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?’”