Regular readers of this blog (just kidding; there
are none – not even me) may remember my long-standing beef with the aviation industry
and the People Formerly Known as Air-Hostesses/Hosts and the sneaky name
changes they keep springing on us unsuspecting civilian passengers. There’s
also the scorn and contempt I have for call centre ‘executives’ which has been
an overarching theme in my evidently not very entertaining life. As luck would
have it, now I’m being forced to take a little from here and a little from there
to bitch about a new discovery.
I needed the number of a particular restaurant that
delivers halfway decent butter chicken by the city’s very low north Indian culinary
standards. My protest against smartphones and BBM and Whatsapp and being always
connected and always manipulating touchscreens in public is still going full
steam (plus eternal poverty), which is why I can’t access internet on my
archaic cell phone without using a dated and dreadfully slow GPRS technology
which would make the best of us cringe. Inevitably, I was forced to call up
that information selling enterprise that also sometimes assists the general
public with a few phone numbers and addresses. I can't reveal the name of this very well-known company for legal reasons (actually, I don't know if I can be legally implicated for taking their name but it's funnier this way).
So I justdial this company that I can't name for legal reasons. Firstly, credit where it’s
due – someone from their call centre usually answers with a jovial greeting
before even the first ring. But in this instance, there was a good
five-to-eight second delay, which was a little unsettling. Nevertheless, the guy
at the other end of my phone call did answer. He couldn’t find the restaurant information
that I had asked for, so he put me on hold for a few seconds.
A little after the automated lady voice told me how
important my call was, she happened to mention that “Our officers will be with
you shortly. Thank you for your patience.” Officers? OFFICERS?
This needs to stop. I will not, no matter how insignificant
this entire thing is, ever refer to the chaps who give me numbers and addresses
of restaurants and give out my phone number to thousands of plumbers and
electricians and key-makers as Officers. First of all, they don’t even have an office (not that I do, either).
But they work out of a call centre – that’s very different. I can’t even call
it a BPO out of the goodness of my heart because it’s not one. It’s most likely just an
information-selling racket with a CSR programme that gives out numbers and
addresses to callers. And what makes them deserving of being called Officers?
Even our finest khaki dimwits aren’t worthy of that particular distinction, but
that’s a can of worms that’s best left unopened.
Conclusion:
I
hate myself for saying this but I yearn for the good old days where these guys
were happy living in their little bubble of all-night dhabas and calling
themselves Executives. Or I could always just let this one go - chalk one up for dignity of labour or something.
