One Night at the Call Center

by Chetan Bhagat

  “That means people are getting fired, doesn't it?” Vroom said. Rightsize never meant otherwise.

  Bakshi did not respond.

  “Sir, we need to increase our sales force to get new clients. Firing people is not the answer,” Vroom said with a boldness that was high even by his standards.

  Bakshi had a smirk on his face as he turned to Vroom. He put his hand on Vroom's shoulder. “I like your excitement, Mr. Victor,” he said, “but a seasoned management has to study all underlying variables and come up with an optimal solution. It's not so simple.”

  “But sir, we can get more …” Vroom was saying as Bakshi patted his shoulder twice and left.

  Vroom waited to ensure that Bakshi was out of the room before he spoke again.

  “This is insanity. Bakshi's fucked up, so they're firing innocent agents!” he shouted.

  “Stay calm,” I said, and started assembling the sheets.

  “Yes, stay calm. Like Mr. Photocopy Boy here, who finds acceptance in everything,” Priyanka said.

  “Excuse me,” I said looking up. “Are you talking about me?”

  Priyanka kept quiet.

  “What is your problem? I come here, make fifteen grand a month and go home. It sucks that people are being fired and I'm trying my best to save my job. Overall, yes, I accept my situation. And Vroom, before I forget, can you e-mail Bakshi the user manual please?”

  “I'm doing it,” Vroom said as he clicked his mouse, “though what's going on here is still wrong.”

  “Don't worry. We've finished the website. We should be safe,” I said.

  “I hope so. Damn, it will suck if I lose my fifteen grand a month. If I don't get my pizza three times a week I'll die,” Vroom said.

  “You have pizza that often?” Esha said.

  “Isn't it unhealthy?” Radhika asked. Despite her recent text, she was back to knitting her scarf. Knitting habits die hard, I guess.

  “No way. Pizzas are the ultimate balanced diet. Look at the contents: grain in the crust, milk protein in the cheese, vegetables and meat as toppings. It has all the food groups. I read it on the Internet: Pizza is good for you.” “You and your Net,” Esha said. It was true. Vroom got

  all his information off the Internet—bikes, jobs, politics,

  dating tips and, as I had just learned, pizza nutrition as

  well.

  “Pizzas are not healthy. I gain weight really fast if I eat

  a lot of it,” Priyanka said, “especially with my lifestyle. I

  hardly get time to exercise and on top of that I work in a

  confined space.”

  Priyanka's last two words made my heart skip a beat.

  “Confined space” means only one thing to me: that night

  at the 32nd Milestone disco.

  Chapter 12

  My Past Dates with Priyanka—III

  32nd Milestone, Gurgaon Highway

  Seven months earlier

  I SHOULDN'T REALLY CALL THIS ONE a date, since this time it was a group thing with Vroom and Esha joining us. I argued earlier with Priyanka about going out with work people, but she told me I should be less antisocial. Vroom picked 32nd Milestone and the girls agreed because the disco doesn't have a “door-bitch.” According to Priyanka, a door-bitch is a hostess who stands outside the disco, screening every girl who goes in, and if your waist is more than twenty-four inches, or if you aren't wearing something cool, the door-bitch will raise an eyebrow at you like you're a fifty-year-old auntie.

  “Really? I've never noticed those door girls before,” I said as we sat on stools at the bar.

  “It's a girl thing. They size you up, and unless you're drop-dead gorgeous, you get that mental smirk,” Priyanka said.

  “So why should you care? You are gorgeous,” I said. She smiled and pinched my cheek.

  “Mental smirk? Girls and their coded communication. Anyway, drink anyone?” Vroom said.

  “Long Island Iced Tea please,” Esha said and I noticed how stunning she looked in her makeup. She wore a black fitted top and black pants that were so tight she'd probably have to roll them down to take them off.

  “Long Island? Want to get drunk quick or what?” I said.

  “Come on. I need to de-stress. I ran around like mad last month chasing modeling agencies. Besides, I have to wash down last week's one thousand calls,” Esha said.

  “That's right. Twelve hundred calls for me,” Vroom said. “Let's all have Long Islands.”

  “Vodka cranberry for me please,” Priyanka said. She wore camel-colored pants and a pistachio-green sequined kurti. I'd given her the kurti as a gift on her last birthday. She had just a hint of eyebner and a light gloss of lipstick, which I preferred to Esha's Asian Paints job.

  “Any luck with the modeling assignments?” I asked Esha idly.

  “Not much. I did meet a talent agent, though, and he said he would refer me to some designers and fashion show producers. I need to be seen in those circles,” Esha said as she pulled her top down to cover her navel.

  Vroom went to the bartender to collect our drinks while I scanned the disco. The place had two levels: a dance floor on the mezzanine and a lounge bar on the first floor. A remixed version of “Dil Chahta Hai” played in the background. As it was Saturday night, the disco had more than 300 customers. They were all rich, or at least had rich friends who could afford drinks priced at over 300 rupees a cocktail. Our budget was a lavish thousand bucks each: a treat for making it through the extremely busy summer period at the call center.

  I noticed some stick-thin models on the dance floor. Their stomachs were so flat, if they swallowed a pill you'd probably see an outline of it when it landed inside. Esha's looks are similar, except she's a bit short.

  “Check it out. She is totally anorexic. I can bet on it,” Priyanka said, pointing to a pale-complexioned model on the dance floor. She wore a top without any sleeves or neck or collar—I think the girls call it “off-the-shoulder.” Defying physics, it didn't slip off, though most men were waiting patiently.

  The model turned, displaying a completely bare back.

  “Wow, I wish I were that thin. But oh my god, look at what she's wearing,” Esha said.

  “I can't believe she's not wearing a bra. She must be totally flat,” Priyanka said.

  “Girls!” I said.

  “Yes?” Esha and Priyanka turned to me.

  “I'm bored. Can you choose more inclusive conversation topics,” I pleaded. I looked for Vroom who had collected the drinks and was waving maniacally at us for help.

  “I'll go,” Esha said and went over to Vroom.

  Finally, to my relief, it was only Priyanka and me.

  “So,” she said as she leaned forward to peck at my lips. “You're feeling left out with our girlie talk?”

  “Well, this was supposed to be a date. I forced myself to come with them. I haven't caught up with you in ages.”

  “I told you, Vroom asked me and I didn't want to be antisocial,” Priyanka said as she ruffled my hair. “But we'll go out for a walk in a bit. I want to be alone with you too, you know?”

  “Please, let's go soon.”

  “Sure, but they're back now,” Priyanka said as Vroom and Esha arrived. Vroom passed us our drinks and we said “cheers,” trying to sound lively and happy, as people at a disco should.

  “Congrats on the website, guys. I heard it's good,” Esha said as she took a sip.

  “The website is cool,” Vroom said. “The test customers love it. No more dialing. And it's so simple, just right for those spoon-feed-me Americans.”

  “So, a promotion finally for Mr. Shyam here,” Priyanka said. I noticed she had finished a third of her drink in just two sips.

  “Now Mr. Shyam's promotion is another story,” Vroom said. “Maybe Mr. Shyam would like to tell it himself.”

  “Please, man. Some other time,” I said as Priyanka looked at me expectantly.

  “OK, well Bakshi said he is talking to Boston to release a head co
unt. But it will take a while.”

  “Why can't you just be firm with him?” Priyanka said.

  “Like how? How can you be firm with your own boss?” I said, my voice loud with irritation.

  “Cool it, guys,” Vroom said. “It's a party night and—”

  A big noise interrupted our conversation. We noticed a commotion on the dance floor as the DJ turned off the music.

  “What's up?” Vroom said and we all went toward the dance floor where a fight had broken out. A gang of drunken friends accused someone of pawing one of the girls with them and grabbed his collar. Soon, Mr. Accused's friends came to his defense and, as the dance floor was too noisy for vocal arguments, people expressed themselves with fists and kicks instead. The music stopped when someone knocked one guy flat on the floor. Several others were on top of each other and bouncers finally disentangled everyone and restored peace while a stretcher emerged to carry away the knocked-out guy.

  “Man, I wish it had gone on a bit longer,” Vroom said.

  It's true. The only thing better than watching beautiful people in a disco is watching a fight, because a fight means the party is totally rocking.

  Five minutes later the music resumed and the anorexic girls' brigade was back on the floor.

  “That's what happens to kids with rich dads and too much money,” Vroom said.

  “Come on, Vroom. I thought you said money's a good thing. That's how we'll beat the Americans, right?” Priyanka said with the confidence that comes from drinking a Long Island Iced Tea in seven minutes.

  “Yes, doesn't money pay for your mobile phones, pizzas, and discos?” I asked.

  “Yes, but the difference is that I've earned it. These rich kids, they don't have a clue how hard it is to make cash,” Vroom said and held up his glass. “This drink is three hundred bucks—it takes me almost a full night of two hundred irritating Americans screaming in my ear to earn it. Then I get this drink. Which is full of ice-cubes anyway. These kids can't make that comparison.”

  “Oh, I feel so guilty drinking this now,” Priyanka said.

  “C'mon, you get good money. Significantly more than the eight grand you made as a journalist trainee,” I said.

  “Yes,” Vroom said as he took a big hundred-and-twenty-rupee sip. “We get paid well, fifteen thousand a month. Fuck, that's almost twelve dollars a day. Wow, I make as much a day as a U.S. burger boy makes in two hours. Not bad for my college degree. Not bad at all. Fucking nearly double what I made as a journalist anyway.” He pushed his empty glass and it slid to the other end of the table.

  Everyone was silent for a minute. Vroom on a temper trip is unbearable.

  “Stop being so depressed. Let's dance,” Esha said and tugged at Vroom's hand.

  “No,” Vroom said.

  “Come for one song,” Esha said and stood up from her stool.

  “OK, but if anyone teases you, Fm not getting into a fight,” Vroom said.

  “Don't worry, no one will. There are prettier girls here,” Esha said.

  “I don't think so. Anyway, let's go,” Vroom said as they went to the dance floor. The song playing was “Sharara Sharara,” one of Esha's favorites.

  Priyanka and I watched them dance from our seats.

  “Want to go for a walk now?” Priyanka said after a few minutes.

  “Sure,” I said. We held hands and walked out of 32nd Milestone. The bouncer at the door stamped our palms so that we could reenter the disco and we headed to the parking lot, where the music was softer. My ears had never felt so good.

  “It's so calm here,” Priyanka said. “I don't like it when Vroom gets all worked up. The boy needs to control his temper. Too much unchecked aggression going on there.”

  “He's young and confused. Don't worry, life will slap him into shape. I think he regrets moving to Connections sometimes. Besides, he hasn't taken his dad and mum's separation so well. It shows now and then.”

  “Still, he should get a grip on himself. Get a steady girlfriend maybe, that will help him relax.”

  “I think he likes Esha,” I said.

  “I don't know if Esha is interested. She's really focused on her modeling.”

  We reached our Qualis and I opened the door to take out a pack of cigarettes.

  “No smoking near me,” she said and grabbed the pack from me.

  “See, maybe it is not such a good idea to have a steady girlfriend,” I said.

  “Really? So Mr. Shyam is having second thoughts?” she said, tilting her head.

  “No,” I said and opened the Qualis again. I took out a bottle.

  “What's that?” she asked.

  “Some Bacardi we keep handy. It's three hundred bucks for a drink inside, the cost of this whole bottle.”

  “Cool. You guys are smart,” Priyanka said and pulled at my cheek, then she took a sip from the bottle.

  “Careful. There's no need to get drunk just because it's free.”

  “Trust me. There is a need when you have a psycho parent.”

  “What's going on now?”

  “Nothing. I don't want to talk about her today. Let's do a shot.” The bottle's lid acted as one cup, and I broke the top of a cigarette packet for another. We poured Bacardi into both and warmth traveled down from my lips to my insides.

  “I'm sorry about the Bakshi comment I made inside,” she said.

  “It's all right. Doesn't matter,” I said, and wondered if we should do shot number two now or later.

  “I can be a bitch sometimes, but I do make it up to you. I'm a loving person, no?” she said, high from mixing her drinks.

  “You're just fine,” I said and looked at her moist eyes. Her nose puckered up a bit and I could have looked at it forever.

  “So,” she said.

  “So what?” I said, still hypnotized by her nose.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she said and smiled.

  “Like what?”

  “The come-hither look. I see mischief in your eyes, mister,” she said playfully, grabbing both my hands.

  “There's no mischief, that's just your imagination,” I said.

  “We'll see,” she said and came up close. We hugged as she kissed me on my neck.

  “Listen,” she said.

  “What?” I mumbled.

  “When was the last time we made love?”

  “Oh, don't even ask. It's really pathetic—over a month ago.”

  It was true. The only place we made love was in my house when it was empty. However, recently my mum had started staying at home more because of the cold. She'd even given up her favorite pastime of meeting relatives.

  “Have you ever made love in a confined space?”

  “What?” I said loudly, right into her ear.

  “Ouch!” she said, rubbing her ear. “Hello? You heard me right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, we have the time, soft music, and a desolate spot.”

  “So?”

  “So, step into the Qualis, my friend,” she said and opened the door. I climbed into the backseat and she followed me.

  Our Qualis was parked right behind the disco, and we could hear the music if we were quiet. The song changed to “Mahi Ve” from the movie Kaante.

  “I love this song,” she said and sat astride my lap, facing me.

  “It's a pole dancer's song. You know that?” I said.

  “Yes. But I like the lyrics. Their love is true, but fate has something else in store.”

  “I never focus on the lyrics.”

  “You just notice the scantily clad girls in the video,” she said and ran her fingers through my hair.

  I stayed silent.

  “So, you didn't answer my question—have you made love in a confined space?” she said.

  “Priyanka, are you crazy or are you drunk?”

  She unbuttoned the top few buttons of my shirt. “Both. OK, mister, the thing about being in a confined space is that you have to cooperate. Now move your hands out
of the way,” she said.

  We were quiet, apart from our breathing.

  She confirmed that the windows were shut and ordered me to remove my shirt. She took off her kurti first, and then slowly unhooked her bra.

  “Be careful with your clothes. We'll need to find them quickly afterward,” she said.

  “Are you mad?” I gasped as I raised my arms so she could pull my shirt over my head. She moved to kick my shirt aside and her foot landed on my left baby toe.

  “Ouch!” I screamed.

  “Oops, sorry,” she said in a naughty-apologetic tone. As she moved her foot away, her head hit the roof.

  “Ouch,” she said. “Sorry, this isn't as elegant as in the Titanic movie.”

  “It's all right. Clumsy sex is better than choreographed sex, and it's certainly better than no sex at all,” I said as I pulled her close.

  “By the way, do you have a condom?” she said.

  “Yes, sir. We live in constant hope,” I said as I pulled out my wallet.

  We laughed as she embraced me. She started kissing me on my face, I kissed her shoulders, and in a few moments, I forgot I was in the company Qualis.

  Twenty minutes later we collapsed in each other's arms on the backseat.

  “Amazing. That was simply amazing, Ms. Priyanka.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” she said and winked at me. “Can we he here and talk for a while?”

  “Sure,” I said, reaching for my clothes.

  She cuddled me again after we had dressed.

  “Do you love me?” she asked. Her voice was serious.

  “More than anybody else on this planet, and that includes me,” I said, caressing her hair.

  “You think I'm a caring person?” she said. Her voice told me she was close to tears.

  “Why do you keep asking me that?” I said.

  “My mother was looking at our family album today. She stopped at a picture of me when I was three years old: I'm sitting on a tricycle and my mother is pushing me. She saw that picture, and d'you know what she said?”

  “What?”

  “She said I was so cute when I was three.”

  “You're cute now,” I said and pressed her nose like a button.

  “And she said I was so loving and caring then and that I wasn't so loving any more. She said she always wondered what had made me so heartless,” Priyanka said and burst into tears.