SALT AND PEPPER - ACTUAL STORY OF LIFE IN A CALL CENTRE

 

 Chapter 1: The Saturday Morning

 It was a bright Saturday morning. Time was around 6 a.m., and I stood near a bus stop, waiting for my company cab to pick me up. Usually, the place is a busy one, bustling with crowds and businesses, but now it was very quiet, still asleep. A few people could be seen—some on their morning jog and some out for their early purchases.

 I could also see many well-dressed gentlemen and women around me. They might also be like me, working in a call centre, waiting for their cab. 

The good thing about that time was the pleasant weather filled with charm and freshness. It brought a little extra energy to me because I was seeing an early morning like this after a long time. This wasn’t because I woke up late, but because I usually start sleeping in the morning and wake up at night. As a call centre employee, our days and nights are not decided by sunrises and sunsets around us, but by a faraway time zone of our clients. Our eating, sleeping, and even meeting our families are all controlled by the convenience of our clients, without them even realising it.

 But what made me stand here on a morning like this at all?

 Typically, Saturdays and Sundays are holidays for call centres, but the (smart) management will always choose Saturday for all off-production activities such as training, meetings, seminars, or workshops, so that their production flow is not interrupted. It had two advantages:

 They could proudly claim they work on a five-day calendar, and also show themselves as a conscious management that cares about employees and their skill development.

 A very fair deal—but it made me stand like this, waiting for the cab to pick me up.

 “What is the itinerary for today?”

We had a training session on improving our communication with customer clients. It included personality development, language proficiency, and tone of voice. The aim was to broaden our ability to handle their queries, understand what exactly they require, and make them super happy.

 Sometimes I wonder—if my parents had followed this strategy, I might have… but leave the past aside and focus on the training. Why should I unnecessarily blame my parents just because I am a failed son?

 My cab had just arrived, and I jumped in with all the morning vigour. 

One of my friends was sitting in the last row. Seeing me, she waved her hand. 

I felt as if the coolness inside—a sense of self-refreshment and joy, it’s always good to have a good-looking girl like her waving at you with all the morning freshness. 

She was a tall person with long hair, tender fingers, and a lean build. I smiled back and acknowledged her gesture. 

I had two options in front of me: either sit in the vacant seat next to her or occupy the front row.

 If I chose the first option, I could have two hours of uninterrupted chit-chat till we reached the office. But the red bindi on her forehead interrupted me. I felt as if someone was telling me, “Stop scanning and start sitting somewhere else.” I obeyed my inner call and chose to sit in the front row, ignoring the impulse to sit near her.

 The cab was running very fast. I opened the window. The speed of the cab, the strong wind rushing in, and the fluttering of my long hair in the breeze were something amazing. Soon, we will be reaching the office, sitting in the conference hall, ready and prepared. 

Chapter 2: The Training Embarrassment

 I had a problem here.

 I am not a just-pass-out graduate. I had a long twenty years of working experience in the company, that too without any promotions.

 It means that throughout my career, I climbed only one step of the ladder to become a Level 2 employee.

 Something that feels disgusting when I sit among Gen Z fresh graduates. It haunts my consciousness—a feeling that I failed somewhere, and that it is beyond irreparable.

 It’s just like asking an adult to sit and learn with children who are younger than your own son.

 But there was no other choice. So forget all this and just continue doing what you need to do. Make your customer happy and focus more on achieving your daily targets, I told myself.

 But in sessions like this, I try to hide myself and my experience, perhaps to avoid showcasing my inefficiency. Or perhaps it’s simply the habit of sitting at the back and avoiding visibility—a long-drawn habit from my school days.

 The trainer stepped into the room. She was a pleasant MBA graduate who had just joined our company.

 Maybe she too had targets to clear—conducting a fixed number of training sessions, or else her appraisal would be at risk. To make that happen, she had to convince several people, starting with the production manager, and request that he send his team for the session. She would have had to work hard to get it approved.

 For managers, these kinds of sessions are nothing but eyewashes—an unpleasant interruption that blocks production time and workflow.

 The training session started with a self-introduction.

 She asked everyone to stand up and introduce themselves—their name, the project they work for, and how long they have been working in the company.

It was going very fast because no one was wasting time elaborating on who they were. They just told their name, project, and years of experience, and passed the buck to the next person. Very soon, I would have to stand up and give my introduction. I felt thirsty and started sweating a little.

 The first two answers were relatively easy. But at the third one, the panic inside me grew.

 How do I tell them I’ve been in the same company for 20 years?

 Should I lie and say something less?

But then I remembered Plan B—the plan I always used.

 When I say the number, I lower my voice and just mumble it so that no one can easily understand.

 So I told her my name and project, paused for a moment, made sure my voice was low—very low—and murmured that I have been working here for “twenty-odd years.”

 I don’t know whether she heard my name or project name clearly, but she correctly spotted my year of employment!

 My worst fear became a reality when I heard a huge exclamation with a counter question from her: “TWENTY YEARS???” Her voice was loud and clear, and everyone turned their face towards me, smiling as if they were seeing an alien creature from a different planet.

 Some even started clapping and waving a thumbs-up sign in the air for my extraordinary achievement.

 The trainer started congratulating me.

 “Hey Padmanabhan, in this world of cat-and-rat race, many among us struggle even to complete one year in office, and you have done a marvellous job here. It only shows your commitment to the company and how confident the company is in you. It’s a wonderful feat, Padmanabhan, keep it up.” She concluded, followed by a thunderous applause.

 I stood there—pale, acknowledging, smiling—but not sure whether it was a compliment to cherish or a point of embarrassment. Till today, I don’t know.

 Chapter 3: The Friend Circle

 Speaking about myself, I’ve always been a bit of an introvert. I don’t make too many friends, and maintaining a big friendship circle is always a difficult task for me. But I will make sure the few friendships I do have are deep, strong, and time-tested.

 Two among them are Arun and Shyam Sundar, time-tested best friends for years.

 Arun is ambitious, modern, fast-thinking, and fast-acting; he never minds the outcome. He wants to do many things in life. He cares a lot about his attire and always keeps himself updated with the latest trends and technology. He regularly upgrades his mobile phone and believes that his mobile is his lifeline.

 Online shopping is his regular hobby. A perfect example of modern India—a typical urban youth.

 Shyam Sundar, on the other hand, is a little bit of a sadist. He finds faults in everything and argues that everything around him—including me—is wrong and needs to change. He imagines himself as Mr. Perfect, and we never bothered to question it.

 As the third and most senior member, I considered myself the more mature one—a sort of guru—who never hesitated to shower long, unending advice on anything to everyone willing to listen. I truly believed they consider me as mature, dependable, and take my quotes very seriously.

 Only later did I realise I was simply wasting my time and energy. But it didn’t stop me.

 Chapter 4: The Beer Table Truths

 We used to assemble every Sunday and have long chats—sometimes in a park, sometimes at the beach—but our favourite place was always a round table with a chilled beer in hand. We discussed everything under the sun: politics, religion, the latest crimes in the city, and so on.

 But sooner or later, the topic would slip into life inside the company—or, to put it more accurately, company politics.

 As usual, we assembled, this time our favourite roundtable. 

The first bottle was served, and we began with a light subject—Trump’s failed foreign policy and the fate of Indian expatriates; Modi or Trump, who is better, and so on. Then we moved to slightly more complicated topics like India–China relations, smart cities, bullet trains, and the missing dots of India’s GDP growth rate.

 As the spirit of the beer rose, we wasted no time slipping into the most complicated and never-ending topic of all: office politics, our managers, and their gossip.

 And the latest on the list was my Saturday training. We had some interesting conversations about that as well.

 Chapter 5: The BPO Reality Check

 “It’s a fact, Chottu,” Arun started addressing me. He always calls me Chottu, though I am double his age.

 Twenty years of survival in BPO is not easy. It’s a fact that you survived twenty years, and we recognise it. I’m not saying you overstayed, but you failed to grow with the company. You didn’t update your skills or take up new responsibilities. You failed here.

 You failed to grow with the company.

 When competencies and skill sets matter, you need to push yourself forward. But you made a mistake here. You either shape in or ship out. There is no middle way. But unfortunately, you are travelling in the middle way.  Arun Concluded.

 Shyam seemed to agree with him.

 Within two years, you should at least reach L2, and within five or six years you should be at Grade 6 or in a Manager level. Otherwise, you’re gone.

 Shyam added, joining the bandwagon.

 I was in deep silence and thought. What Shyam said was indeed the rule of the day.

 IT companies recruit mostly college students, raw and fresh. They prefer them because freshers are tough, strong, energetic, and may even be ready to go to the moon if asked. But the experienced ones may ask counter-questions, which irritates the managers. 

But there is an issue here. Freshers leave exactly the way they come—fast and furious.

 One fine morning, you may get a WhatsApp message saying, “I’m leaving, my mom is calling.”

 They don’t even use the word “resigning.”

 Their long and tedious process of onboarding, training, and the first two years of low productivity all go to waste. But managers seem okay with it, because they feel that, compared to the losses, the profit column still shows more transactions.

 So what’s the solution for retaining them? Promotions?

 Freshers are always harder bargainers than experienced ones because they have a wider avenues waiting outside to explore.

To keep them on board, companies offer quick promotions. At the end of the day, what matters to them is whether the team completes the daily targets, heeding little importance to how much headache he or she creates in between.

 “Job promotions should never be considered a reward for hard work or skillset,” - my reply was short but stern. Both Arun and Shyam looked at me, waiting to hear what new wave of quotes I am going to deliver.

 One should be rewarded for their hard work but it should be monetarily, not by suddenly making them a manager. The most important skill of a manager is not his personal skillset or how fast he can finish a task, but how well he manages the people and his team and moves towards one direction.

 A manager should be someone who understands their team, uses the right people at the right time, and is always on a quest for improvement.

 As I said this, I saw both of them agreeing, nodding their heads. Inspired, I continued my golden thoughts. 

Sachin Tendulkar was a great batsman but a failed captain. And the biggest mistake we made was expecting him to deliver the same brilliance as a captain that he showed as a batsman. Management capacity is not measured by personal achievements—it is measured by how well you handle people and the situation.  I concluded.

 “So what do you think? You don’t have managerial skills in you?” Shyam looked confused.

 I shrugged.

 Creating a notion that if you don’t reach Grade Six within six years, you’re gone is very dangerous. I believe I will never qualify for Grade Six, even if I work 15 hours a day, achieve 200% EPU, or avoid taking leave for five years, because I simply lack the skill of managing people.

 I can’t even manage my wife. My mother says, ‘Don’t lecture us on what we need to do.’ My sister shouts,‘Don’t ever come to me with such a stupid idea, I’ll kill you.’ 

And what to say—even my little son looks at me and sings loudly, ‘Rain rain go to Spain, do not show your face again,’ in the middle of a scorching summer afternoon, when the sun is glowing like a fireball overhead.

 In this scenario, how can I gauge whether my ideas are good to the team, to my colleagues, and make them believe I am superb?   

More importantly, how can I expect my employer to pay for those ideas and wait?

 Very difficult task indeed. 

On the contrary, why shouldn’t I remain a sacha praja—go to office every day, do the tasks, and return home like a good boy for the rest of my life? A good thought… but with very few takers.

 Arun picked up a cigar and lit it. Whenever he starts smoking, his philosophical levels shoot up to the sky, and he begins to assume he is Socrates. Personally, I don’t like smoking, but I do like the smell it produces. He took a puff, blew it into the air, and said loudly—waving both his hands as if he were addressing a big crowd.

 To excel in our office, you don’t need a high degree of intelligence or great calibre, bro!  It's very easy.   Learn some good English, polish it, and use it frequently. Also, learn to prepare some Daily Excel reports and send them regularly. Never stop sending them, no matter how relevant they are. Slowly, you’ll get noticed. People will start believing you’re doing something big. 

And you’re blessed if you have a godfather to protect.

His words echoed again and again in my ears… “You are blessed if you have a godfather to promote you.”

Suppose—even if I had a godfather to help me, and I sponsor him with regular drinks and food, until I become a manager—how would I handle the influx of responsibilities and checks that are mandatory?

When a problem arises, I will fly like Luttapi with fire on my tail. Instead of solving the issue at hand, I would be more interested in pointing fingers—to my left and to my right—against my managers and colleagues for my failures.

 Am I exaggerating things?

 Absolutely not. I have personally witnessed those so-called managers—protected by their godfathers—running in all directions, raising their blood pressure, getting seizures, and after struggling through three or four hard-managed years in the office, finally quitting and shifting to agriculture.

 If you ask them, they will proudly declare that “Agriculture is the soul of India” and that IT and BPO are not good for the country.

 “This sector is very good for India,” Shyam suggested.

 The reason for all this buzzing is that the sector is still new here, and we’re not fully familiar with Western culture and demands. Both society and companies need time to become stable.

 Can anyone imagine, in the 1990s, girls going to the office in night shifts—and in such huge numbers?

Society is gradually adapting to these new requirements. They have to change themselves, or they will be swept away by the high tides of changing expectations

 “Why should the companies change?” Arun countered.

 “They won’t change unless the system or the government becomes strong enough to control them,” “And that is never going to happen.”

 “They will change!” I protested. “It may not happen today, but surely tomorrow.

 “Today, they have a surplus workforce. If one person leaves, there are ten waiting to replace him. But as time passes and India grows, competition will deepen. The same companies will begin supporting those who stay with them for long, and they’ll start viewing the ship-jumpers with suspicion. Sooner or later, reliability will become the key yardstick. It will be the experienced and dependable people who get the edge.”

 So this is a wait-and-see scenario, I concluded. “ But how long will it take? God only knows.”