Service with Ismail...

It's a brave new India we live in.

Whether you believe in the doomsday Mayan calendar or not, the rate of change seems to have gotten a lot faster in the last decade.

If you look at any period of rapid progress in history, you'll see that Change, that famous "constant of life", is always a mixed bag.

My fish screensaver entry for today concerns my experience in trying to get a faulty laptop fixed in today's fast changing India.

There was a time when you couldn't get a Mac serviced in India for love or money. Now, thanks to the proliferation of impossibly beautiful 'I" objects from Steve Jobs' farm, (I-pods, I-phones,etc.), each Indian metro has a few dedicated companies that sell and/or service the forbidden fruit.

Last Saturday, I took my I-Book G4 to a south Delhi-based Apple Sales & Service company. (For those still looking at life through Pieces of Crap(s) :-), the G4 is a last generation processor, which has been phased out of service in many places)

I know the G4 is an old machine, but it's been trouble-free for the six years I've had it.

A few days back, the Airport (WiFi receiver) card stopped working. My own troubleshooting couldn't fix it and internet help forums told me that the problem was most likely a loose or dusty Airport Card. So, I decided it would be best for a hardware guy to look at it.

That was last Saturday and the Nice Lady at Reception warned me that they had a minimum service charge of Rs.1500/-. That sounded steep all right, but hey, when you divide it by six years and it doesn't look too bad.

She then volunteered a sweetener; since the solution involved opening up the laptop, customers usually got other stuff done at the same time - put in some extra RAM or Hard Disk Memory. She promised to call me on Monday, when my machine was open, to tell me what extra stuff could be put in, at an extra, parts-only cost.

That was the clincher. "Nice Lady, professional place...and if I want a good service engineer taking my Mac apart, even if its only to dust the parts, I must be ready to pay the price...fair enough, " I said to myself, and left my computer behind with a smile.

Monday, no call. "Ah well, first day of the busy work week," I said to myself. Tuesday, no call. "Was it one of those Tuesday-off places?". Wednesday, still no call. I got worried. I called Nice Lady, expecting an apology and an explanation.

Smiling through complaints is easy...

"Ismail, our only service engineer who can open the old IBook is busy in the field," she said tersely. I was stumped. Why had she not called me to tell me about the delay? At this, she could only repeat her earlier answer. I was getting a little pissed off with Not-So-Nice-Anymore Lady. When would she get the job done? "Thursday." she said. "Pucca".

Thursday, again no call. I called, mercury already rising under my collar. "Ismail's not in office today also (sic)," she said. I'd had enough. "I coming to get my laptop back," I said and cut the line. (can't slam down a cellphone, can you? :-)

I walked in fuming. Positively-No-Good Lady pointed me to a sofa and mumbled into the intercom. Out came a hassled looking chap, carrying my Ibook, booted up. (I later learnt that he was Ismail, the Old-IBook-Engineer of the Prophesy.) "Airport card eej working," he said, tapping rapidly on the keys and stepping aside to show me.

"What?" I was taken by surprise. "When was it fixed?" And why was I not called about the additional RAM and Hard Disk space to be put in?

"Ispair parts not availbal", he said shoving a form in front of me. "Pleej sign here and pay 1655 at counter"

"Did you change any parts to fix the WiFi?" I said. "No. Just dusting." And he wanted Rs.1655/- for just that?!

I protested. The value-for-money fuse in my head had been blown.

I made my displeasure clear. Ismail disappeared into the bowels of the service centre. Out came a Supervisor-type. He heard the whole story again, and repeated the girl's and Ismail's responses in his own baritone at the appropriate places. I was not impressed. I expected an apology at the least and none was on the horizon.

Finally, in what seemed like an attempt to turn the tables and shame me, he said "If you're not happy with our service, no need to pay."

Aha. "Did you have to put in any new parts to fix my WiFi?" I asked, just to be sure of what I was about to do.

"No," he said, curtly.

I smiled, shook his hand firmly and said "That's fair then. No charges. I appreciate it," and walked away with my laptop.

There was a collective gasp behind me as I left their office. An Indian had just violated the Shaming Code.

The correct behaviour would have been to accept defeat in the face of his moral checkmate, apologise for doubting his good intentions (despite the shitty service) and pay up quietly. Instead, I had behaved like a brazen "Forrner".

But I felt fine. I feel fine even now, as I write about it. Completely be-sharam. Shame-less :-)

Now to tie the story back to what I started it with: Like all Change, the one in this story is a mixed bag.

I'm glad that there are Apple Service chaps in Indian metro cities now. This comes at a price, Rs.1500/- minimum, for a professional service. No problems till this point. But the 'professional service' exists only on paper today.

In reality, they want Rs.1500/- (plus service tax?) for dusting my laptop, not doing the other stuff they promised and totally exasperating me over 5 days.

Maybe, I've caught the change in the middle of the transition. One day, I hope, it will go all the way.

For now it's still, "Oye Emptor, zara bachke...! "

Of Santas (& Bantas) in Delhi Decembers...

Is there something about the cold that makes us more human?

In Delhi, over the past ten days, temperatures have been dipping. Winter winds from the Himalayas have been blowing through the streets and the sun has been warming us for barely a couple of hours during the day.

Nothing unusual for this time of year. Delhites don't mind. Of course, they complain, but that's just the perennial human dissatisfaction we all share for the Weather (whatever it may be at that point of time; "too hot", "too cold", "too rainy" - take your pick according to your corner of the universe)

For the most part though, everyone in Delhi loves the fact that they live in an Indian metro city that actually has a winter.

Late mornings spent cozying in Rajais, hot chole-bature, endless cups of hot tea or coffee, window shopping in the warm fashions of the season, the occasional bonfire at a party and of course, Scotch (that golden standard of a good time in saddi Dilli) - people make the most of the winter here.

That's just the general backdrop around this time of the year.

Now for the real reason behind this entry. Here she is:

Circa 2009, winter, in a hand-me-down from one of her proverbial best friends

It's clearly not the best protection against anything - even if it wasn't torn. But the banian (singlet) she's wearing just shows that someone cared enough.

She most likely also has a plastic tub with water somewhere - a discarded home-delivery thingie, with a few biscuits or stale roties alongside. She came right up to me, tail wagging, no fear of humans, so it's likely that she's been spared the cruelty of some of her not-so-best two-legged friends.

Then there's the blackie, with his cushion, which someone was thoughtful enough to move onto a pile of sand, so he could laze on it and catch some vitamin D during the day (...but forgot to move it back to under the common staircase at night - hey! don't blame them so easily...no one's perfect :-)

Blackie, curled up on his cushion

All around south Delhi, I see more such examples of humanity in the winter. While the labradors and alsatians I pass in the Jahanpanah forest on my daily runs are smartly turned out in expensive doggie tartans, their lesser cousins on the street corners too show evidence of friends who care.

Come December and Santas (& Bantas) of Dilli seem to get bitten by the seasonal cheer :-)

I may be going out on a limb here, but I'm not sure we feel as generous towards our best friends in the summer. What say?

That's Fresh!

I began this blog by warning you that a Durian, by any other name, would still be an acquired taste. (see here)

Today, I saw a commercial on national TV that referred to another fruit, reminded me of the Durian reference and forced me to smile.

It's called Lemon Mobiles.

If you don't live in India, or don't watch enough TV, you can catch this masterpiece here

When I was in school, the poor lemon was a much maligned fruit. To be "sold a lemon" meant, in the English language, to be cheated into buying a defective product. (The irony of this definition is doubled when the guy in the ad - the fighter pilot who moonlights as a chauffeur on private corporate jets? - tells his girl that his Lemon Mobile is "bilkul zero defect, tumhari tarah! :-)

Ok, so maybe that's just the British usage. What about the others? I checked. Apparently, much of the US of A too considers the 'defective/substandard' connotation standard, especially with reference to used cars in that country.

Once again, 'Lemon' did not seem the best name for a product. (For crying out loud, even the luckless lemonade guys, whose hands are tied by the very product they have to sell, come up with names like 'LMN')

Then why? I decided to probe further; maybe there were other, more contemporary uses of the term that I was unaware of. There were indeed. Not one, but two.

Both were from pornographic literature; the first, to refer to a lesbian relationship and the second, to let readers of such material know, on the contents page itself, that the story marked 'Lemon' contained explicit descriptions of sex.

Sir, could I interest you in a lemon?

Could either of these be what the owner (malik?) of Lemon Mobiles was thinking about? Somehow, I doubt it.

So, my fishscreen conclusion is that the name is just one of those things that can happen when you work with a foreign language.

On the movie screen of my mind, I see the good man unveiling his idea to his managers with a flourish, "Ik Amrica da world famous Appal, ik sadda Lemon - dono THE best." ...and they say in unison "Hit hai ji, hit hai!"

We're not alone. Japan is replete with some of the best examples of this sort of aspirational faux pas. Check it out here

Et tu...

"Your soul for the chance to mess with others like you for the rest of your life."

That's what I figure the Devil must have offered a friend who recently migrated to the "Other" side.

He is no longer a vendor, waiting at pre-bid meetings to hear the client's wish list. Instead, he's now the Client, asks for the world in return for peanut shells, arrives last at meetings and proceeds to dish out impossible inanities that we all have to pretend we understand and take notes of.

Incidentally, this blog started with a vendor reality check...actually, it features a marketing cow-worker, but trust me, these two creatures are entirely fungible. If you missed it, catch it here.)

Back to this ex-friend. He's making rapid strides towards earning his spurs in his new herd. He's already mastered the art of saying nothing while continuously making sounds with words. "Seamlessly mesh these opposing objectives with each other and I think you have a broad idea of our overall expectations from this project." This, from a chap who used to say usually say things like "Are you nuts? How can we finish ALL THAT in a week?"

He's a Client now, no longer bound by such definite, cruel, Vendor logic.

Brute Force

He's traded it for the kinder, softer, infinitely malleable position of a client. He's able to keep a perfectly straight face and describe something that requires doubling of the budget as "a bit of a stretch, but one that I have no doubt you'll find a way of making happen without any budgetary implications."

I appreciate that the vendor-client relationship is intrinsically adversorial. Both may want a good final product, but they obviously go in opposite directions on price. I also understand that someone's got to do the "other" job too.

It just seems that if you were ever a vendor to start with, your soul is the last sale you have to close before you get a job on the other side.

Cats & Dogs

I’m going to try to keep this short. It’s just an observation I’ve stretched out; a 30ml espresso subject to a hot shower and turned into a 60ml americano.

I spend a reasonable amount of time at coffee shops. My line of work lets me and I love the stuff. I’ve been visiting these merchants of buzz from the turn of the century, when they first began to appear in the large Indian cities.

My café of choice in Delhi is the Café Coffee Day. This chain has at least 4 outlets within 2 kilometers of my home in South Delhi. Of these, I get my daily fix from a particular outlet, whose staff I have trained to get my cappuccino just right (Double-shot, not watery, thick foam on top)

My daily poison

They know that I will send it back if its not to my liking, and more than once at that. Yet, despite the regular training, their best intentions and my large tips (20%, every single time), mishaps happen at least once a week.

But the young boys and girls at CCD (as the kids who visit this café call it) are both accommodating and eager to please, especially if you give them a chance to polish their English with you and are not condescending about it.

So, I get my coffee the way I like it, even if it takes a couple of times. There’s no fuss, just a look of disappointment at not having earned my compliment at round one and a “how’z your coffee this time, sir?” when I taste the second attempt.

I’m not the only one getting away with high service expectations there. Aunties who complain that their Paneer Rolls are not fresh enough get replacements, and Uncles who find the coffee shop mileu unfamiliar (whose caffeine discrimination is binary – 'Hot' or 'Cold' - coffee) are not looked down upon here.

Barista, the other large chain of a similar vintage in Indian metros, is well, a different cup of coffee. I do visit a Barista once in a while for a fix, but when I do, I lower my expectations on service.

The staff (a high proportion of them, good looking, sharp young men and women, from the North Eastern states,) is more aligned to the convent educated English speaker, the Delhi PLU (People-Like-Us) set.

Keeping with the theme, there’s the guitar to strum and Scrabble and Pictionary, but the water is self-service, in small paper cups (much to the chagrin of the occasional Punjabi Uncle who goes “Bete, pehle pani toh pila do”, to the young man delivering the coffee to the table, only to be coldly pointed to the jug on the counter)

You can send back stuff at the Barista too, but are likely to meet with resistance from behind the counter, especially if it’s a cuppa you send back. You’re likely to get a “This is how we always make a cuppuccino sir…” at Round One. If you still insist on doing it your way, they might follow it up with a “What you’re asking for is a latte…is that what you want?” and go on to describe the ingredients, the intention being to embarrass you at the very least.

It’s like the difference between traveling on Singapore Airlines versus British Airways on a long haul flight. Both are nice in their own ways, but where the Asian air hostess will give you little bottles of water any number of times on Sing, the European girls on BA will lay out the short eats and water at the galley and retire to chit-chat with each other. The third time you buzz the BA girl on a 8-hour flight, you realize that the temperature inside the cabin can also drop to minus 42-degrees C, to match the outside.

I thought that Barista may be hiring youngsters with more years of formal English education, but the boys at CCD tell me that the educational qualifications are the same for both chains; you just need to have cleared your 12^th standard school-leaving exams. And yet, each seems to have an additional filter in the hiring process, based on some additional unwritten criteria, that gives them very different personnel.

Now even my stretched Americano’s down to the bottom. One last gulp before we go our ways – if the CCD youngsters were to be seen as a familiar animal, they would be dogs - friendly, eager to please and easy to train.

I’ve tried to train the Baristas once, with the same degree of custom, tipping and discipline as the CCD boys, but it just wouldn’t work. Cats look elegant, but don’t fetch newspapers.