I wake up sweating and swatting (mosquitoes) in the middle of the night. Hubby is swearing under his breath, mindful of the 11 year-old making irritated noises from her bed at the other end of the room.
A power cut on a sweltering July night. I’d been sleeping like the dead after an especially exhausting day, but to judge by the vibes of irritation eddying about in the pitch dark, and from my own drenched and mosquito-bitten condition, the power must have been out for some time.
“About one hour,” growls hubby.
“What do they say at NDPL?”
“No idea ... haven’t called!”
“Why not?” I’m indignant. “Am I the only one who can call up and lodge a power cut complaint in this house?”
“Yes, because the number is saved in your phone and I didn’t fancy groping all over the house in the dark for it,” he says unanswerably.
“And whatever happened to the inverter?” I shrill. “At least the fans and light bulbs should be working!’
“The batteries dried up, remember? And you were out every day this week, so there was no one to get them serviced,” he reminds me.
Oh! So now it’s my fault! Typical!
“My night’s rest is ruined!” wails kiddo. “How will I ever wake up in time for school tomorrow?”
“Don’t even start!” I snub her. “You cannot stay home from school tomorrow.”
“Oh, but ...”
“No buts ... you are old enough to be able to do with a little less sleep for one day.”
As she subsides, muttering, I grumpily retrieve my phone from its nightly resting place under my pillow (for the morning alarm, as hubby should very well have known) and ring up NDPL.
“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here-How-may-I-help-you?” rattles off the voice at the other end, without break and without expression.
“I need to lodge a power cut complaint for ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India.” The process is outsourced now, so the call center guy needs to know the precise geographical location. And although I was told that the call center is at the other end of the city, it is better to play safe and provide complete information.
“Which part of ABC Colony are you calling from?”
Suppressing the urge to say, “the part between its ears”, I hold on to my patience and reply, “I’m calling from house no. 123, the residence of Mr. Goyal.”
“What is your exact location?” comes the next question and patience flies out of the window.
“Talk sense!” I snap. “I’ve told you the number of the house, the name of its owner, the colony, zone, city and country. What more do you want to know—the location of the room I’m calling from?”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Ma’am,” the BPO operator reverts to the standard fallback.
“May I know your K number?” comes the next query.
“My WHAT?”
“K number—the 10 digit number on the top left corner of your electricity bill ...”
“Why in heaven’s name do you need the K number?” I ask, amazed.
“Our system can track you and lodge your complaint only by your K number,” comes the deadpan reply.
I’m speechless.
"Then why were you badgering me about the minutae of my location?"
“What’s the problem?” asks hubby.
“They want our K number to lodge our complaint!”
Hubby takes the phone from my hand and says with awful patience: “Listen mister, it’s past midnight and pitch dark. The 10 digit K number is not something you remember off-hand. You have our name, address and phone number. Surely your system can register our complaint on the basis of these details?”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir,” parrots the operator. “Your complaint cannot be lodged without your K number.”
Hubby disconnects the phone in dudgeon, muttering, “Go to hell!”
Half an hour elapses. The heat, humidity and mosquitos are getting more and more unbearable by the minute. I get up, cursing, switch on the flashlight in the phone, stumble over to the chest of drawers and scrabble around for an electricity bill. Call up NDPL again.
“Good-Evening- NDPL- ‘XYZ’-here- How-may-I-help-you?”
“I’m calling from house no. 123, Mr. Goyal’s residence in ABC Colony, PQR Zone, New Delhi, India. I need to lodge a power cut complaint and our K number is ----------,” I say triumphantly.
“How long has the power been out at your place?”
“More than an hour and a half!”
But if I thought I had cracked the NDPL complaint system, I had another think coming.
“Is it just your place, or the whole colony?”
“Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that in the middle of the night?” I ask in exasperation. “Conduct a door-to-door survey?”
“NOW what do they want to know?” asks hubby resignedly.
“Whether the power is out at just our place or in the whole colony!”
Hubby takes over the phone.
“Mister, you have been provided all the details you need to lodge a power cut complaint, including the K number. Now please register our complaint and let us know the complaint serial number,” he instructs in his Senior MNC Manager voice. It apparently cuts no ice with the programmed automaton on the other end of the line.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir, but ...”
“DON’T KEEP APOLOGIZING,” bellows hubby, past patience now. “JUST REGISTER THE COMPLAINT SO THAT SOMEONE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!”
The instruction to ‘DO SOMEHTING’ is clearly not part of the automaton’s programming. It gets confused and promptly disconnects the line! We try again ... and again ... but the receiver is off the hook!
2 comments:
Cannot stop laughing... Not at your agony but the way the article is written.. You are a complete writer. Would wait for you to work in a novel/book!!
ha haha ha oh dear! Delhi with humidity and a power cut. Contacting any government agency there makes you a fatalist. I wouldn't survive it; I think as a person living alone I'd end up with a serious crisis of self-confidence about not being able to Get Things Done [my theory is, when you are in a group you can spread things like blame, around lavishly]
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