The Case of the Telephone Line
I stepped down from the Nagpur bound train, glad that I was home again. It’s something about the Nagpur station. It’s always clean. Some good people take good care of the floor. Sometimes it shines, when the pedestrians and travelers are less. But this sight is rarely possible. Because it is always filled with trains and people, arriving and departing. Another thing which makes me feel good is the Bridge construction site, very much visible to even a child on any platform. They are on the verge of completing a carriage. It’s huge, massive and very bulky. Seems quite MODERN. So every time you observe an addition, like more steel bars or more concrete, you feel you the city has grown a bit.
I walked up a ramp and then down a ramp. We went home by our Alto, a typical middle class four- wheeler, very reliable, very comfortable for a family of three. I was quite aware while observing my surroundings as we went by car. I spotted changes in the roadside advertisements and hoardings. Also the process of dilapidation of roads. And I put up a question to my father, “When is the Government going to build the new roads?”
He said, “KAY MAHIT” meaning who knows. My question needn’t be answered. But dad’s answer was a wee bit positive than I thought. I thought he will shout “KADHI NAHI!” So his answer was better than the one I supposed.
Anyway, we came back, and I had tea, prepared by my grandfather. I ate the renowned Hyderabadi Dum biryani, always a courtesy of my dad when he comes from Hyderabad. Then we rushed to the Axis Bank, for cancellation of Demand Draft and for making a new draft as well. My dad is a bit of a funny guy, in a serious sense. He doesn’t like incompetence in people working in banks. When I was a kid, I used to be awed at his knowledge of everything. I used to gaze at him with wonder while he used to admonish people badly. Badly, in the literal sense. Sometimes I saw peoples’ blood pressure soar because dad would pose a question to which they would not know any answer. I was his fan back then. I’m trying to be like him now.
The lady handling us at the Axis bank was Pratima. She was quite simple looking. Didn’t wear any gloss. Didn’t wear nice clothes. In fact, the ones she wore were ghastly, according to me. The next two girls in the row had the same kind of style. At the end, there was a woman. Boy, she looked fabulous. She was a senior. And thus I concluded that maybe it wasn’t allowed to be presentable much if you are not a senior.
The first girl gave us the directions to fill up the form. We did. We went to the third counter, prior to the woman’s counter, meaning the third girl in a row with the ghastly appearance. We wrote the amount in the DD slip. Eight hundred rupees.
“The charge is fifty six rupees sir” said the third girl with the ghastly appearance.
“ What charges?” asks my father.
“Bank service charges for the DD.”
“The lady on the first counter said that for a quarterly it was free.”
“ No, we charge fifty six rupees.”
Mean while I drifted away from dad and the third girl. I thought this conversation was the beginning of the half hour quarrel that my father is going to pursue. I deliberately took some interest in my surroundings and deliberately started adoring the glass partitions. And started liking them.
Meanwhile my dad goes to the assistant bank manager. Very chubby, but extremely attractive.
“Mam, your staff is inconsistent. Kindly tell me the reason for this. One person tells me there are no service charges for a DD in the quarterly and the other charges me fifty six rupees. What is this?”
I saw the woman was very calm. A woman of experience, she was. I started admiring her. She immediately took charge and walked to the girl on the first counter. She was absent. She called her,
“ Pratimaaaaaa”
Dear Pratima came with the same calmness. Her face was expressionless. At that moment I thought then even she must be a woman of experience. She sat at her desk.
“ This Sir is saying that you told him the DD charges are absent in the quarterly.”
“ Yes mam! But I also old him to correspond with Tara (the woman at the third counter)”.
“OK. But the DD charges are absent for the quarterly of the priority customers”, she explains my father. Meaning, you have to have at least one lakh rupees for every three months in your account. So that’s how you become a priority customer.
“Yes but then explain me why your people keep suggesting wrong things to wrong people” said my father.
Well at that moment, even the assistant branch manager became speechless. We just hurried out of the bank.
I was still unwashed. I had only brushed my teeth and washed my face. I badly wanted to have a bath. We were going to get the DD in fifteen- twenty minutes.
“We go to the telephone office now”, said my dad.
I was slightly agitated by this next move of his. But I love my dad.
“Ok”, I said, “I’ll bathe for one hour at least when I get back home.”
He chuckled on this. I sat behind on our dear Dio, which actually belongs to my mom. And in two minutes we were in the telephone office. Looking at the building I thought it was a big institution. But it later turned out it was filled with small people with big lazy bones.
We went into the elevator. I’m always scared of elevators. Because I think the traction cable will snap and I will fall in the dark hole of hell and not die. That’s because I’m grossly overweight. One of my friends says that I am “grossly overweight but extremely cute”. So I think the God will punish me for my sins by letting the elevator fall and blame it on my weight. But he won’t let me die at all because I’m extremely cute.
Anyway, we entered the elevator. It was the automatic, two-leaf kind. Means when you hit a button, the door shutters slide from both sides and shut in between. And the same thing happened when we hit 5. The leaves closed, but we didn’t move up. I panicked. I shouted,
“We’re stuck! We’re not moving up!”
There was some low grade official of the building traveling with us. He understood the problem completely. He kicked as hard he could on the door. And by the grace of some good force, we moved up.
Third floor. The leaves opened with a screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
They slid back with the screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Fourth floor. The leaves opened with a screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
The slid back with the screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
By god! I thought. My eyes were always fixed on the sliding doors. I was waiting for them to fail so that I could shout my heart out,
“We’re stuck! We’re not moving up!”
Or maybe better,
“HELP! HELP!”
But we safely reached the fifth floor.
It was a different realm. Not quite what I had expected when I thought of an institution. The paint was very old. It was green, with patches here and there. And all the wiring was exposed. You could see all the chaos tangling everywhere. And the building was replete with old people. We went in search of a man called Mr. Verma. He was the man who dealt with my father some six months back when he had lodged the same complaint. Last month, some two guys came from this office, checked the phone line, said that they couldn’t do anything about it and Okayed the complaint. The complaint disappeared from the records. So my father was with a lot of energy to confront all the bureaucratic non-sense and bring back some sense in our phone’s life.
There was a lady, one Mrs. Chitnavis, apparently serving as the secretary of Mr. Verma. We asked her,
“Is Mr. Verma inside?”
“No. he is yet to come.”
“When will he come?”
“I don’t know. Hello? (she gets a call on her desk)”
“Madam it’s eleven thirty now…..”
“Hello…I don’t know”
“When can I come back?”
“Hello ( still on the phone, completely ignoring us). Yes, do it please. We have been waiting for this….yes ( to us)…meet the person sitting there…what’s his name…I forgot his name…I think for the time being he can help you.”
We moved on to the next person who was sitting only ten feet away from Mrs. Chitnavis.
My dad began again,
“Hello sir. My name is Avinash Chitins.”
“Yes...”
“I have come here to complain about my telephone. It is not in working order since last eleven months….I talked to Verma sir about it. But nothing has happened.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Chitins.”
“In which area do you stay?”
“Ramnagar.”
“Ramnagar?”
“Yes. Last year, there had been some theft of phone cable from Ravinagar to Bharatnagar. Our phone was dead for three months. After that your people came, and still our phone did not work. I don’t know what they did or what they installed. But our phone doesn’t work.”
“Bharatnagar?”
I began to think he can only recite area names.
“There was no theft in Bharatnagar. You must’ve misunderstood.”
“It was in the papers as well.”
“Ohhh…hmmm…so you say your phone isn’t working?”
“Yes. I talked to Verma sir some six month back. I had even given a letter in written. He said the problem will be solved in a few days. But nothing happened. He only said those things. I don’t know where his people went and what they did; they certainly did not come to my place to fix the phone up.”
“ Ohhhkkk Ohhkkk…under what exchange does your area come in?”
“Sitabuldi.”
“Oh…have you lodged a complaint in your sector office?”
“Last time I went there to lodge a written complaint, the people in Shankarnagar said that they don’t take written complaints anymore. I will have to do it on the phone. On the number 198. I did that about three times. Nothing happened. I even visited their office. But those people don’t come before 11..11.30. What am I supposed to do?”
“Hmmm…Shankarnagar? ( there he goes again)…see sitting here I cannot tell you anything about that office. I can only suggest you to give me a written application now. I will see to it that it is forwarded to the right authorities.”
“Another written application? Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection.”
“See, I’m not saying what you are saying is wrong….but…ta….let’s not talk about other things…I’m giving you the best possible solution now…a written application...”
“I have one more thing to tell. We have a broadband connection. It’s not working since when the phone is not working. And your people are charging me three hundred rupees per month. Why so? You can check out my internet usage. It will come out to be zero.”
“Yes…..but tell me …what is the matter with your phone? Is there a disturbance…a humming?”
“Yes. It hums, like you said. That’s all it does.”
“What is your number?”
“It’s 2576399.”
“Ok…mm…”, he searched for some number in an ancient diary. It was all scribbled with numbers with the corners of each page filleted due to gross over- handling. He punched a number into the landline in front of him.
“Hello!...hello!...yes…yes. This is Kareem speaking…yes ….yes…yes…I have a number here…it’s of Ramnagar…the work of Ramnagar has been completed….is it not so? Yes…yes…yes…ok…ok…ok…yes check out the number please…yes…it is 2576399 …92, Ramnagar Nagpur…yes…yes…yes…ok…ok…ok……”
All this while I and my father were staring at him with utter dismay so as to accentuate the effect to prick his conscience.
“Would you like a normal tea or a lemon tea?”, he asked.
“Lemon tea would do.”
“Are listen (to the baai)…bring three lemon teas please…”
“Not much is left. I’ll bring as much I can.”, said baai. So much for the excellent customer service.
“Ok…bring as much as you can.”
We revert back to our hot topic.
“Sir , what about my internet bill?”
“Look…this is the exchange department. We don’t handle the broadband department. But I can forward your application to the respective officer. I can check your usage and the amount of rebate.”
By that time some other office worker came. Seemed a little younger than Mr. Kareem.
“I can check it right now”, he said.
We had our tea. It was quite well made. The taste of it made me want to look at its black color in the cup. So for a long time I stared into the cup. And frankly, I was getting tired of this old man. I think that’s why I loved the black tea so much.
“Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection”, my father began again. The same sentence. I looked up at him admiringly. He certainly had patience for these things. I remembered I waned to be like him.
“You can take some other internet service. Like…what is that called ( he couldn’t remember the name of the service his own company provides which made me silently curse him)….(to some person standing fifteen feet away)…aree what is the name of that service?”
“ WLCA”, came the reply.
“Yes. WLCA.”
Now it was my turn to have my say.
“Is it better than the broadband?”
“Maybe it is.”
“How much speed does it have?”
“Maybe higher than broadband.”
“How much? Give me some number. 10 kbps. 100mbps. What?”
“Maybe 120mbps.”
I swear if I had a leather hunter, I would have thoroughly used it on him for his usage of “maybe”.
The younger person came in and confirmed that our usage of internet was almost zero since last December.
“They have used for only 10 mb. Which is nothing because we give 1 gb free. The downloads I mean.”
“That means we should get about three thousand rupees back.”
Wow, it seemed we were going to get a wee bit rich.
Another man came in. He was as old as Mr. Kareem. He had a worried face. A slight stoop. And he was the shortest person in the room then.
“Sir”, he begins, “I can give them a demo of the WLCA right now.”Finally someone was interested in doing something.
“Ok…show them…you can go with him”, said Mr. Kareem.
“What about the telephone sir?”
“Huh?...oh yes…I just talked to him personally…he will check it out and fix it…”
“And what about the broadband application?”
“Huh?...oh yes…write an application. I will forward it.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“Mmmmm…to the broadband department. Do one thing. Why don’t you go there yourself and meet Mrs.Deodhar there.”
Aha! Another name. I was waiting for it anxiously.
“Ok”, said my father.
“Thank you for giving your time Kareem saab.”
“Yes…yes…yes…”
We left with the fellow with a slight stoop. And of course, we took the much dreaded elevator. We stopped by the canteen. I stayed out, because all people inside were busy speaking in loud sonorous voices. Dad went inside with the man. After ten minutes they came out.
“This new plan is useless!!” cried dad. “We have to pay seven hundred rupees rental.”
The scheme we installed only had three hundred rupees rental. So much for the WLCA.
We met Mr. Verma who was busy chatting with some people with a smile of a politician’s. Dad went up to him,
“Hello Mr. Verma!”
Mr. Verma did not recognize my father for a couple of seconds. And when he did, he again flashed his smile of a politician’s.
“Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection.”
Now I started regarding my father as superman.
Mr. Verma, still smiling consoled my Dad saying he will send a man again as soon as possible. Pretending to be consoled, my father continued his stride toward Mrs. Deodhar energetically. We went to her building which was at the back side. We saw many people engaged in the favorite activities of smoking and sipping on masala chai.
We hurried up skipping the elevator. We entered a corridor on the second floor inhabited by a series of shelves containing wires and circuits stacked together in huge amounts. I had a feeling I had entered the Nagpur version of The Matrix. We saw a woman cleaning floor and asked her for the directions to reach Mrs. Deodhar. We went through the twilight of the corridor and came upon her nameplate. We entered her cabin and saw a man asleep with his head thrown back on the chair. He must be trying to imitate some Siberian worker, I thought. We did not awake him. I thought it would be a sin to wake a man dreaming about…God knows what.
We knocked on the door and dad peeped in. in a moment we were inside telling Mrs. Deodhar the same thing again.
“Our internet is out of order since last December and we are still paying for it every month.”
“Have you put up a complaint?”
“Yes, on the number 198.”
“Has your phone been checked?”
“Yes. It was checked, decided to be ok. My complaint was removed then by your people.”
This Mrs.Deodhar had short hair. A good built. She must have a child or two.
“Is it? Your number please.”
She wrote our telephone number and dialed a number on her cell phone.
“Yes. Mr.Sagdeo, Deo speaking. Yes..Yes..I have a number here…one of Ramnagar. They said they put up a complaint in Shankarnagar and somebody discarded the docket after apparently a false inspection. Yes…yes…please look into this. The people there are doing this at a good frequency lately. Yes…I suggest you look into the matter. Yes. The number is 2576399.Yes. Thank you.”
I thought at last our problems will be solved.
“Have you given an application in writing?”
“Not at Shankarnagar, I haven’t. They told me they have stopped taking written complaints.”
“What?”
“Yes, they don’t take written complaints.”
“I see. I suggest you do it in written.”“I had given a written application to Mr. Verma. But it seems he is unable to do anything about it.”
“Ok. Then I suggest you go back to the Shankarnagar office again and give them a written complaint.”
“Mam the people we talked to sent us here.”
“But I can’t take the complaint. You have to do it in your respective area office.”
Then I saw she was incapable of saving us.
“What do I do then? Whom should I go and meet?”
“I suggest you go and meet the Principal General Manager Mr.Batra.”
“I can put up the complaint in his office?”
“Yes you can do that.”
With a heavy sigh, we left her cabin. Dad started shouting in the corridor,
“Hopeless people these are! No customer service! They only know how to persecute someone!”
A couple of men passing by became suddenly became worried witnessing my dad’s outburst. Dad was like a sparkling warrior in the darkness of that corridor, full of exuberant energy.
We were in Mr.Batra’s office in another two minutes. In Mr.Verma’s office I saw a poster which said- “ never never never never never never give up!”. My father had scanned it with great interest. Here in the staircase I saw another poster- “only way to be the best is to provide the best quality service.”
I scanned it with great interest.
We found the PGM’s was on the first floor itself. A man of importance, I thought. The guard took our signatures in a large green register along with our phone numbers. Another welcoming act indicating the importance of man sitting upstairs. I wondered how Mr. Kareem or Mrs. Deodhar would feel when people would have to sign in and then make an appointment to meet.
We went upstairs and there it was, written in all bold and flashy fonts with big size- PRINCIPAL GENERAL MANAGER. We entered the anteroom and saw two middle aged women sitting at a large table wearing same red colored saree…possibly same fabric….with same red color of lipstick…with same autocratic expression…only one had spectacles and the other probably pretended to have a good vision. Because as we entered, the one not with spectacles failed to acknowledge our presence and the other was on the phone, apparently telecommunicating. After a period of a couple of minutes, the one with spectacles asked us the purpose of our visit.
“It’s regarding our telephone line.”
We sat in the waiting room for some time. And then we were summoned.
The moment I entered PGM’s office, I could see empty space followed by ribbon windows. I was accustomed to so much darkness and artificial illumination, that at seeing so much light, I again realized that there exists a sun, our now alternate source of energy.
I turned left, and there, at the end of the hall, I saw a long table, good enough to accommodate a family of ten at dinner time, with a man sitting in the middle. I saw that even he had aged with time. Only that he was quite rich in fats, fatty acids, glycerides, tryglycerides and sugar. He was a slug of a man. No elation came in my heart at this site. I could guess, he is definitely incapable of helping us. Our hopes had banished.
But anyway, we went with the same sentences. He went with the same sentences. There was definitely nothing different that we did. There was no plausible development of confidence or action as we moved in the upper echelons with our sorrows. In fact, the more we moved up, the more comic it became. A comedy teaching us the true pattern of gross mis-governance, mis- management, incompatible system, very much successful in giving the laymen customers as much inconvenience as possible. I could fail to think that the people working in this institution were fellow humans. If they possibly were fellow humans, then they should have understood the fellowship. They should have helped us. After all, we remember our tribe when we have to fight greater threats like floods, famines, earthquakes and global warming. But correcting a telephone line is not that great a concern. Because it’s not any atrocity, not an extremity, not fatality, not any ending. It’s just a daily inconvenience. I realized most of us like to be stationed where we can escape evolution, development or anything that requires motion and action.
And we handled all our disappointments in the best possible way- by laughing at the system we live in, sipping delicious tea and eating cookies at dusk. Bur I bet, the amount of distance we traveled from one person to another is never traveled by any human who works there even while changing all the telephone lines of a sector. Of course, this is an exaggeration, but only in the physical activity. Not in morality.
The carriage of the bridge grows everyday. Houses are built everyday. People make homes everyday. New streets are formed everyday. The city grows everyday. Disappointments await us everyday. We lose confidence everyday. We dread our decadence everyday. Hopes await us everyday. Nevertheless, we breathe everyday. We wait for a good telephone service everyday.
I stepped down from the Nagpur bound train, glad that I was home again. It’s something about the Nagpur station. It’s always clean. Some good people take good care of the floor. Sometimes it shines, when the pedestrians and travelers are less. But this sight is rarely possible. Because it is always filled with trains and people, arriving and departing. Another thing which makes me feel good is the Bridge construction site, very much visible to even a child on any platform. They are on the verge of completing a carriage. It’s huge, massive and very bulky. Seems quite MODERN. So every time you observe an addition, like more steel bars or more concrete, you feel you the city has grown a bit.
I walked up a ramp and then down a ramp. We went home by our Alto, a typical middle class four- wheeler, very reliable, very comfortable for a family of three. I was quite aware while observing my surroundings as we went by car. I spotted changes in the roadside advertisements and hoardings. Also the process of dilapidation of roads. And I put up a question to my father, “When is the Government going to build the new roads?”
He said, “KAY MAHIT” meaning who knows. My question needn’t be answered. But dad’s answer was a wee bit positive than I thought. I thought he will shout “KADHI NAHI!” So his answer was better than the one I supposed.
Anyway, we came back, and I had tea, prepared by my grandfather. I ate the renowned Hyderabadi Dum biryani, always a courtesy of my dad when he comes from Hyderabad. Then we rushed to the Axis Bank, for cancellation of Demand Draft and for making a new draft as well. My dad is a bit of a funny guy, in a serious sense. He doesn’t like incompetence in people working in banks. When I was a kid, I used to be awed at his knowledge of everything. I used to gaze at him with wonder while he used to admonish people badly. Badly, in the literal sense. Sometimes I saw peoples’ blood pressure soar because dad would pose a question to which they would not know any answer. I was his fan back then. I’m trying to be like him now.
The lady handling us at the Axis bank was Pratima. She was quite simple looking. Didn’t wear any gloss. Didn’t wear nice clothes. In fact, the ones she wore were ghastly, according to me. The next two girls in the row had the same kind of style. At the end, there was a woman. Boy, she looked fabulous. She was a senior. And thus I concluded that maybe it wasn’t allowed to be presentable much if you are not a senior.
The first girl gave us the directions to fill up the form. We did. We went to the third counter, prior to the woman’s counter, meaning the third girl in a row with the ghastly appearance. We wrote the amount in the DD slip. Eight hundred rupees.
“The charge is fifty six rupees sir” said the third girl with the ghastly appearance.
“ What charges?” asks my father.
“Bank service charges for the DD.”
“The lady on the first counter said that for a quarterly it was free.”
“ No, we charge fifty six rupees.”
Mean while I drifted away from dad and the third girl. I thought this conversation was the beginning of the half hour quarrel that my father is going to pursue. I deliberately took some interest in my surroundings and deliberately started adoring the glass partitions. And started liking them.
Meanwhile my dad goes to the assistant bank manager. Very chubby, but extremely attractive.
“Mam, your staff is inconsistent. Kindly tell me the reason for this. One person tells me there are no service charges for a DD in the quarterly and the other charges me fifty six rupees. What is this?”
I saw the woman was very calm. A woman of experience, she was. I started admiring her. She immediately took charge and walked to the girl on the first counter. She was absent. She called her,
“ Pratimaaaaaa”
Dear Pratima came with the same calmness. Her face was expressionless. At that moment I thought then even she must be a woman of experience. She sat at her desk.
“ This Sir is saying that you told him the DD charges are absent in the quarterly.”
“ Yes mam! But I also old him to correspond with Tara (the woman at the third counter)”.
“OK. But the DD charges are absent for the quarterly of the priority customers”, she explains my father. Meaning, you have to have at least one lakh rupees for every three months in your account. So that’s how you become a priority customer.
“Yes but then explain me why your people keep suggesting wrong things to wrong people” said my father.
Well at that moment, even the assistant branch manager became speechless. We just hurried out of the bank.
I was still unwashed. I had only brushed my teeth and washed my face. I badly wanted to have a bath. We were going to get the DD in fifteen- twenty minutes.
“We go to the telephone office now”, said my dad.
I was slightly agitated by this next move of his. But I love my dad.
“Ok”, I said, “I’ll bathe for one hour at least when I get back home.”
He chuckled on this. I sat behind on our dear Dio, which actually belongs to my mom. And in two minutes we were in the telephone office. Looking at the building I thought it was a big institution. But it later turned out it was filled with small people with big lazy bones.
We went into the elevator. I’m always scared of elevators. Because I think the traction cable will snap and I will fall in the dark hole of hell and not die. That’s because I’m grossly overweight. One of my friends says that I am “grossly overweight but extremely cute”. So I think the God will punish me for my sins by letting the elevator fall and blame it on my weight. But he won’t let me die at all because I’m extremely cute.
Anyway, we entered the elevator. It was the automatic, two-leaf kind. Means when you hit a button, the door shutters slide from both sides and shut in between. And the same thing happened when we hit 5. The leaves closed, but we didn’t move up. I panicked. I shouted,
“We’re stuck! We’re not moving up!”
There was some low grade official of the building traveling with us. He understood the problem completely. He kicked as hard he could on the door. And by the grace of some good force, we moved up.
Third floor. The leaves opened with a screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
They slid back with the screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Fourth floor. The leaves opened with a screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
The slid back with the screeching noise. Kkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiii.
By god! I thought. My eyes were always fixed on the sliding doors. I was waiting for them to fail so that I could shout my heart out,
“We’re stuck! We’re not moving up!”
Or maybe better,
“HELP! HELP!”
But we safely reached the fifth floor.
It was a different realm. Not quite what I had expected when I thought of an institution. The paint was very old. It was green, with patches here and there. And all the wiring was exposed. You could see all the chaos tangling everywhere. And the building was replete with old people. We went in search of a man called Mr. Verma. He was the man who dealt with my father some six months back when he had lodged the same complaint. Last month, some two guys came from this office, checked the phone line, said that they couldn’t do anything about it and Okayed the complaint. The complaint disappeared from the records. So my father was with a lot of energy to confront all the bureaucratic non-sense and bring back some sense in our phone’s life.
There was a lady, one Mrs. Chitnavis, apparently serving as the secretary of Mr. Verma. We asked her,
“Is Mr. Verma inside?”
“No. he is yet to come.”
“When will he come?”
“I don’t know. Hello? (she gets a call on her desk)”
“Madam it’s eleven thirty now…..”
“Hello…I don’t know”
“When can I come back?”
“Hello ( still on the phone, completely ignoring us). Yes, do it please. We have been waiting for this….yes ( to us)…meet the person sitting there…what’s his name…I forgot his name…I think for the time being he can help you.”
We moved on to the next person who was sitting only ten feet away from Mrs. Chitnavis.
My dad began again,
“Hello sir. My name is Avinash Chitins.”
“Yes...”
“I have come here to complain about my telephone. It is not in working order since last eleven months….I talked to Verma sir about it. But nothing has happened.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Chitins.”
“In which area do you stay?”
“Ramnagar.”
“Ramnagar?”
“Yes. Last year, there had been some theft of phone cable from Ravinagar to Bharatnagar. Our phone was dead for three months. After that your people came, and still our phone did not work. I don’t know what they did or what they installed. But our phone doesn’t work.”
“Bharatnagar?”
I began to think he can only recite area names.
“There was no theft in Bharatnagar. You must’ve misunderstood.”
“It was in the papers as well.”
“Ohhh…hmmm…so you say your phone isn’t working?”
“Yes. I talked to Verma sir some six month back. I had even given a letter in written. He said the problem will be solved in a few days. But nothing happened. He only said those things. I don’t know where his people went and what they did; they certainly did not come to my place to fix the phone up.”
“ Ohhhkkk Ohhkkk…under what exchange does your area come in?”
“Sitabuldi.”
“Oh…have you lodged a complaint in your sector office?”
“Last time I went there to lodge a written complaint, the people in Shankarnagar said that they don’t take written complaints anymore. I will have to do it on the phone. On the number 198. I did that about three times. Nothing happened. I even visited their office. But those people don’t come before 11..11.30. What am I supposed to do?”
“Hmmm…Shankarnagar? ( there he goes again)…see sitting here I cannot tell you anything about that office. I can only suggest you to give me a written application now. I will see to it that it is forwarded to the right authorities.”
“Another written application? Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection.”
“See, I’m not saying what you are saying is wrong….but…ta….let’s not talk about other things…I’m giving you the best possible solution now…a written application...”
“I have one more thing to tell. We have a broadband connection. It’s not working since when the phone is not working. And your people are charging me three hundred rupees per month. Why so? You can check out my internet usage. It will come out to be zero.”
“Yes…..but tell me …what is the matter with your phone? Is there a disturbance…a humming?”
“Yes. It hums, like you said. That’s all it does.”
“What is your number?”
“It’s 2576399.”
“Ok…mm…”, he searched for some number in an ancient diary. It was all scribbled with numbers with the corners of each page filleted due to gross over- handling. He punched a number into the landline in front of him.
“Hello!...hello!...yes…yes. This is Kareem speaking…yes ….yes…yes…I have a number here…it’s of Ramnagar…the work of Ramnagar has been completed….is it not so? Yes…yes…yes…ok…ok…ok…yes check out the number please…yes…it is 2576399 …92, Ramnagar Nagpur…yes…yes…yes…ok…ok…ok……”
All this while I and my father were staring at him with utter dismay so as to accentuate the effect to prick his conscience.
“Would you like a normal tea or a lemon tea?”, he asked.
“Lemon tea would do.”
“Are listen (to the baai)…bring three lemon teas please…”
“Not much is left. I’ll bring as much I can.”, said baai. So much for the excellent customer service.
“Ok…bring as much as you can.”
We revert back to our hot topic.
“Sir , what about my internet bill?”
“Look…this is the exchange department. We don’t handle the broadband department. But I can forward your application to the respective officer. I can check your usage and the amount of rebate.”
By that time some other office worker came. Seemed a little younger than Mr. Kareem.
“I can check it right now”, he said.
We had our tea. It was quite well made. The taste of it made me want to look at its black color in the cup. So for a long time I stared into the cup. And frankly, I was getting tired of this old man. I think that’s why I loved the black tea so much.
“Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection”, my father began again. The same sentence. I looked up at him admiringly. He certainly had patience for these things. I remembered I waned to be like him.
“You can take some other internet service. Like…what is that called ( he couldn’t remember the name of the service his own company provides which made me silently curse him)….(to some person standing fifteen feet away)…aree what is the name of that service?”
“ WLCA”, came the reply.
“Yes. WLCA.”
Now it was my turn to have my say.
“Is it better than the broadband?”
“Maybe it is.”
“How much speed does it have?”
“Maybe higher than broadband.”
“How much? Give me some number. 10 kbps. 100mbps. What?”
“Maybe 120mbps.”
I swear if I had a leather hunter, I would have thoroughly used it on him for his usage of “maybe”.
The younger person came in and confirmed that our usage of internet was almost zero since last December.
“They have used for only 10 mb. Which is nothing because we give 1 gb free. The downloads I mean.”
“That means we should get about three thousand rupees back.”
Wow, it seemed we were going to get a wee bit rich.
Another man came in. He was as old as Mr. Kareem. He had a worried face. A slight stoop. And he was the shortest person in the room then.
“Sir”, he begins, “I can give them a demo of the WLCA right now.”Finally someone was interested in doing something.
“Ok…show them…you can go with him”, said Mr. Kareem.
“What about the telephone sir?”
“Huh?...oh yes…I just talked to him personally…he will check it out and fix it…”
“And what about the broadband application?”
“Huh?...oh yes…write an application. I will forward it.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“Mmmmm…to the broadband department. Do one thing. Why don’t you go there yourself and meet Mrs.Deodhar there.”
Aha! Another name. I was waiting for it anxiously.
“Ok”, said my father.
“Thank you for giving your time Kareem saab.”
“Yes…yes…yes…”
We left with the fellow with a slight stoop. And of course, we took the much dreaded elevator. We stopped by the canteen. I stayed out, because all people inside were busy speaking in loud sonorous voices. Dad went inside with the man. After ten minutes they came out.
“This new plan is useless!!” cried dad. “We have to pay seven hundred rupees rental.”
The scheme we installed only had three hundred rupees rental. So much for the WLCA.
We met Mr. Verma who was busy chatting with some people with a smile of a politician’s. Dad went up to him,
“Hello Mr. Verma!”
Mr. Verma did not recognize my father for a couple of seconds. And when he did, he again flashed his smile of a politician’s.
“Sir what happens here, please explain me. Who will look after my written application? Nobody does anything. People come and go. They wash out the records of complaints claiming they have fixed it. That means somewhere in your data there is a false report saying that my problem has been solved. Whereas I come here every time after certain interval to give the same complaints, that too in writing. Just tell me that you can’t make it work. I will surrender the connection.”
Now I started regarding my father as superman.
Mr. Verma, still smiling consoled my Dad saying he will send a man again as soon as possible. Pretending to be consoled, my father continued his stride toward Mrs. Deodhar energetically. We went to her building which was at the back side. We saw many people engaged in the favorite activities of smoking and sipping on masala chai.
We hurried up skipping the elevator. We entered a corridor on the second floor inhabited by a series of shelves containing wires and circuits stacked together in huge amounts. I had a feeling I had entered the Nagpur version of The Matrix. We saw a woman cleaning floor and asked her for the directions to reach Mrs. Deodhar. We went through the twilight of the corridor and came upon her nameplate. We entered her cabin and saw a man asleep with his head thrown back on the chair. He must be trying to imitate some Siberian worker, I thought. We did not awake him. I thought it would be a sin to wake a man dreaming about…God knows what.
We knocked on the door and dad peeped in. in a moment we were inside telling Mrs. Deodhar the same thing again.
“Our internet is out of order since last December and we are still paying for it every month.”
“Have you put up a complaint?”
“Yes, on the number 198.”
“Has your phone been checked?”
“Yes. It was checked, decided to be ok. My complaint was removed then by your people.”
This Mrs.Deodhar had short hair. A good built. She must have a child or two.
“Is it? Your number please.”
She wrote our telephone number and dialed a number on her cell phone.
“Yes. Mr.Sagdeo, Deo speaking. Yes..Yes..I have a number here…one of Ramnagar. They said they put up a complaint in Shankarnagar and somebody discarded the docket after apparently a false inspection. Yes…yes…please look into this. The people there are doing this at a good frequency lately. Yes…I suggest you look into the matter. Yes. The number is 2576399.Yes. Thank you.”
I thought at last our problems will be solved.
“Have you given an application in writing?”
“Not at Shankarnagar, I haven’t. They told me they have stopped taking written complaints.”
“What?”
“Yes, they don’t take written complaints.”
“I see. I suggest you do it in written.”“I had given a written application to Mr. Verma. But it seems he is unable to do anything about it.”
“Ok. Then I suggest you go back to the Shankarnagar office again and give them a written complaint.”
“Mam the people we talked to sent us here.”
“But I can’t take the complaint. You have to do it in your respective area office.”
Then I saw she was incapable of saving us.
“What do I do then? Whom should I go and meet?”
“I suggest you go and meet the Principal General Manager Mr.Batra.”
“I can put up the complaint in his office?”
“Yes you can do that.”
With a heavy sigh, we left her cabin. Dad started shouting in the corridor,
“Hopeless people these are! No customer service! They only know how to persecute someone!”
A couple of men passing by became suddenly became worried witnessing my dad’s outburst. Dad was like a sparkling warrior in the darkness of that corridor, full of exuberant energy.
We were in Mr.Batra’s office in another two minutes. In Mr.Verma’s office I saw a poster which said- “ never never never never never never give up!”. My father had scanned it with great interest. Here in the staircase I saw another poster- “only way to be the best is to provide the best quality service.”
I scanned it with great interest.
We found the PGM’s was on the first floor itself. A man of importance, I thought. The guard took our signatures in a large green register along with our phone numbers. Another welcoming act indicating the importance of man sitting upstairs. I wondered how Mr. Kareem or Mrs. Deodhar would feel when people would have to sign in and then make an appointment to meet.
We went upstairs and there it was, written in all bold and flashy fonts with big size- PRINCIPAL GENERAL MANAGER. We entered the anteroom and saw two middle aged women sitting at a large table wearing same red colored saree…possibly same fabric….with same red color of lipstick…with same autocratic expression…only one had spectacles and the other probably pretended to have a good vision. Because as we entered, the one not with spectacles failed to acknowledge our presence and the other was on the phone, apparently telecommunicating. After a period of a couple of minutes, the one with spectacles asked us the purpose of our visit.
“It’s regarding our telephone line.”
We sat in the waiting room for some time. And then we were summoned.
The moment I entered PGM’s office, I could see empty space followed by ribbon windows. I was accustomed to so much darkness and artificial illumination, that at seeing so much light, I again realized that there exists a sun, our now alternate source of energy.
I turned left, and there, at the end of the hall, I saw a long table, good enough to accommodate a family of ten at dinner time, with a man sitting in the middle. I saw that even he had aged with time. Only that he was quite rich in fats, fatty acids, glycerides, tryglycerides and sugar. He was a slug of a man. No elation came in my heart at this site. I could guess, he is definitely incapable of helping us. Our hopes had banished.
But anyway, we went with the same sentences. He went with the same sentences. There was definitely nothing different that we did. There was no plausible development of confidence or action as we moved in the upper echelons with our sorrows. In fact, the more we moved up, the more comic it became. A comedy teaching us the true pattern of gross mis-governance, mis- management, incompatible system, very much successful in giving the laymen customers as much inconvenience as possible. I could fail to think that the people working in this institution were fellow humans. If they possibly were fellow humans, then they should have understood the fellowship. They should have helped us. After all, we remember our tribe when we have to fight greater threats like floods, famines, earthquakes and global warming. But correcting a telephone line is not that great a concern. Because it’s not any atrocity, not an extremity, not fatality, not any ending. It’s just a daily inconvenience. I realized most of us like to be stationed where we can escape evolution, development or anything that requires motion and action.
And we handled all our disappointments in the best possible way- by laughing at the system we live in, sipping delicious tea and eating cookies at dusk. Bur I bet, the amount of distance we traveled from one person to another is never traveled by any human who works there even while changing all the telephone lines of a sector. Of course, this is an exaggeration, but only in the physical activity. Not in morality.
The carriage of the bridge grows everyday. Houses are built everyday. People make homes everyday. New streets are formed everyday. The city grows everyday. Disappointments await us everyday. We lose confidence everyday. We dread our decadence everyday. Hopes await us everyday. Nevertheless, we breathe everyday. We wait for a good telephone service everyday.
