There's nothing wrong in a seller being nice to a buyer. But when the seller tests the buyer's intelligence by disguising a product in a blanket of gobbledygook, the latter looks for the first rope to hang oneself with!
Sometime in the early eighties and like a slow, spreading oil-slick, two evils oozed their way across the Atlantic. From there, they panned out, inched across the globe in all directions and rapidly infested the entire world. They are closely related to each other and their names are: Voice Mail and Customer Service.
In sixties-and-seventies India, there were few products and fewer customers. We bought our provisions mostly from fair price shops manned by the surliest employees, smug and secure in their lifelong sarkari existence and protected by fierce unions. As we stood in queues for our monthly rations of pebble-laden rice, we neither expected nor were shown the slightest courtesy by them. Take it or leave it, was their insolent attitude, as they lolled on gunny bags of pest-infested flour, picking their teeth and listening to cricket commentary on a transistor radio.
As for voice mailIJ Why, we were ecstatic to get through even to get 182, let alone be connected to a ‘distant’ Ghaziabad. Used as we were to the rude trunk operator’s ‘two minutes up’ even before saying hello, any kind of automatic answering system seemed straight out of science fiction.
Three decades on, be it television networks, multinational banks, fast-food restaurants, credit card companies or private airlines — they are all chronically infected by Customer Service and Voice Mail, twin manifestations of a single plague. let’s take a closer look at some of the most common symptoms of the disease.
I once called the corporate office of a TV channel in Gurgaon. I knew it was lunchtime, but needed to leave an urgent message at a certain extension. “WElCOME to XX”, exclaimed an American twang. “Recent TRP polls have shown that XX is the MOST HIGHlY-WATCHED network. A total of 75 per cent of viewers reposed their faith in us. To them we say THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” the voice gushed. I was calling from a public booth at the airport and running out of coins.
A friend poured a few more into my open palm, as the line behind me began to pile up. Next, I heard excerpts from ‘our FIRST, revolutionary 3-D ‘family drama’, Meenu Masi ki Ajeeb Kahani’. Violins twanged. A woman screeched, “Gaddar! Kameene! Tumhari yeh mazal haiIJ” The fiddles exploded in a wailing crescendo. After the entire lurid palette of the channel’s offerings had been advertised, the ‘Voice’ came back on. “Please dial the extension of the purrson you wish to speak to”, it advised. I did. “You have dialled extension — one — (pause) — two — (longer pause) — three — (even longer pause) — four”, she declared. Yes, I KNOW, I mouthed desperately. “Press hash to confirm!” I did.
“You are being transferred to extension one — (pause) — two — (longer pause) — three — (even longer pause) — four”, she said. By now, I had begun tugging the hair at my nape. A tuft came off and I examined it, pretending not to notice the glaring man behind me. Then came five, eardrum-blasting minutes of the channel’s thunderous signature tune before the Voice returned. This time, it sounded stern. The person was not answering, it said. “If you wish to leave voice-mail for extension one — (pause) — two — (longer pause) —three — (even longer pause) — four, press Star+Pound to approve!” I straightaway did, feeling a raging fever coming on. After another five minutes of a live news bulletin, I heard the Voice again. “Nothing to approve! Goodbye!” it said, and disconnected.
Now don’t get me wrong about Customer Service either. There is nothing amiss about a seller being nice to a buyer. But it is when the seller underestimates the buyer’s intelligence by disguising a product in a blanket of meaningless, obscurantist gobbledygook, that the latter looks for the first rope to hang oneself with.
Compounding the plague is the steady deterioration of the quality of education in India, be it English-medium or in whichever language. And the dwindling age of ‘customer service officers’ chosen by increasingly greedy corporations because youth means longer hours and a lower pay. Never mind the fact that it is only someone with the maturity of life-years that can deal with irate people.
“WElCOME to Tonybank’s PRIORITY banking service!” says a female android, voice dripping with warmth as fake as my Made-as-in-USA (Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association) ‘Appel’ cellphone.
I just need some quick information on one withdrawal, so I dutifully do as I am told. At first, it’s a piece of cake. I key in my account number (55 digits, but never mind) followed by a hash sign. Do the same to my date of birth, followed by the pound sign. Next, I bypass all options from one through 10 and wait to be connected to a ‘phone banking officer’. By now, the clock has ticked 15 minutes. Georg Friedrich Handel’s Water Music has played twice and is about to start again.
“I am sorrrrrry”, says the android in a sorrowful voice. It is a voice one has grown used to, the same that gushes, simpers and admonishes for Hatchway cable, Pet Airways and others. “All our customer service agents are busy, but we WANT to serve you, we NEED to serve you, we MUST serve you! Please stay on the line, and you will be assisted shortly!” she trills.
Now it’s Greensleeves, followed by Jingle Bells (on a 45 degree hot June day). An unknown zomboid chips in now. “Your expected hold time is t w e n t y t w o m i n u t e s a n d t h r e e s e c o n d s”, he says at a snail’s pace. The battery on my Appel blinks dangerously. This time — and for variety — there’s elevator musack, the kind that these dolts imagine would inspire you to make a portfolio investment straightaway.
Forty-three minutes later, a voice so young you can ‘see’ the pimples on its owner’s face, hops on the line. “Hi Padma, this is Rocky”, he announces in a baffling and incoherent louisiana-ludhiana accent. “I hope you are having a nice day, how can I make it even better for youIJ” The snippet is straight off the mark and on first name terms, as though we were once playmates in a kindergarten sandpit. The ‘security checks’ I’ve keyed in are not enough, he informs me cheerfully. I must first tell him my grandmother’s name, the date of my maternal uncle’s first cousin’s janayu ceremony, the very first brand of car battery I owned and at what age my older sister first contracted chicken pox. I beseech him to please switch to Hindi.
“line pey bane rahein, Padma Ji”, he says and disappears, but not before putting on ‘Munni badnam hui’ for my listening pleasure. When he returns, he wants a T-Pin. I tell him I don’t have one which is the reason I am CAllING him. “Koi baat nahin Padmaji, aap apna I-Pin batayein”, he consoles.
By now, I am longingly eyeing a bottle of rat poison in my garden. “I DON’T HAVE any PIN, will you tell me what I need to know or notIJ” I scream. Slightly miffed, Rocky invokes experience: He must speak to his ‘senior’. So I hold on for another 10. Suddenly and without warning, the dropped call syndrome strikes. We get disconnected.
Please, will someone take me back to a nationalised bank, the comforting aunty knitting behind Counter No 5, cups of tea with real flesh-and-blood and — a big, fat, corded, black MTNl telephoneIJ