Hot Samosa, Cold Call?

“Kamon achen, di?”1 he asked. Stumped, I mumbled, “Hmm?” (It could be some relative after all, I thought). Then he went on to tell me how deeply he cared for my homesickness. And how imperative his role was, in ridding me of it. Now before your heart goes all out for this alleged member-of-the-kinfolk-from-Kolkata, be warned that he was a complete stranger, and all he actually cared about was my money. He was calling from Kolkata all right (although he averred that his office was situated in Detroit, the caller-id revealed a “+91-33” number) but his only intent was to urge me to sign up for a long-distance telephone service that he claimed was the cheapest and the best.

Even when we were not on the Do-Not-Call list, we had our chance with winning, on occasion. We could ward pesky telemarketers off by using on them an indigenous dialect. And if they clung on and asked, “Do you speak English, ma’m?” one could say, in Tamil2, for instance, “Aama, teriyum,”3 snigger, and then, opportunely hang up. But in those days, these mavericks fell fundamentally into two categories - those who tried to woo you into a subscription for a tacky publication you had no use for except to blot the oil off ‘pooris,’4 unless you were obese, and the cheesy weight loss ad on its front-page occluded your consumption of fatty food; or those who persuaded you to go on vacation to a place that you’d either already seen, or were flat broke to afford.

The most eccentric experience I’ve had with telemarketers was when my knowledge of the English language was questioned, for the sheer lack of a certain twang in my vocalization. But I, my dears, do speak some English, and it definitely does not transcend the discerning powers of my American fellas. (Well, at least when I say ‘let’s make a move,’ they do, in all their dervish spirit, shake a leg or two). But these were the pre-outsourcing times.

Coming back to Bengali babu5, I could virtually picture a 20-something graduate in a swanky, air-conditioned office in Kolkata, biting into a sizzling singara6 at 2:45 am IST. The darndest thing is he hit home, and with a little more prodding in Bengali, or his perfected yankee spiel, he could’ve sold his service to me, or even a monk sworn to silence in the wilderness.

PATs, or Painstakingly Americanized Transcriptions:

1 “How’re you doing, sis?”
2 A South Indian language
3 “Yes, I do know English”
4 Deep-fried wheat-flour crepes
5 Dude from Bengal
6 A spicy, crisped vegetable dumpling