I am at my desk, hard at work or at least pretending to be. The
cellphone comes alive with its infernal trilling. The caller claims to
represent the bank who thought I was solvent enough to receive a credit card. It’s
a male voice with a sloppy accent fumbling with my name. The image in my head
of a cute telecaller seated in a sterile bank cubicle goes poof in a cloud of
smoke. The caller stumbles through the pleasantries, mutilates my name and
announces that he bears glad tidings. The bank wants to reward my ‘loyalty’
with some ‘exciting’ gift. Of course, before that, there is this minor
formality which requires me to confirm sensitive personal financial information
over the phone to this complete stranger who sounds funny to boot. Just at the
point where I am coaxed to reveal the CVV number on ‘the backside of the card’,
I start digressing and distracting this fine young man from his important
business. My gratitude gushes out as I become chatty and ask him if I can come
see him personally. Put a face to a name and to enthusiastically pump his hand
in a heartfelt handshake dripping with appreciation.
By this time the caller is impatient and itching to dump the
receiver and send his index finger probing inside his nostril. After that he
has people to call and joy to spread. At some point, when my pointless but
polite badgering gets to the caller’s nerve, he spits out some expletives in
Punjabi containing unflattering references to my mother-sister and disconnects
the call. I gape at my phone; having lost the chance to discover what ‘surprise’
would I have been at the receiving end of. In the meanwhile, somewhere else,
another lucky customer must doubtlessly be on his way to having his fortune
made.
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