encounters with celebrities.
The writer is a senior journalist
