'Yes, so you were telling me about where you are staying. And didn't you recently win an award for Best Innovator of the Year?'
'No, Ma'am. The only award I've ever come close to winning was last year's Forklift Rodeo over in Cisco. With my Hyster H130F, I was tops in loading and unloading the trailer and stacking and shelving pallets, but I didn't do too well in the written exam coz they had trick questions like "If a forklift travelling at 10 mph takes 22 feet to come to a full stop on a dry surface, how long will a forklift travelling at 20 mph take?" I wrote the answer as 22 X 2 = 44 feet, but they said the correct answer was the forklift has no business travelling at that speed.'
'You really have a terrific sense of humour, Mr Page – or can I call you Larry? How come you know so much about forklifts?'
'That's coz I am a forklift operator at the Walmart store in Round Rock, Texas. You know, the one on the I-35, exit 251?'
'You mean you are not the Larry Page of Google fame?'
'That's what I've been trying to tell you. My name's Larry Page, but I'm not that Google guy. I was just visiting India, but now I can't go back coz I've lost my passport.'
'Oh!' she said and quickly buttoned up her jacket. She stood up from the sofa and her face became like Johnny Scarface's when he's about to pull up a worker. 'Well, Mr Page, I am sorry for the misunderstanding. You are required to complete forms DS-11 and DS-64, available at the counter. Then you need to submit a copy of the police report, show us proof of your citizenship, pay ninetyseven dollars and schedule an appointment with one of the consular section staff.'
'But I'll still get a new passport tomorrow, won't I?'
'No, Mr Page. That expedited service is available only for distinguished Americans, which you obviously are not. My secretary will show you out.'
I stepped out of the Embassy cursing my luck. I wish I hadn't opened my stupid mouth. Lesson learnt. If people want to think I'm Mr Google, I should let them.
I went to Lucky Travel and Tours and made yet another booking. The earliest seat available this time was for 15 January. I had no option but to stay in India for another forty days.
I didn't stop writing to Shabnam, but seeing that she wasn't replying, my letters became shorter and shorter. I continued to try her mobile from the PCO, but didn't strike lucky there either. The only good news came from the call centre, where they dismissed Mr Devdutt on 15 December. He was caught with a whole bunch of pictures of naked girls on his computer. And it was discovered that for two years he had been using the office telephone line to speak to some lady by the name of Sexy Sam in Las Vegas.
The days passed quickly and before I knew it, 31 December arrived. I had plenty of offers to attend New Year parties from Vincent, Reggie and Gina, all of whom had taken leave. But after all that had happened, I just didn't feel like celebrating. That's when I received an offer from the management. They wanted volunteers to man the call centre on New Year's Eve and were offering triple pay. Since I had nothing else to do, I volunteered for the night shift and sat down like an associate in what Priya called the 'hot seat' for the first time in my life.
Handling calls in a call centre is not as easy as it looks. In fact, it's a pretty stressful job. As Vincent used to say, it's just a huge crap shoot. You never know what kind of callers you're going to get. There was not much traffic that night, and it was two hours before I got my first call. It was a gentleman by the name of Mr Jim Bolton.
I adjusted the headset and followed the script taped to the screen. 'Thank you for calling American Roadside Assistance. My name is Larry Page. How may I assist you?'
'Thanks, son. We're from San Francisco. We were visiting friends in New York. From there we were going to Philadelphia for a New Year's party, but we got caught in a blizzard. We've lost our bearings a bit. It seems we have crossed Dallas and we are now in White Haven on the I-476. Can you tell us how to get to Philly from here? And please make it quick, the battery on my mobile is running out.'
'Yes, of course, Sir. From Dallas I can give you directions even to the moon. Can I have your ARA customer number, please?'
The guy gave me his subscription number and I pulled up directions from Dallas, Texas to Philadelphia, New York on the computer. The guy appeared to be nearly fifteen hundred miles off course. What was worse, I was unable to locate White Heaven on the map. I punched in all the other colours, even 'Black Hell', but the result was the same. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The place just didn't exist and I was as confused as a cow on Astroturf.
All associates are expected to complete a call in no more than three minutes, but even after ten minutes I was unable to find Mr Bolton's location. He was getting more and more impatient.
'I can't seem to find directions for Philadelphia, Sir. Would you like to travel to Waco?' I asked hopefully.
The guy blew his top. 'Listen, you bastard,' he shouted. 'For the last half-hour you've been giving me the run around. Why don't you just confess that you know shit all about the roads of the United States? You're not really Larry Page. You are some arsehole Indian sitting in some shit-hole office in goddamn Bangalore trying to fleece unsuspecting Americans, aren't you? Come on, admit it, and I might still excuse you.'
'No, Sir. My name is Larry Page and I am an American, just like you,' I replied.
'So you persist in calling yourself American, eh? You think you can fool me? I know all about how your teeny-weeny call centres operate in India. I'll expose your lie in a sec. Tell me, Mr Page, what is the population of the United States?'
'I dunno. Is it one billion?'
'Wrong. Name the ten amendments to the US Constitution.'
'Aw, shucks, that's harder than Chinese arithmetic. By the way, what's a Constitution?'
'You've not heard of the Bill of Rights? I suppose it is pointless asking you who wrote our national anthem?'
'Can I take a guess?'
'Go ahead.'
'Is it Stevie Wonder?'
'Wrong again. Can you at least recite "The Star-Spangled Banner"?'
'Gee, I used to sing it in school, but that's a long time ago. All I remember is it had something about rockets bursting in the air and bombs entering the home of the brave.'
'That does it. I can't take it any longer. You are an insult to the American nation.'
'I am sorry, Sir. But then I haven't gone to any of those fancy universities like you have.'
'You don't need an education, son. What you need is a hole in the head. Now tell me, what's your real name?'
'I told you, Sir. It's Larry Page.'
'Look, it's no use pretending any longer. I've already proved that you are not American. So what's your real Indian name? Is it Sitaram? Or is it Venkatswamy?'
'Well, Sir, you can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn't make them biscuits. I told you, I'm Larry Page and I'm an American from the great State of Texas.'
'I am asking you for the last time, what is your real name? Your Indian name, goddamnit.'
'And I'm telling you for the last time, it's Larry Page and I am not Indian, I'm American.'
'You motherfucking Indians are taking jobs away from here and you have the cheek to call yourselves American? Shame on you.'
'Well shame on you, too, Sir, using such language. Mom says, pretty is as pretty does.'
'Listen, arsehole, it's time you crawled back to your black Indian Mama. This is the last time you are going to sit in that Indian shit-hole of yours and waste precious American time. Who is your supervisor? I need to have a word with him.'
'You've done with preaching and gone to meddling now,' I told him.
'I'll tell you what meddling is, arsehole. I belong to the Teamsters. I'm the head of Local 70, and I'm going to pull the plug on you. And if your company doesn't fire you, I'm going to pull the plug on your shitty company. I demand to speak to your supervisor right now. And let me make-'