Arjun clicked into the MIS module that tracked prescription audits . The software was expensive, licensed from a US vendor, and meticulously built. It aggregated data from 1,200 chemists across his zone. Every time a bill was generated for Nebuflam-D, the system recorded it. Every time a doctor’s prescription was scanned at a pharmacy loyalty program, the system knew.
He understood then what FDC sales MIS really was. Not a tool. Not a system. A mirror. And what it reflected was not the market, but the fear inside the people who sold drugs: fear of failure, fear of being fired, fear of a flat green line.
Someone was entering fake prescriptions into the system to game the CRM. Fdc Sales Mis
“And week three?”
On days when the company ran high-intensity sales blitzes, primary sales spiked—but redemption data showed no corresponding increase . In fact, on those days, the system recorded a suspiciously high number of prescriptions written after 9 PM , which was impossible because most clinics closed by 7. Arjun clicked into the MIS module that tracked
He pulled up the prescription trend for Dr. Meera Iyengar, a pulmonologist in the city’s top lung hospital. Her prescription numbers for Nebuflam-D had gone from zero to forty in the first week—after his star rep had visited her thrice—and then dropped to two in the third week. But the MIS showed zero patient redemptions from her prescriptions. That meant either patients weren’t buying it, or the prescriptions were never written.
Pooja hesitated. Then she opened a drawer. Inside were forty sheets of blank prescription pads—with Dr. Iyengar’s forged stamp. Every time a bill was generated for Nebuflam-D,
He walked out of the data entry room, past the janitor who had stopped humming, past the empty cubicles, past the motivational posters that said “Data is the new science.”
That night, Arjun drove to the warehouse district to meet a stockist named Suresh. Suresh sat in a grease-stained office surrounded by cartons of antihypertensives and antacids. He was frank.