I
rang my Bank this morning - for an account enquiry. I dialed with trepidation
and I was hoping for some human contact. The machine voice asked me to press
‘one’ for English. Then the # button. I was then instructed to input my sixteen-digit
account number. Sixteen digits! Then the # button. The machine lady then asked
me to input my six-digit telephone banking code. Then the # button.
I
was prepared.
I
did what I was told.
The
next few minutes were frantic. They were electric.
I
was then sent into a number selecting frenzy. I picked option three. Internet
Banking enquiry. Then the # button. Option two. Overseas transfers. Then
the # button. Option four. Payment not recorded. Then the # button.
Then I waited.
I
persevered.
I
was patient.
Music
then played. Dreadful music. I intermittently received a recorded message. The
voice was male.
It
was commanding.
It
was soothing.
It
said “Your call important to us. All of our customer services officers are
currently busy at the moment. Please hold and we will transfer your call as
soon as one is available”.
I
persisted. Every three minutes the recorded message was repeated. I know this
because I timed it. One hundred and eighty seconds. Eleven times. Thirty-three
minutes. My patience had eroded. I was riled.
Annoyed.
Vexed
Eventually
I heard a human voice and I was momentarily elated.
“How can I address you?” was the opening line.
“I am Peter” I replied.
“May I call you Mr. Peter?” was the next polite
enquiry.
“You may” I responded.
“It is my name”.
“May I ask for yours?” I requested.
There
was a pause. A deliberation. There was some palpable hesitation.
Eventually,
“My name is Rajesh” was uttered.
“Before we proceed,” said Rajesh,
“I will be needing to ask you some security questions”.
‘I understand” I retorted.
“I will need to be asking some myself”.
“May I have your full name Mr. Peter?”
“May I have yours first please Mr. Rajesh?”
Remember,
I had been waiting for thirty-three minutes. I was lost in the machine and I
craved communication. There was a silence.
It
was deafening.
“Are you there Mr. Rajesh?” I enquired.
“Can you hear me?”
Rajesh’s
voice was hesitant. He replied “My name is Rajesh Adapa Ailani Polhuru”
I
asked him to spell it as I wrote it down. I then gave him my name. He asked me
to spell it. I assume he entered it into a computer. I could hear the keyboard
clicking.
Clacking.
Data
was being entered.
“Now I will be needing your date of birth,” asked
Rajesh.
“But first I will be needing yours” I
rebutted.
“But why” Rajesh asked. I could hear the anxiety in his
voice.
“Security” I responded.
“I need to know that you are who you say you are”
We
swapped dates of birth. Rajesh did so less willingly than me. For the record,
he is a Virgo - I am an Aries.
“I have one more question Mr. Peter,” said
Rajesh.
There
was a tremor in his voice. I could feel his distress. I could taste his
fear.
“Me too. Mr. Rajesh”. I asserted.
“Me too.”
“I am needing the maiden name of your mother Mr. Peter”, he
whispered.
“Please sir. Do not be asking mine”
“But I must Mr. Rajesh” I demanded.
“I simply must”
I
thought I heard a wail before I was disconnected. Despite my enquiry going
unanswered I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Propitiation.
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