IS IT A GOOD TIME TO TALK?

- Yashaswi ( meyashaswi@gmail.com )

“Hello Sir, this is Sandy. Is it a good time to talk?”

“Well sure it is, but I won’t waste this time talking to a hopeless call centre agent. Please leave me alone and don’t bother calling again.”

Sandeep hated his job. He hated his new name Sandy. He had even started loathing himself. Everything about his life was so predictable that he sometimes wondered if it was worth waking up to that mundane routine everyday. He was an employee of a reputed call-center in Bangalore – the IT capital of India. A member of the ‘outbound’ team, he was required to make calls for ‘inquiring’ on behalf of an insurance company. An inquiry would mean politely asking the irate obnoxious customer if he was interested in insuring all the trivial things he had collected in his life, or even the most futile of them all – his life. He was so used to being badmouthed by the clients that if someone did not do so he suspected him of homosexuality. He had been trained to receive such bad-mouthing sportingly. The counselors had told him, “Be kind, for you never know, they might be fighting a tougher battle. Actually they are not angry on Sandeep the person. They are irritated by Sandy the tele-caller.” They told him that in his job, more than in any other, it was indispensable to follow the tenets of Gita, the holy book. He was supposed to detach himself from the results of his action to rise above all self-condemnation.

There were a few customers who would express an outright interest in his pitch. These were the customers whose mobile numbers he would forward to the sales team. In call-centre terminology, Sandeep would make ‘inquiries’ and generate ‘leads’ for the sales team. He often wondered how was it that even after generating so many leads his life was not leading him anywhere. The dots did not seem to connect.

He didn’t like himself, nor did he like those around him. She wasn’t Nancy, she was Nandita. He wasn’t Vicky, he was Vikas. Fake, so fake! Often, in the din of those maddening voices around him, he would become numb and go back to his childhood days. When normal people get nostalgic they only remember the good old days. But a nostalgic Sandeep remembered the bad old days more than the good old days.

Sandeep Shastri was born in a traditional Brahmin family. Everyone in his family had excelled in academics in some way or other. His grandfather had won a scholarship from the British rulers to pursue his higher studies in London. He seemed destined to live a life of great comfort in England. But then Gandhi happened to him and he proudly devoted himself to India’s struggle for freedom. India got its freedom and he got a freedom fighter’s pension which was so low that the low roof of their house could never be raised higher. The grandfather remained unrepentant of the decision. He had proudly declared on his deathbed, “I followed my heart. I chose India over England. I still do. A thousand times over!”

Sandeep’s father was the topper of his province in the intermediate examination. But he couldn’t get a scholarship to pursue higher studies in a big city – perhaps the British were better patrons of academic excellence than the new Indian government. His parents were not keeping well. He couldn’t afford to waste money on his education. So he chose to discontinue his studies and became an assistant to a rather clumsy middleman of his village. Surprisingly, he too didn’t repent his decision. He chose his parents, and stayed with them till the end.

Sandeep wasn’t good with grades. To his defence, he never attempted academic acme. The correlation between academic excellence and poverty in his family was so high that he concluded it is futile to study. But he was good at music. He played canorous folk tunes on his self-made bamboo flute. Tunes so magical that they left the audience spell bound. Sandeep was sure that a particular swarm of golden yellow butterflies always stalked him whenever he played. When he felt sad, he would just take his flute and escape to the forest, followed by no-one but those golden yellow butterflies, redolent with the fragrance of hibiscus flowers. Sandeep played for himself. And he played for those beautiful butterflies. He didn’t play for anyone else.

His musical talents soon became the talk of his village. They said he had the blessings of the divine flautist Lord Krishna. Often he overheard family friends advising his father to send him to a good music academy in a big city. But his father had already made up his mind. “He would surely go to a big city, but only to pursue higher studies. Music is a good hobby, but a very bad profession.”

Sandeep’s interest in music waned exponentially. Though he would always keep his flute by his side, he rarely played it. He once spotted a golden yellow butterfly sitting on his flute, as if requesting him to play her favorite tunes. He didn’t oblige her and he never saw golden butterflies again. He had also started distancing himself from his father. He held his father and his father’s father responsible for his mediocrity. His father borrowed heavily from the middleman he served and so that Sandeep could be sent to the city for higher education.

Sandeep got his bachelor’s degree with an average performance from a small college of a big city. One event led to another and he landed up with this call-centre job, which paid him decently. He had not seen his parents in a long time. He didn’t want to see his village. Not that he liked Bangalore much. In-spite of all those technology innovations and fiber-optics wizardry, it was a very sad place. There was this maddening noise of tele-callers. Then there was this deafening silence of a lonely life. And of course there was this deadline to be met and that bonus to be earned. There was nothing else.

Sandeep was woken up from his reverie by his boss. “Sandy, please come to my cabin. I have something interesting for you.”

“Huh”, Sandeep thought, “you are kidding me, interesting is a banned word in this mediocre world of mundane activities.”

Half-heartedly and still in his slumber, he followed his boss. He had to.

“Well, we are starting a new domain in outsourcing, for which there is a very limited demand now, but it might bring us good business in the near future. Congratulations. You are a relationship manager now.”

“And what will I do as a relationship manager?” Sandeep was his usual stoic self.

“See dear, from our clients in the US, we have come to know about this demand for personal assistants by professionals who want someone else to take on the difficult and tedious tasks in life or the little things that never seem to get done during a packed working day.”

“Little things like?” asks Sandeep.

“Things like breaking up with your girl, telling your parents that you can’t stay with them any longer, telling your friend that you are offended by his behavior in the recent past and maybe telling your boss that you are not happy with the performance rating!”

“Ok I get the point; I am not a relationship manager, but a relationship destroyer. I will absorb all the abuses of which those losers are the rightful recepients.”

“To think of it Sandy, you have a wonderful opportunity here to make sure that those break-ups are not as sad as they would otherwise be. Unlike your current responsibility, here you wouldn’t have a script to follow. You are free to follow your heart!”

Follow your heart – how many times had he heard this phrase in his family and how much he hated it.

His boss was an optimistic man. “You just have to convey the message and console or encourage the recipient to move on in life. Trust me, it will be interesting. Everyday will be different.”

Sandeep’s silence was broken by a question. “So are you ready to be a relationship manager?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The reply was short. “No”.

“Well then of course I am eager to manage relationships sir”, Sandeep declared.

“Great. Don’t worry, you will enjoy it. But one word of caution – don’t get personally involved with any of the recipients. You might be tempted to sympathize, but please understand that this is a big bad world and we are involved in this only in a professional capacity.”

Sandeep decided that he would just play the role of a nonchalant messenger. But he soon realized it was easier said than done. Consoling is an art that must be learned and practiced. But to Sandeep it came naturally. May be because he had himself been sad all his life. May be because he had spent his childhood with a pack of losers. His words were powerful. They could lift the spirits of the recipient, provoke thoughts, and touch them deeply.

Miss Taylor’s was a typical case.

“Hello Miss Taylor, this is Sandy. I hope this is a good time to talk to you?”

“Yes?” came the reply.

“I am speaking on behalf of Mr. Hudson. He would like to let you know that though he still loves you a lot, he is not in love with you anymore. And so he can’t marry you. He also says that the relationship with you was nice as long as it lasted, but its time for both of you to move on. He wishes you all the best in your life and hopes that you will not call him again.”

Miss Taylor was devastated. “How could he do this to me? He had promised me that we will marry this summer. I am sure he is seeing someone else. O my God, I feel like jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. God will never forgive him.”

Sandeep tried to interrupt, “I am really sorry Miss...”

But he was cut-off. “And you don’t worry Sandy, your job is done. I will never call him again. Why should I? I am not that shameless. The coward didn’t have the courage to face me. After all that I have done for him, this is how he rewards me. The fault is mine. I could never see through his façade.”

Sandeep couldn’t help comforting her, “I am really sorry Miss Taylor. But please don’t blame yourself for this. Love and kindness are never wasted. They always make a difference. And they always bless the giver. So consider yourself blessed that you loved someone with such pristine innocence.”

She was inconsolable, “I followed my heart and I repent it now. What a loser I am!”

“My father and my grandfather both followed their hearts and they turned out to be big losers in life, achieving nothing. Still they were always proud of that moment when they decided to do what was there to be done.” It was the first time he had praised his father. “And trust me Miss Taylor; many years from now, you will be proud that you followed your heart in the matters of heart. You don’t really love if you don’t love forever.”

“May be you are right Sandy, I just need sometime. Thank you so much for your kind words. Tell your client that I will never disturb him again. Bye”

Sandeep was reluctant to admit it but he had started liking his job. There was a strange satisfaction he gained from consoling others. He realized that all through his life he had been blaming his background for his misery. As he connected with those heart-broken people now, he felt that he had partners in despair. And he wanted them to deal with the misery as he never did – head on! If there be such a need, he would spend an hour delivering sermons on the importance of forgiving and forgetting, the indispensability of spirituality in their lives and even the futility of life. Without him realizing it, Sandy the telecaller was metamorphosing into Sandeep the philosopher. One night after returning from work, he searched madly for that long lost flute. He found it lying in a very old bag, dusted it and played it till it was dawn. But the golden butterflies never came. How could those gentle beauties flourish in the polluted airs of Bangalore! He didn’t sleep, but it appeared to him that he had woken up from a long sleep.

Sometimes, even after so much of experience in terminating relationships, he fumbled for words. The severity of severance in a few cases was so strong that he felt like crying. He used to get the details of the message recipient and the summary of the message in his mail box. Sometimes he couldn’t believe the content of the message could be so harsh and the intent of the client so inhuman. Still he would not feel guilty of his job.

Not until he got a message from Michael Brown, to be delivered to his father. He did what was to be done.

“Hello Mr. Brown, this is Sandy. Is it a good time to talk?”

A very gentle voice replied, “No son it is not. I am afraid no time will be good for me anymore. But we can talk. Please continue.”

Sandeep gathered his breath. “Sir, this is a message from your son Michael. He wants to let you know that he loves you a lot. He is really sad that you have been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He understands that you need monetary assistance for the treatment. But no matter how much he would want to support you, he doesn’t have enough money to spare. The treatment will have to be at the expense of your grandchildren’s private school education. He believes even you want the best possible education for your beloved grandchildren. He also suggests that you approach an NGO to arrange for free treatment. He is leaving for London tomorrow morning on an official visit and wouldn’t be coming back here for the next three months. He wishes you all the best for the treatment and is really thankful for all that you have done for him.”

Sandeep waited for a response. There was none. He wondered how he should console Mr. Brown. He felt like bludgeon that ingrate son to a bloody death. He thought about his father who had sacrificed all he had for the sake of his parents. In this moment of grief and anger, he realized that his father was not a loser in life. He was just a grateful son, proud of his parents. Though he was struggling to get out of debt, he was happier than most people Sandeep knew. He suddenly started missing his father. He started missing his village folks. They had minimal income, but they ate, they had a roof over their heads and they were always happy. There was no electricity, but the late afternoon sun streamed in, making long rectangles of light on the muddy floor, making their house bright and warm.

Gathering his strength, he said, “Sir, I am sure your son really loves you a lot and wants to be with you. May be he is too devastated to call. Sir, I hope...”

“Hope is a big word Mr. Sandy.” Sandeep was interrupted by the sad voice on the other end. “You know I wasn’t scared of cancer. Because till now I knew I had lived my life to the lees and life had rewarded me with a beautiful family. Because I had loved life, I had no sorrow to die. My life and my love have been wasted. I don’t need any money. I don’t want to live. I want to join my wife in heaven. May be she will need me around.”

There was a long pause. Then he continued, “You asked me if it is a good time to talk. I want to ask you something. I have no hope, no love. Please tell me if it is a good time for me to die?”

Sandeep took a deep breath. “Yes indeed Sir, it is a good time to die. I congratulate you for a life well lived and hope that your journey beyond life is even better.” He slammed the phone down and wept bitterly. He ran to the wash room, washed his face, snatched his bag and left the office. He would rather be poor and surrounded by loved ones than well-off and surrounded by none.

Sandeep went back to his village with his bag in one hand and his flute in the other. Everything about that place was so peaceful that he wondered how he could ever not like it. Surrounded by mountains, it was a piece of land adorned with beautiful streams, springs, rivers, lakes, gardens, lush green plains and meadows. It had no music schools, but the breeze that moved the leaves and the water that moved the spring had enough music in them to last a lifetime. He spent the first few days doing nothing but admiring the beauty of his village. He then opened a small medical shop in his village. It didn’t fetch him even half as much as he used to earn in the call-centre, but it did fetch him enough to not die for hunger and save something for a rainy day.

Sandeep started filling the nights of his village with music. His tunes bounced back from the leaves of the trees and the nature talked back to him. The villagers were glad that the flawless flautist was back. Back to where he belonged. One morning he found the golden butterfly sitting on his flute, kept by the side of the window. “She never aged”, he thought. He played her favorite tunes and she was so delighted that she came back next morning with her entire swarm.

His father was curious, “Why have you selected this village over that big city, poverty over prosperity?”

“I am just following my heart. It is in my genes I suppose. I am choosing happiness over sadness. I am choosing music over noise. I am choosing you over anything else. A thousand times over!”