Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

The days passed quickly and before I knew it, 31 December arrived. I had plenty of offers to attend New Year parties from Vincent, Reggie and Gina, all of whom had taken leave. But after all that had happened, I just didn't feel like celebrating. That's when I received an offer from the management. They wanted volunteers to man the call centre on New Year's Eve and were offering triple pay. Since I had nothing else to do, I volunteered for the night shift and sat down like an associate in what Priya called the 'hot seat' for the first time in my life.

Handling calls in a call centre is not as easy as it looks. In fact, it's a pretty stressful job. As Vincent used to say, it's just a huge crap shoot. You never know what kind of callers you're going to get. There was not much traffic that night, and it was two hours before I got my first call. It was a gentleman by the name of Mr Jim Bolton.

I adjusted the headset and followed the script taped to the screen. 'Thank you for calling American Roadside Assistance. My name is Larry Page. How may I assist you?'

'Thanks, son. We're from San Francisco. We were visiting friends in New York. From there we were going to Philadelphia for a New Year's party, but we got caught in a blizzard. We've lost our bearings a bit. It seems we have crossed Dallas and we are now in White Haven on the I-476. Can you tell us how to get to Philly from here? And please make it quick, the battery on my mobile is running out.'

'Yes, of course, Sir. From Dallas I can give you directions even to the moon. Can I have your ARA customer number, please?'

The guy gave me his subscription number and I pulled up directions from Dallas, Texas to Philadelphia, New York on the computer. The guy appeared to be nearly fifteen hundred miles off course. What was worse, I was unable to locate White Heaven on the map. I punched in all the other colours, even 'Black Hell', but the result was the same. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The place just didn't exist and I was as confused as a cow on Astroturf.

All associates are expected to complete a call in no more than three minutes, but even after ten minutes I was unable to find Mr Bolton's location. He was getting more and more impatient.

'I can't seem to find directions for Philadelphia, Sir. Would you like to travel to Waco?' I asked hopefully.

The guy blew his top. 'Listen, you bastard,' he shouted. 'For the last half-hour you've been giving me the run around. Why don't you just confess that you know shit all about the roads of the United States? You're not really Larry Page. You are some arsehole Indian sitting in some shit-hole office in goddamn Bangalore trying to fleece unsuspecting Americans, aren't you? Come on, admit it, and I might still excuse you.'

'No, Sir. My name is Larry Page and I am an American, just like you,' I replied.

'So you persist in calling yourself American, eh? You think you can fool me? I know all about how your teeny-weeny call centres operate in India. I'll expose your lie in a sec. Tell me, Mr Page, what is the population of the United States?'

'I dunno. Is it one billion?'

'Wrong. Name the ten amendments to the US Constitution.'

'Aw, shucks, that's harder than Chinese arithmetic. By the way, what's a Constitution?'

'You've not heard of the Bill of Rights? I suppose it is pointless asking you who wrote our national anthem?'

'Can I take a guess?'

'Go ahead.'

'Is it Stevie Wonder?'

'Wrong again. Can you at least recite "The Star-Spangled Banner"?'

'Gee, I used to sing it in school, but that's a long time ago. All I remember is it had something about rockets bursting in the air and bombs entering the home of the brave.'

'That does it. I can't take it any longer. You are an insult to the American nation.'

'I am sorry, Sir. But then I haven't gone to any of those fancy universities like you have.'

'You don't need an education, son. What you need is a hole in the head. Now tell me, what's your real name?'

'I told you, Sir. It's Larry Page.'

'Look, it's no use pretending any longer. I've already proved that you are not American. So what's your real Indian name? Is it Sitaram? Or is it Venkatswamy?'

'Well, Sir, you can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn't make them biscuits. I told you, I'm Larry Page and I'm an American from the great State of Texas.'

'I am asking you for the last time, what is your real name? Your Indian name, goddamnit.'

'And I'm telling you for the last time, it's Larry Page and I am not Indian, I'm American.'

'You motherfucking Indians are taking jobs away from here and you have the cheek to call yourselves American? Shame on you.'

'Well shame on you, too, Sir, using such language. Mom says, pretty is as pretty does.'

'Listen, arsehole, it's time you crawled back to your black Indian Mama. This is the last time you are going to sit in that Indian shit-hole of yours and waste precious American time. Who is your supervisor? I need to have a word with him.'

'You've done with preaching and gone to meddling now,' I told him.

'I'll tell you what meddling is, arsehole. I belong to the Teamsters. I'm the head of Local 70, and I'm going to pull the plug on you. And if your company doesn't fire you, I'm going to pull the plug on your shitty company. I demand to speak to your supervisor right now. And let me make-'

The call was cut off abruptly. Looked like his battery had died on him. I passed a hand over my face, relieved to be rid of such a nasty caller, when a message started flashing on my computer screen. 'Please see me immediately – MK.'

Madhavan Kutty was the supervisor of supervisors, a nononsense guy with snow-white hair and a foul temper. When I entered his room on the mezzanine floor, he was standing near his desk and there was another guy sitting in his chair. The stranger was dressed flashily in a black leather jacket and pointy white shoes. I wondered if he was blind coz he was wearing shades at one a.m. His face was pretty, but spoiled by a long scar running from his left eye to his cheek. He looked as shifty as a usedcar salesman.

Madhavan looked like the cheese had fallen off his cracker. 'This is Mr Vicky Rai, the owner of our company. He was passing by and decided to check in on how we were doing. He monitored just one call at random and that was yours, Larry. You have set a new benchmark for how not to handle a call.'

'Listen, I can explain. That guy was a loony. Even a blind man on a galloping horse could see it,' I began, but the flashy guy cut me short.

'No need to argue with this idiot, MK. Larry Page, you're fired,' he said and walked out, his spanking white shoes tapping on the tiled floor.

Two days later I was kicking a can aimlessly on the road in front of the guesthouse when Bilal came to me. 'Listen, Larry, now that you are no longer working in the call centre, would you like to come with me to Kashmir for a few days? I am going back today with a couple of friends.'

I had nothing better to do and a fortnight to kill. 'Yeah,' I said and sent the can spinning into the gutter.

We arrived in Srinagar the next night. When I got off the bus the wind was blowing like a tornado in a trailer park and it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. A blast of icy air struck me so hard, I almost fainted. Bilal quickly brought me a blanket and rushed me to a nearby house, where I fell asleep instantly.

The next day, we set out for a spot of sightseeing. It was a very cold day but Bilal had just the right outfit for me – a long, loose gown with upturned sleeves called a phiran, inside which I clutched a small fire-pot – my own private oven. I was as snug as a bug in a rug.

Srinagar was pretty as a picture and the people on the streets seemed very friendly. Children in brightly coloured shawls waved at me, flocks of bright-eyed schoolgirls, their heads covered, giggled shyly, women loaded with silver jewellery looked up from their houses and men wearing gowns and black hats murmured greetings to Bilal. Everyone smiled.