One Night at the Call Center Read online

  Esha's tone was perfect—just the right mix of politeness and firmness. Management monitored us on average call-handling times, or AHTs. As WASG got the trickier customers, our AHT benchmarks were higher at two-and-a-half minutes per call. I checked my files for everyone's AHT—all of us were within target.

  “Beep!” The sound of the fax machine made me look up from my papers. I wondered who could be faxing us at this time. I went to the machine and checked the incoming fax. It was from Bakshi.

  The fax machine took three minutes to churn out the seven pages he had sent. I tore the message sheet off the machine and held the first sheet up.

  From: Subhash Bakshi

  Subject: Training Initiatives

  Dear Shyam,

  Just FYI, I have recommended your name to assist in accent training as they are short of teachers. I am sure you can spare some time for this. As always, I am trying to get you more relevant and strategic exposure.

  Yours,

  Subhash Bakshi

  Manager, Connections

  I read the rest of the fax and gasped. Bakshi was sucking me into several hours outside my shift to teach new recruits. Apart from the extra work, I hate accent training. The American accent is so confusing. You might think the

  Americans and their language are straightforward, but each letter can be pronounced several different ways.

  I'll give you just one example: T. With this letter Americans have four different sounds. T can be silent, so “internet” becomes “innernet” and “advantage” becomes “advannage.” Another way is when T and N merge— “written” becomes “writn” and “certain” is “certn.” The third sound is when T falls in the middle. There, it sounds like a D—“daughter” is “daughder” and “water” is “wauder.” The last category, if you still care, is when Americans say T like a T. This happens, obviously, when T is at the beginning of the word like “table” or “stumble.” And this is just one consonant. The vowels are another story.

  “What's up?” Vroom said, coming up to me.

  I passed the fax to Vroom. He read it and smirked.

  “Yeah, right. He sent you an FYI. Do you know what an FYI is?” Vroom said.

  “What?”

  “Fuck You Instead. It's a standard way to dump responsibility on someone else.”

  “I hate accent training. You can't teach Delhi people to speak like Americans in a week.”

  “Just as you can't train Americans to speak with a Punjabi accent,” Vroom said and chuckled. “Anyway, go train-train, leave your brain.”

  “What will I do?” I said, beginning to walk back toward our desk.

  “Go train-train, leave your brain,” Vroom said and laughed. He liked the rhyme, and repeated it several times as we walked back to the bay.

  Back at my seat, Vroom's words—“train-train“— echoed in my head. They were making me remember another kind of train altogether. It brought back memories of the Rail Museum, where I had a date with Priyanka a year ago.

  Chapter 5

  My Past Dates with Priyanka—I

  Rail Museum, Chanakyapuri

  One year earlier

  SHE ARRIVED THIRTY MINUTES LATE. I had been around the whole museum twice, examined every little train model, stepped inside India's oldest coal engine, got to grips with the modern interactive siren system. I went to the canteen, which was on an island in the middle of an artificial pond. It was impressive landscaping for a museum. I thought of lighting a cigarette, but I caught sight of the sign: “Only Steam Engines Are Allowed to Smoke.” I was cradling a lukewarm Coke in the museum canteen when she finally arrived.

  “OK. Don't say anything. Sorry, I'm late, I know, I know,” she said and sat down with a thump in front of me.

  I didn't say anything. I looked at her tiny nose. I wondered how it allowed in enough oxygen.

  “What? Say something,” she said after five seconds.

  “I thought you told me to be quiet,” I said.

  “My mother needs professional help,” Priyanka said. “She really does.”

  “What happened?” I swirled the straw in my Coke, making little fizzy drops implode.

  “I'll tell you. First, how do you like this place? Cute, isn't it?”

  “The Rail Museum?” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “How old are we, twelve? Anyway, what happened with your mum? What was the fuel today?”

  “We don't need fuel, just a spark is enough. Just as I was ready to leave to come here, she made a comment on my dress.”

  “What did she say?” I asked, looking at her clothes. She wore a blue tie-dyed skirt, and a T-shirt with a peace sign on it. It was typical Priyanka stuff. She wore earrings with blue beads, which matched her necklace, and she had a hint of kohl around her eyes, which I was crazy about.

  “I was almost at the door when she said, ‘Why don't you wear the gold necklace I gave you for your last birthday?’ ” Priyanka said.

  “And then?” She obviously wasn't wearing a gold necklace as my gaze turned to the hollow of her neck, which I felt like touching.

  “And I was like, no Mum, it won't go with my dress.

  Yellow metal is totally uncool, only aunties wear it. Boom, next thing we are having this big, long argument. That's what made me late. Sorry,” she said.

  “You didn't have to argue. Just wear the chain in front of her and take it off later,” I said as the waiter came to take our order.

  “But that's not the point. Anyway,” she said and turned to the waiter, “get me a plate of samosas, I'm starving. Actually wait, they are too fattening. Do you have a salad?”

  The waiter gave us a blank look.

  “Where do you think you are?” I said. “This is the Rail Museum canteen, not an Italian bistro. You get what you see.”

  “OK, OK,” she said, eyeing the stalls. “I'll have potato chips. No, I'll have popcorn. Popcorn is lighter, right?” She looked at the waiter as if he was a nutritionist.

  “She'll have popcorn,” I said to the waiter.

  “So, what else is happening? Have you met up with Vroom?” she said.

  “I was supposed to, but he couldn't come. He had a date.”

  “With who? A new girl?”

  “Of course. He never sticks to one. I wonder what girls see in him, and they're all hot, too,” I said.

  “I can't understand the deal with Vroom. He is the most materialistic and unemotional person I have met in my entire life,” Priyanka said as the popcorn arrived at our table.

  “No he isn't,” I said, grabbing more popcorn than I could hold.

  “Well, look at him, jeans, phones, pizzas, and bikes. That's all he lives for. And this whole new girlfriend every three months thing, come on, at some point you've got to stop that, right?”

  “Well, I'm happy to stick to the one I have,” I said, my mouth overflowing with popcorn.

  “You are so cute,” Priyanka said. She blushed and smiled. She took some more popcorn and stuffed it into my mouth.

  “Thanks,” I said as I munched. “Vroom has changed. He wasn't like this when he first joined from his previous job.”

  “The one at the newspaper?”

  “Yeah, journalist trainee. He started in current affairs. Do you know what one of his famous pieces was called?”

  “No, what? Oh crap,” Priyanka said, looking at someone behind me.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, just don't look back. Some relatives of mine are here with their kids. Oh no,” she said, looking down at our table.

  Now when someone tells you not to look at something, you always feel an incredible urge to do just that. From the corner of my eye I saw a family with two kids in the corner of the room.

  “Who else do you expect to come here but kids?”

  I said. “Anyway, they are far away.”

  “Shut up and look down. Anyway, tell me about Vroom's piece,” she said.

  “Oh yeah. It was called ‘Why Don't Politicians Ever Commit Suicide?’”
>
  “What? Sounds morbid.”

  “Well, the article said all kinds of people— students, housewives, businessmen, employees and even film stars—commit suicide. But politicians never do. That tells you something.”

  “What?” she said, still keeping her eyes down.

  “Well, Vroom's point was that suicide is a horrible thing and people do it only because they are really hurt. This means they feel something, but politicians don't. So, basically, this country is run by people who don't feel anything.”

  “Wow! Can't imagine that going down well with his editor.”

  “You bet it didn't. However, Vroom had sneaked it in. The editor only saw it after it was printed and all hell broke loose. Vroom somehow saved his job, but his bosses moved him to cover the society page, page three.”

  “Our Vroom? Page three?”

  “They told Vroom he was good-looking so he would fit in. In addition, he'd done a photography course and could take the pictures himself.”

  “Cover page three because you're good-looking? Now that sounds ridiculous,” she said.

  “It is ridiculous. But Vroom took his revenge there, too. He took unflattering pictures of the glitterati— faces stuffed with food, close-ups of cellulite on thighs, drunk people throwing up—all showed up in the papers the next day.”

  “Oh my god,” Priyanka laughed. “He sounds like an activist. I can't understand his switching to the call center for money.”

  “Well, according to him, there is activism in chasing money too.”

  “And how does that work?”

  “Well, his point is that the only reason Americans have a say in this world is because they have cash. The day we have money, we can screw them. So, the first thing we have to do is earn the money.”

  “Interesting,” Priyanka said and let out a sigh. “Well, that is why we slog at night. I could have done my B.Ed right after college. But I wanted to save some money first. I can't open my dream nursery school without cash. So until then, it's two hundred calls a night, night after night.” Priyanka rested her chin on her elbows. I looked at her. I think she would make the cutest nursery school principal ever.

  “Western Appliances, Sam speaking, how may I help you? Please let me help you? Please …,” I said, imitating an American accent.

  Priyanka laughed again.

  “Priyanka dideeee,” a five-year-old boy's voice startled customers from their samosas.

  The boy running toward Priyanka had a model train set and a glass of Coke precariously balanced in his hands. He ran without coordination: The excitement of seeing his didi was too much for him. He tripped near our table and I lunged to save him. I succeeded, but his Coke went all over my shirt.

  “Oh no,” I said even as I saw a three-year-old girl with a huge lollipop in her mouth running toward us. I moved aside from the tornado to save another collision. She landed straight on Priyanka's lap. I went to the restroom to clean my shirt.

  “Shyam,” Priyanka said when I returned, “meet my cousin, Dr. Anurag.” The entire family had shifted to our table. Priyanka introduced me to everyone. I forgot their names as soon as I heard them. Priyanka told her doctor cousin I worked at a call center and I think he was less interested in talking to me after that. The kids ate half the popcorn and spilt the rest of it. The boy was running his model train set through popcorn fields on the table and screaming a mock siren with his sister.

  “Sit, Shyam,” Priyanka said.

  “No, actually I have an early shift today,” I said and got up to leave.

  “But wait—” Priyanka said.

  “No, I have to go,” I said and ran out of the museum. This was no longer a museum, it had turned into the chaos of a real railway station.

  Chapter 6

  10:50 p.m.

  OUCH! ” ESHA'S SCREAM DURING HER CALL broke my train of reminiscence.

  “What?” I said. I could hear loud static.

  “It's a really bad line … Hello, yes, madam,” Esha said.

  Radhika was knitting something with pink wool while she waited for a call. People were busy, but I could sense the call volume was lower than usual.

  “Eew,” Priyanka said five seconds later.

  “Freaking hell,” Vroom said as he pulled off his headset from his ears.

  “What's going on?” I said.

  “There's shrill static coming every few seconds now. Ask Bakshi to send someone,” Vroom said, rubbing his ear.

  “I'll go to his office. You guys cover the calls,” I said and looked at the time. It was 10:51 p.m. The first break was in less than an hour.

  I passed by the training room on my way to Bakshi's office and peeked inside: Fresh trainees were attending a session. Some students were snoozing; they were probably still getting used to working nights.

  “35 = 10,” the instructor wrote in big bold letters on the blackboard.

  I remembered the 35 = 10 rule from my training days two years ago. It helped agents adjust to their callers.

  “Remember,” the instructor said to the class, “the brain and IQ of a thirty-five-year-old American is the same as the brain of a ten-year-old Indian. This will help you understand your clients. You need to be as patient with them as you are when dealing with a child. Americans are stupid, just accept it. I don't want anyone losing their cool during calls …”

  I dreaded the day when I would have to teach such classes. My own Delhi accent was impossible to get rid of, and I must have come last in my accent class.

  “I have to get out of this,” I said to myself as I went to Bakshi's cabin.

  Bakshi was in his oversized office, staring at his computer with his mouth open. As I came in, he rapidly closed the windows. He was probably surfing the Internet for bikini babes or something.

  “Good evening, sir,” I said.

  “Oh hello, Sam. Please come in.” Bakshi liked to call us by our Western names.

  I walked into his office slowly, to give him time to close his favorite websites.

  “Come, come, Sam, don't worry. I believe in being an open-door manager,” Bakshi said.

  I looked at his big square face, which was unusually large for his 5' 6” body. The oversized face resembled the face of the conquered Ravana at the festival of Dusshera. His face shone as usual. It was the first thing you noticed about Bakshi—the oilfields on his face. If you could immerse Bakshi's skin in our landscape, you'd solve India's oil problems for ever. Priyanka told me once that when she met Bakshi for the first time, she had an overwhelming urge to take a tissue and wipe it hard across his face. I don't think one tissue would be enough, though.

  Bakshi was about thirty but looked forty and behaved as if he was fifty. He had worked in Connections for the past three years. Before that, he did an MBA from some unpronounceable university in south India. He thought he was Michael Porter or something (Porter is a big management guru—I'd never heard of him, either, but Bakshi told me in an FYI once) and loved to talk in manager's language or Managese, which is another language like English and American.

  “So, how are the resources doing?” Bakshi said, swivel-ing on his chair. He never referred to us as people; we were all “resources.”

  “Fine, sir. I actually wanted to discuss a problem. The phone lines aren't working properly—there's a lot of static during calls. Can you ask systems …”

  “Sam,” Bakshi said, pointing a pen at me.

  “Yes?”

  “What did I tell you?”

  “About what?”

  “About how to approach problems.”

  “What?”

  “Think.”

  I thought hard, but nothing came to mind.

  “I don't remember, sir—Solve them?”

  “No. I said cbig picture.' Always start with the big picture.”

  I was puzzled. What was the big picture here? There was static coming through the phones and we had to ask systems to fix it. I could have called them myself, but Bakshi's intervention would get a faster respon
se.

  “Sir, it is a specific issue. Customers are hearing disturbance …”

  “Sam,” Bakshi sighed and signaled me to sit down, “what makes a good manager?”

  “What?” I sat down in front of him and surreptitiously looked at my watch. It was 10:57 p.m. I hoped the call flow was moderate so the others wouldn't have a tough time when they were one down on the desk.

  “Wait,” Bakshi said and took out a writing pad and pen. He placed the pad on the middle of the table and then drew a graph that looked like this:

  He finished the graph and turned the notebook 180 degrees so it faced me, then clicked his pen shut with a swagger, as proud as da Vinci finishing the Mona Lisa.

  “Sir, systems?” I said, after staying silent for a few seconds.

  “Wait. First, tell me. What is this?” Bakshi said and tapped his index finger on the diagram.

  I tried to make sense of the chart and any possible connection to the static on the phone lines.

  I shook my head.

  “Tch-tch. See, let me tell you,” Bakshi said. “This chart is your career. If you want to be more senior, you have to move up this curve.” He put a fat finger on the curve and traced it.

  “Yes sir,” I said.

  “And do you know how to do that?”

  I shook my head. Vroom probably thought I was out smoking. I did feel some smoke coming out of my ears.

  “Big Picture. I just told you, focus on the big picture. Learn to identify the strategic variables, Sam.”

  Before I could speak, he had pulled out his pen again and was drawing another diagram.

  “Maybe I can explain this to you with the help of a 2x2 matrix,” he said and bent down to write “High” and “Low” along the boxes.

  “Sir, please,” I said, placing both my hands down to cover the sheet.

  “What?” he said with irritation.

  “Sir, this is really interesting, but right now my team is waiting and my shift is in progress.”

  “So?” Bakshi said.

  “The phones, sir. Please tell systems they should check the WASG bay urgently,” I said, without pausing to breathe.