Heavy Breather

After all, it is a day of firsts, or is it an evening? Working at a call centre. Wearing (ugh!) grey, in place of my standard red that would have looked a teeny bit incongruous against the blue environs of the designer office.

Nor have I giggled for two straight hours, or slapped anyone on their back. And no one has ever told me to come in for my briefing at XYZ hours, Indian Standard Time, or XYZ hours, Greenwich Meridian Time.

My bitten nails, in contrast to their well-manicured hands, are at the moment, my one connection with who I really am.

So, does Kalyani become Kelly or Kate, I ask as evening turns to night, at the fag end of an hour-long briefing?

Nope, Caroline Graham, the marketing director, assures me.

‘‘We choose people with excellent communication and English-speaking skills to begin with.’’ Huh, that’s a relief. The memory test is not.

‘‘You’ll do just fine,’’ says Caroline. She’s a sweetheart but for the fact that she insists I pass their NATO call signs test (the NATO calls are standardised international signs, for confirming alphabets, over a really bad line. A for Alpha, B for Bravo, and so on.)

Surprise. I get a cent per cent score on that one. Confidence on an upswing, I meet team leader Sonia Bout, who tells me they are about to start a new project—confirming a database full of names and addresses for their clients.

While it isn’t very noticeable, my workmates are keeping a curious eye on me. They’re mostly youngsters, but I spot more than a fair number of middle-agers around, with every one of them seemingly full of pep.

Putting me through a few mock calls, Sonia asks me to listen to my own recorded voice. Except for the heavy breathing, I ain’t too bad!

Not that simple, she warns me. Perhaps I’d like to go live? Righty ho!

‘‘Helloooo…’’ ‘‘Yeah?’’ queries a dry voice at the other end? ‘‘May I confirm the address for… ?’’

‘‘Sorry, ma’am, the company doesn’t exist,’’ comes the curt reply.

‘‘Huh. How can that be?’’

‘‘It doesn’t exist. How should I know?’’

‘‘But..’’

Cut, says Sonia. ‘‘If the company doesn’t exist, don’t take it personally,’’ she chuckles. The next call is better; the lady on the other end is friendly and informal, in sharp contrast to my uptight manner.

But, good intentions apart, I goof up on the next two calls. My apologetic tones suggest I’m a salesperson. ‘‘Not interested, lovey,’’ says the voice, without waiting to listen any more.

The second call has me stumped. ‘‘What kind of a product are you selling?’’

‘‘Huh? What kind of a product are we?’’

My saviour chips in again. ‘‘Sorry, that’s a trainee we have here…’’

“Next time,” she tells me in dulcet tones, “don’t voice your doubts into the receiver.’’

Time for a tea break (I had over three in the six and half hours I was around). Richard offers me a job in the kitchen. Maybe I’ll think about it.

Do they allow nail-biting in the kitchen?