Mombai Calling

We’ve all had them - those calls from a distant place, trying to sell you an update of this or that – you know something brand-spanking new that will change your life from one of mediocrity to one of instant heart-stopping excitement with this new get up and go … whatever…

 

When I first got these phone calls my early responses were like: Sorry, not interested and I put the phone down. But, as you all know, being polite doesn’t get them off your back. They don’t cross your name off the list just because you’re polite and the calls go on.

 

The next set of my responses were a little more creative: Like no, Mr Dean is not here, he’s gone to Queensland - or the Bahamas, or wherever else for the winter. No go, I’m afraid, it does not deter the professional. And what about you, the caller says, are you interested in this blah…blah…blah…

 

Others things I’ve tried are like: Sorry, I’m just the real estate agent doing a check. I’m afraid Mr Dean has flown the coup for destinations unknown owing a considerable amount of rent.

 

Or even better I found that pretending compliancy and saying hang on a tick and I’ll go and get him and then going to the shops instead does have some appeal. I mean it’s a way of getting your own back by letting them waste their time.

 

Some people tell me that they use invective to get rid of the calls, but I always understood that as a cop out and demeaning to both parties. And it doesn’t work anyway because there is always someone else to take up the challenge. Anyway, I didn’t just want to blast off haphazardly; I wanted a quid pro quo for my harassment.

 

So, because the rings went on regardless I upped the ante. I became more creative. I tried things like: Sorry, I’m ill and can’t be bothered with anything. Or, more potently: Are you the doctor?  I’m waiting for his call. Please get off the line. I’m very ill. (All said in a very weak voice).

 

Well, they did get off the line but like insistent mossies in late summer they disregarded my pathetic swipes and came back the following week for another feed of my psychological blood. I had to lift my game once again.

 

So to be ready for the next inevitable assault I began studying up on exaggerated narrative. It went something like this: No, Mr Dean is not here but I am the neighbourhood burglar and I’m telling you Mr Dean’s house, which I am now ransacking, is bereft of any worthwhile goods and it appeared to me as an experienced burglar, that he is poorer than a Delhi street beggar. It is my belief that he can’t afford food, let only a new mobile phone. I’m telling you the guy’s not worth your attention.

 

Well, as creative as that might be, I’m afraid to say it still didn’t work. It was like the caller wasn’t listening to the words. No doubt part of the caller’s training was to completely ignore incidentals. Okay, I thought, I’ll make them listen. I’ll try a touch of pathos. I’ll twig their conscience - I’ll make them shed a tear or two. So next call I said; Mr Dean is not here. He has had a very serious accident and is in hospital and probably will not survive. You are invading his privacy at the moments before his demise. Please have mercy on his soul.

 

Failure again. Calls went on. It was like these anonymous callers were tuned into a different life. Perhaps I thought they aren’t real. In this world of advanced technology perhaps they are running a program with automatons. So I responded in a similar manner. I got I held a cup to my mouth and in the kind of non-human voice that your computer sometimes addresses you when it denies responsibility for an error, I said: This is Mr dean’s answering service. We are sorry to report that Mr Dean has been murdered by a drug-crazed Veterinary surgeon who wanted to cut out his body parts and sell them off to the Russian Mafia.

 

I must admit I enjoyed all those later answers I began to see it as a kind of exercise in creative writing. I thought up all kinds of responses in the next few weeks and the phone kept ringing and I kept upping the anti. 

 

The climax came after a visit I had from an old friend that I hadn’t seen for a few years and who remembered that I liked vodka. He brought a bottle with him and even though I hadn’t drunk vodka for many moons I had several nips that afternoon. By the time he left I’ve have to admit I was thoroughly inebriated and my head was swimming with nonsensical thought patterns.

 

Ten minutes after he left, the phone rang, and judging by the foreign accent it was a call from afar – a female voice who asked if I was Mr Dean. And hyped up by vodka and creative thought patterns I let her have the full broadside. As far as I can remember the following conversation was a reasonable interpretation of the events that afternoon.

 

I say, no madam, I’m not Mr Dean, I am a policeman. Are you a friend of his?

Oh no, she says, I want to speak to Mr Dean because I have a very magnificent offer for him.

This offer, I say, is it anything to do with drugs?

Oh no, no, she says. I only want to talk to him.

Ah huh, I say, and what’s your name then? She tells me her name was Andira.

Well, Andira, I say, my name is Detective Sergeant Morgan from the Australian Federal Police and we are also after Mr Dean for an infringement of the class A drug laws and I have it here also he owes a considerable amount of rent at this address.

Mr Dean, I tell her in a very serious voice, is in a lot of trouble. Are you sure you’re not a friend of his?

Oh no, she says. I only want to talk to him about his Internet Provider.

Well, I say, why don’t you send him an email?

I’d better call my supervisor, she says.

After some seconds delay a man’s comes over the phone. Hullo, the male voice says, this is Chandra speaking. I am the supervisor of this call centre. To whom am I talking?

Australian Federal Police here Mr Chandra, I say. Detective Sergeant Morgan speaking. I hear you are looking for Mr Dean. Are you the one who is Mr Dean’s friend?

Oh no, he says, this is only a call centre.

And where is this call centre based, I ask?

Mombai, India, he tells me.

(Here I hold the phone away and ask question of my fictitious superior.)

Hey chief, I say, there’s a guy here from India who wants to talk to Mr Dean. Wasn’t the word from the CIA and the Interpol that he was sighted in Afghanistan heading for the golden triangle? Do you reckon he might have dodged back through India to put us off the scent?

(Indistinct mumbling in reply?)

Okay boss, I’ll tell him that. Mr Chandra, I say, Mr Dean has skipped Australia on a phoney passport. We have a big operation on to bring him to justice. You’re said you don’t know Mr Dean – is that right?

Oh no, I am just a supervisor in a Call Centre, he said.

But, I said, if you say you don’t know Mr Dean how come you are calling him?

His number is on our list, he tells me.

List, ay? What kind of list is this, I ask?

Our phoning list sir. We are supplied with a list from our Company.

We could check up on that you know?

Certainly sir, he says. You can check sir, but I assure you we are a legitimate call centre sales company.

Okay, I say, we’ll let you off the hook this time Mr Chandra, but if Mr Dean contacts you at any time you’ll let us know, won’t you? The contact address is Australian Federal Police, Canberra, Australia. You can get hold of us by phoning 1800 666666. Okay?

Oh, yes sir, I will certainly let you know sir – I certainly will. 1800 666666 you said. Is that right, is that right sir?

 That’s right I say.

Oh thank you sir, he says, and hangs up.

I didn’t get a call for nearly a month after that and rightly or wrongly I kidded myself that there was one list, in one particular call centre in Mombai India, that has a big black mark through my name. A small step, but a step nevertheless…