One Night at the Call Center by Chetan Bhagat
“What?” Priyanka said, “next month?” and looked around at all of us with a shocked expression. Everyone returned puzzled looks, as if they didn't know what was going on. I also pretended to look confused.
“Mum, no!” Priyanka wailed. “How can I get married next month? That's less than five weeks away.”
“Oh you don't have to worry about that. I am there to organize everything. You wait and see, I'll work day and night to make it a grand event.”
“Mum, I'm not worried about organizing a party. I have to be ready to get married. I hardly know Ganesh,” Priyanka said, entwining her fingers nervously in the telephone wire.
“Huh? Of course you're ready for it. When the families have fixed the match and bride and groom are happy, why delay? And the boy can't keep visiting again and again. He's in an important position after all.”
Yeah right, I thought. He was probably one of the thousands of Indian geeks coding away at Microsoft. But to his in-laws, he was Bill Gates himself.
“Mum, please. I can't go ahead with it next month. Sorry, but no,” Priyanka said, “and I have to put the phone down now.”
“What do you mean no? This is too much. Do you have to disagree with me always or what?”
“Mum, how does this have anything to do with disagreeing with you? In fact, how does it have anything to do with you? It's my life, and sorry, I can't marry anyone I have only known for five weeks.”
Priyanka's mother stayed silent for a while. I thought she would retaliate, but then I figured out that the silence was working more effectively than words. She knows how to put an emotional slasher knife right at Priyanka's neck.
“Mum, are you there?” Priyanka asked after ten seconds.
“Yes, I'm still here. I'll be dead soon, but unfortunately I'm still here.”
“Mum, c'mon now …”
“Don't even make me happy just by chance,” Priyanka's mother said. What a killer line, I thought. I almost applauded.
Priyanka threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, then grabbed a stress ball lying near Vroom's computer across the table and squeezed it hard. I tugged the headset closer to my ear as Priyanka's voice turned softer.
“Mum, please. Don't do this.”
“You know I prayed for one hour today… praying you stay happy … forever,” Priyanka's mother said as she broke into tears. Whoever starts crying first always has an advantage in an argument. This works for Priyanka's mother, who at least has obedient tear glands, if not an obedient daughter.
“Mum, don't create a scene. I'm at work. What do you want from me? I have agreed to the boy. Now why is everyone pushing me?”
“Isn't Ganesh nice? What's the problem?” her mother said in a tragic tone that could put any Bollywood hero's mother to shame.
“Mum, I didn't say he isn't nice, I just need time.”
“You aren't distracted, are you? Are you still talking to that useless call-center chap, what's his name? Shyam?”
I jumped.
“No, Mum. That's over. I've told you so many times. I've agreed to Ganesh, right?”
“So, why can't you agree to next month—for everyone's happiness? Can't a mother beg her daughter for this?”
There you go: can't-a-mother No. 2 for the night.
Priyanka closed her eyes to compose herself and spoke slowly, “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Think about it. But think for all of us, not just yourself.”
“OK. I will. Just… just give me some time.”
Priyanka hung up the phone and kept still while the girls asked her for details.
She looked around and threw the stress ball at her monitor.
“Can you believe it? She wants me to get married next month. Next month!” Priyanka said and stood up. “They brought me up for twenty-five years, and now they can't wait more than twenty-five days to get rid of me. What is it with these people? Am I such a burden?” Priyanka repeated her conversation to Esha and Radhika. Vroom checked his computer to see if Bakshi had sent us any e-mails.
“It doesn't matter, right? You have to marry him anyway. Why drag it out?” Radhika said to Priyanka.
“Yes, you get to drive the Lexus sooner, too,” Vroom said, without looking up from his screen. Screw Vroom. I gave him a firm glare out of the corner of my eye.
“What will I wear?” Esha said. Her somber mood had lightened with the new announcement. Give her a chance to dress up and she'll ignore people dying all around her. “This is too short notice,” she continued. “I need a new dress for every ceremony.”
“Get your designer friends to lend you a few dresses,” Vroom said to Esha with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Esha's face dropped again. Only I saw it, but her eyes became wet. She took a tissue from her purse, pretended to fix her lipstick and casually wiped away her tears.
“I'm so not ready for this. In one month I'll be someone's wife. Gosh, little kids will call me auntie,” Priyanka said.
Everyone discussed the pros and cons of Priyanka getting married in four weeks' time. Most of them felt getting married so quickly wasn't such a big deal once she had chosen the guy. Of course, most people didn't give a damn about me.
In the midst of the discussions the systems guy returned to our desk.
“What happened here?” he said from under the table. “Looks like someone ripped these wires apart.”
“I don't know,” I said. “See if we can get some traffic again.”
Priyanka's mother and her words—“the useless call-center boy“—resounded in my head. I remembered the time when Priyanka told me her mother's views about me. It wasn't long ago: It was one of our last dates at Mocha Cafe.
Chapter 18
My Past Dates with Priyanka—IV
Mocha Cafe, Greater Kailash I
Five months earlier
WEPROMISED TO MEET ON ONE CONDITION: we wouldn't fight. No blame games, no sarcastic comments and no judgmental remarks. She was late again. I fiddled with the menu and looked around. Mocha's decor had a Middle Eastern twist, with hookahs, velvet cushions, and colored glass lamps everywhere. Many of the tables were occupied by couples, sitting with intertwined fingers, obviously deeply in love. The girls laughed at whatever the guys said. The guys ordered the most expensive items on the menu. Every now and then their eyes met and giggles broke out. It was perfect, like all they needed to be happy was each other. Aren't the silly delusions in the initial stage of a relationship amazing? My life was nowhere near perfect, of course. For
Starters, my girlfriend, if I could still call her that, was late. Plus I could sense she was itching to dump me. Priyanka and I had ended eight of our last ten phone calls with one of us hanging up on the other.
I hadn't slept the entire day, which isn't a big deal for most people, but considering I work all night, it hadn't left me feeling too good. My job was going nowhere, with Bakshi bent on sucking every last drop of my blood. Maybe he was right—I just didn't have the strategic vision or managerial leadership or whatever crap things you are supposed to have to do well in life. Maybe Priyanka's mum was right too, and her daughter was stuck with a loser.
These thoughts enveloped me as she came in. She had just had a haircut and her waist-length hair was now just a few inches below her shoulders. I liked her with long hair, but she never listened to me. I told you, I didn't have the leadership skills to influence anyone. Anyway, her hair still looked nice. She wore a white linen top and a flowing lavender skirt with lots of crinkly edges. She wore a thin silver necklace, with the world's tiniest diamond pendant hanging from it. I stared at my watch as a sign of protest.
“Sorry, Shyam,” she said as she put a giant brown bag on the table, “that ass hairdresser took so long. I told him I had to leave early.”
“No big deal. A haircut has to be more important than me,” I said without any emotion in my voice.
“I thought we said no sarcasm,” she said, “and I did say sorry.”
“That's
“Shyam, please. I know I'm late. We promised not to fight. Saturday is the only day I get time for a haircut.”
“I told you to keep your hair long,” I said.
“I did for a long time, but it's so hard to maintain, Shyam. I'm sorry, but you have to understand, I had the most boring hair and I couldn't do anything with it. It took a whole hour to oil the damn thing, and it's so hot in the Delhi heat.”
“Whatever,” I said in a dismissive voice, looking at the menu. “What do you want?”
“I want my Shyam to be in a good mood,” she said and held my hand. We didn't intertwine fingers, though.
“My” Shyam. I guess I still count, I thought. Girls sure know how to sweet-talk.
“Hmm,” I said and let out a big sigh. If she was trying to make peace, I guess I had to do my bit. “We can have their special freeze-dried Maggi noodles.”
“Maggi? You've come all this way to eat Maggi?” she said, and took the menu from me. “And check this out: ninety bucks for Maggi?” She said the last phrase so loudly that the tables and a few waiters next to us heard.
“Priyanka, we earn now. We can afford it,” I said.
“Order chocolate brownies and ice cream,” she said. “Or at least something you don't get at home.”
“I thought you said you'll have whatever I want,” I said.
“Yes, but Maggi?” she said and made a quirky face. Her nostrils contracted for a second. I had seen that face before, and I couldn't help but smile. I saved myself time by ordering the brownie.
The waiter brought the chocolate brownie and placed it in front of Priyanka—half a liter of chocolate sauce dripping over a blob of vanilla ice cream placed precariously on top of a huge slice of rich chocolate cake. It was a heart attack served on a plate. Priyanka had two spoons and slid the dish toward me.
“Look at me, eating away like a cow,” she said.
“Did you have a heart-to-heart with your mum?” I said.
Priyanka wiped her chocolate-lined lips with tissue. I felt like kissing her right then. However, I hesitated. When you hesitate in love, you know something is wrong.
“Me and my mum,” she said, “are incapable of having a rational, sane conversation. I tried to talk to her about you and my plans to study further. It sounds like a simple conversation, right?”
“What happened?”
“In seven minutes we were crying. Can you believe it?”
“With your mother, I can. What exactly did she sayr
“You don't want to know.”
“But I have to know,” I insisted.
“She said she has never liked you because you aren't settled, and because since the day I started dating you I have changed and become an unaffectionate, cold person.”
“Unaffectionate? What the … ?” I shouted, my face turning red. “How the hell have I changed you?”
The second comment cut me into slices. Sure, I hated the “not settled” tag, but there was some truth to that.
But how could she accuse me of turning Priyanka into a cold person?
She didn't say anything, but her face softened and I heard tiny sobs. It was so unfair, I was the one being insulted: I should be the one getting to cry. However, I guess only girls look nice crying on dates.
“Listen, Priyanka, your mum is a psycho,” I said.
“No she's not. It's not because of you, but I have changed. Maybe it is because I'm older, and she confuses it with my being with you. We used to be so close, and now she doesn't like anything I do,” she said and broke down into full-on crying. Everyone in the cafe must have thought I had cheated on my girlfriend and was dumping her or something. I got some you-horrible-men looks from girls at other tables.
“Calm down, Priyanka. What does she want?
And tell me honestly, what do you want?” I said.
Priyanka shook her head and remained silent.
The effort it sometimes takes to make women speak up is harder than interrogating terrorists.
“Please, talk to me,” I said, looking at the brownie. The ice cream had melted into a gooey mess.
She finally spoke. “She wants me to show that I love her. She wants me to make her happy and marry someone she chooses for me.”
“And what do you want?” I said.
“I don't know,” she told the tablecloth.
What the hell? I thought. All I get for four years of togetherness is an “I don't know?”
“You want to dump me, don't you? I'm just not good enough for your family.”
“It isn't like that, Shyam. She married my dad, who was just a government employee, because he seemed like a decent human being. But her sisters waited and married better-qualified boys, and they are richer today. Her concern for me comes from that. She is my mother. It's not as if she doesn't know what's good for me. I want someone doing well in his career too.”
“So your mother is not the only cause for the strain in our relationship. It's you as well.”
“A relationship never flounders for one reason alone, there are many issues. You don't take feedback. You're sarcastic. You don't understand my ambitions. Don't I always tell you to focus on your career:
“Just get lost, OK,” I said.
My loud voice attracted the attention of the neighboring tables. All the girls at Mocha were probably convinced I was the worst possible male chauvinist pig.
Her tears came back until she noticed people watching us and composed herself. A few wipes with a tissue and she was normal again.
“Shyam, it's this attitude of yours. At home, my mother doesn't understand, and now it's you who doesn't. Why have you become like this? You've changed, Shyam, you are not the same happy person I first met,” she said, her voice restrained but calm.
“Nothing has happened to me. It's you who finds new faults in me every day. I have a bad boss and I'm trying to manage as happily as possible. What has happened to you? You used to eat at truck drivers' dhabas, now all of a sudden you need to marry an expat cardiac surgeon to make ends meet?”
We stared at each other for two seconds.
“OK, it's my fault. That's what you want to prove, isn't it? I'm a confused, selfish, mean person, right?” she said.
I couldn't believe I had loved her and those flared nostrils for four years, and now it was difficult to say four sentences without disagreeing.
I sighed. “I thought there was to be no arguing, blaming or sarcasm, but that's all we've done.”
“I care for you a lot,” she said and held my hand.
“Me, too,” I said, “but I think we need to take care of other things in our life as well.”
We asked for the bill and made cursory conversation about the weather, traffic, and the cafe decor. We talked a lot, but we weren't communicating at all.
“Call me in the evening if you're free,” I said as I paid the bill and got up to leave.
It had come to this: Now we had to tell each other to call. Previously, not a waking hour had passed without one of us texting or calling the other.
“OK, or I'll text you,” she said.
We had a basic hug without really touching. A kiss was out of the question.
“Sure,” I said, “it's always nice to get your messages.”
Sarcasm. Man, will I never learn?
Chapter 19
1:59 a.m.
MOCHA CAFE AND ITS COLORED ARABIAN LIGHTS faded away from my mind as I returned to WASG's tube-lit interiors. I checked the time: It was close to 2:00 a.m. I got up to take a short walk. I didn't know what was more disgusting: thinking about Priyanka's mother or hearing the girls obsess about Priyanka's marriage. I went to the corner of the room where Military Uncle sat and we nodded to each other. I looked at his screen and saw pictures of animals—chimps, rhinos, lions, and deer.
“Are those your customers?” I
Military Uncle smiled back. He was in one of his rare good moods.
“These are pictures I took at the zoo. I scanned them to send to my grandson.”
“Cool. He likes animals?” I said and bent over to take a closer look at the chimp. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Bakshi.
“Yes, I'm sending it by e-mail to my son. But I'm having trouble as our e-mails don't allow more than four-megabyte attachments.”
I decided to help Uncle, if only to avoid going back to my seat until the systems guy had fixed the phones.
“Hmm, these are large files,” I said, as I took over his mouse. “I could try to zip them, though that won't compress images much. The other way is to make the pictures low resolution. Otherwise, you could leave a few animals out.”
Military Uncle wanted to keep them high resolution, so we agreed to leave out the deer and the hippos as those weren't his grandson's favorite animals.
“Thanks so much, Shyam,” Military Uncle said, as I successfully pressed “send” on his e-mail. I looked at his face and there was genuine gratitude. It was hard to believe he had been booted out because he was too bossy with his daughter-in-law—a piece of gossip Radhika had once passed on to me.
“You're welcome,” I said. I noticed Vroom signal to me to come back. Hoping that the topic of Priyanka's wedding was over, I returned to the desk.
“Bakshi has sent us a copy of the proposal,” Vroom said.
I sat at my desk and opened my inbox. There was a message from Bakshi.
The calls had not resumed, so the systems guy had gone back to his department to get new wires.
“Let's see which white bozos he sucked up to. Who has he sent it to?” Vroom's voice was excited.
I opened the mail to see who had been the original recipients. It was like a Who's Who of Western Computers and Appliances in Boston: the sales manager, the IT manager, the operations head, and several others. Bakshi had sent it to the entire directory of people in our client base. I have to say, he makes a better mass sucker-upper than a gangbang porn star would.