Product Description

Press 1 for technical support.
Press 2 for broken hearts.
Press 3 if your life has totally crashed. . . .

Six friends work nights at a call center in India, providing technical support for a major U.S. appliance corporation. Skilled in patience–and accent management–they help American consumers keep their lives running. Yet behind the headsets, everybody’s heart is on the line.

Shyam (Sam to his callers) has lost his self-confidence after being dumped by the girl who just so happens to be sitting next to him. Priyanka’s domineering mother has arranged for her daughter’s upscale marriage to an Indian man in Seattle. Esha longs to be a model but discovers it’s a horizontal romp to the runway. Lost, dissatisfied Vroom has high ideals, but compromises them by talking on the phone to idiots each night. Traditional Radhika has just found out that her husband is sleeping with his secretary. And Military Uncle (nobody knows his real name) sits alone working the online chat.

They all try to make it through their shifts–and maintain their sanity–under the eagle eye of a boss whose ego rivals his incompetence. But tonight is no ordinary night. Tonight is Thanksgiving in America: Appliances are going haywire, and the phones are ringing off their hooks. Then one call, from one very special caller, changes everything.

Chetan Bhagat’s delicious romantic comedy takes us inside the world of the international call center, where cultural cross-wires come together with perfect pathos, hilarity, and spice.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #145765 in Books
• Published on: 2007-05-01
• Released on: 2007-05-01
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 320 pages

From Publishers Weekly
This bestselling Indian import feels more like a half-baked business-inspirational tract than a novel, as if a washed-up motivational speaker wrote a spec script for The Office and set it in an Indian call center. The prologue sets up the novel as a story told to the author by a fellow passenger on an overnight train to Delhi. Perennially put-upon narrator Shyam Mehra is denied a promotion and learns his ex-girlfriend and current officemate Priyanka has agreed to an arranged marriage with a man in Seattle. Another friend and colleague, Vroom, hates the job and their boss, but likes the money. Co-worker Rhadhika's marriage crumbles after she learns of her husband's affair. And Esha feels guilty about what she's done in pursuit of her dream of being a model. Meanwhile, they learn that the company they work for has decided to lay off workers and that their boss is taking credit for work they've done. And then, the hook: God calls, offering the crew a four-point plan for success. Lackluster writing and a preachy tone cripple what could have been an interesting premise. (May)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
Business has been lagging lately at Connections, the Delhi call center for a large U.S. computer and appliance company. Twenty-six-year-old agent Shyam, known to his American callers as "Sam," is less concerned about his career than his breakup with coworker Priyanka. (She recently consented to an arranged marriage with a wealthy Indian expat.) Sam's other twentysomething colleagues have troubles of their own: aspiring model Esha takes desperate measures to secure gigs; Radhika suffers humiliation at the hands of an unfaithful spouse; and Varun, aka Vroom, drives at dangerous speeds to cope with personal and professional distress. The bane of the staff's existence is their jargon-spewing boss, Bakshi, who blithely assumes credit for his employees' work. One particularly tense evening (which happens to be Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.), the Connections staff take a break from the office--and receive a life-altering call. Bhagat, an investment banker based in Hong Kong, renders engaging characters and a provocative premise. Allison Block
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1

8:31 p.m.

I was splashing my hands helplessly in the sea. I can’t even swim in a pond, let alone in the Indian Ocean. While I was in the water, my boss Bakshi was in a boat next to me. He was pushing my head down in the water. I saw Priyanka drifting away in a lifeboat. I screamed as Bakshi used both his hands to keep my head submerged. Salt water was filling my mouth and nostrils when I heard loud beeps in the distance.

My nightmare ended as my cellphone alarm rang hard in my left ear and I woke up to its “Last Christmas” ring tone. The ring tone was a gift from Shefali, my new semi-girlfriend. I squinted through a half-shut eye to see 8:32 p.m. surrounded by little bells flashing on the screen.

“Damn,” I said and jumped out of bed.

I would have loved to analyze my dream and its significance in my insignificant life, but I had to get dressed for work.

“Man, the Qualis will be here in twenty minutes,” I thought, digging matter out of my eye. Qualis was the make of car that picked us all up individually and drove us together to the center. I was still tired, but afraid of staying in bed any longer in case I was late. Besides, there was a serious risk of Bakshi making a comeback in my dreams.

By the way, I am Shyam Mehra, or Sam Marcy as they call me at my workplace, the Connections call center in Gurgaon. American tongues have trouble saying my real name and prefer Sam. If you want, you can give me another name, too. I really don’t care.

Anyway, I’m a call-center agent. There are hundreds of thousands, probably millions of agents like me. But this total pain-in-the neck author chose me, of all the agents in the country. He met me and told me to help him with his second book. In fact, he pretty much wanted me to write the book for him. I declined, saying I can’t even write my own CV, so there was no way I could write a whole book. I explained to him how my promotion to the position of team leader had been postponed for one year because my manager Bakshi had told me I don’t have the “required skills set” yet. In my review, Bakshi wrote that I was “not a go-getter.” I don’t even know what “go-getter” means, so I guess I’m definitely not one.

But this author said he didn’t care. He had promised someone he’d write this story so I’d better cooperate or he would keep on pestering me. I tried my best to wriggle out of it, but he wouldn’t let go. I finally relented and that’s why I’m stuck with this assignment, while you are stuck with me.

I also want to give you one more warning. My English is not that great—actually, nothing about me is great. So, if you’re looking for something sophisticated and highbrow, then I suggest you read another book with plenty of long words. I know only one big word: “management.” But we’ll get to that later. I told the author about my limited English. However, he said big emotions don’t come from big words, so I had no choice but to do the job. I hate authors.

Now let’s get back to the story. If you remember, I had just woken up.

There was a noise in the living room. Some relatives were in town to attend a family wedding. My neighbor was getting married to his cousin . . . er, sorry, I’m a bit groggy, my cousin was getting married to his neighbor. But I had to work, so I couldn’t go to the wedding. It didn’t matter, though, all marriages are the same, more or less.

I reached the bathroom still half-asleep. It was occupied.

The bathroom door was open. I saw five of my aunts scrambling to get a few square inches of the washbasin mirror. One aunt was cursing her daughter for leaving the matching bindis at home. Another aunt had lost the little screw of her gold earring and was flipping out.

“It’s pure gold, where is it?” she screamed into my face. “Has the maid stolen it?” Like the maid has nothing better to do than steal one tiny screw. Wouldn’t she steal the whole set? I thought.

“Auntie, can I use the bathroom for five minutes? I need to get ready for the office,” I said.

“Oh hello, Shyam. Woke up finally?” my mother’s sister said. “Office? Aren’t you coming to the wedding?”

“No, I have to work. Can I have the bath—”

“Look how big Shyam has become,” my maternal aunt said. “We need to find a girl for him soon.”

Everyone burst into giggles. It was their biggest joke of the day.

“Can I please—” I said.

“Shyam, leave the ladies alone,” one of my older cousins interrupted. “What are you doing here with the women? We are already late for the wedding.”

“But I have to go to work. I need to get dressed,” I protested, trying to elbow my way to the bathroom tap.

“You work in a call center, don’t you?” my cousin said.

“Yes.”

“Your work is all on the phone. Why do you need to dress up? Who’s going to see you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Use the kitchen sink,” an aunt suggested and handed me my toothbrush.

I gave them all a dirty look. Nobody noticed. I passed by the living room on my way to the kitchen. The uncles were outside, on their second whiskey and soda. One uncle said something about how it would be better if my father were still alive and around this evening.

I reached the kitchen. The floor was so cold I felt like I’d stepped on an ice tray. I realized I had forgotten the soap. I went back but the bathroom door was bolted. There was no hot water in the kitchen, so my face froze as I washed it with cold water. Winter in Delhi is a bitch. I brushed my teeth and used the steel plates as a mirror to comb my hair. Shyam had turned into Sam and Sam’s day had just begun.

I was hungry, but there was nothing to eat in the house. They’d be getting food at the wedding, so my mother had felt there was no need to cook at home.

The Qualis’s horn screamed at 8:55 p.m.

As I was about to leave, I realized I had forgotten my ID. I went to my room, but couldn’t find it. I tried to find my mother instead. She was in her bedroom, lost among aunties, saris, and jewelry sets. She and my aunts were comparing whose set was heaviest. Usually the heaviest aunt had the heaviest set.

“Mum, have you seen my ID?” I said. Everyone ignored me. I went back to my room as the Qualis honked for the fourth time.

“Damn, there it is,” I said reaching under my bed. I pulled it out by its strap and strung it around my neck.

I waved a good-bye to everyone, but no one acknowledged me. It wasn’t surprising. My cousins are all on their way to becoming doctors or engineers. You could say I am the black sheep of my family. In fact, the only reason people even talk to me is because I have a job and get a salary at the end of the month. You see, I used to work in the website department of an ad agency before this callcenter job. However, the ad agency paid really badly, and all the people there were pseudos, more interested in office politics than websites. I left and all hell broke loose at home. That’s when I became the black sheep. I saved myself by joining Connections. With money in your wallet the world gives you some respect and lets you breathe. Connections was also the natural choice for me as Priyanka worked there. Of course, that reason was no longer relevant.

My aunt finally found the gold screw trapped in her fake-hair bun.

The Qualis’s horn screamed again.

“I’m coming,” I shouted as I ran out of the house.

Customer Reviews

Just isn't very good
This novel is nothing special, has a mediocre storyline, a couple of interesting characters and was a quick, light diversion.

I have several problems with it, though. First, it's pretty juvenile. The author fulfills his personal fantasies by having the main character get revenge on his boss and get the girl in the end. Second, the dialogue is unrealistic and the phone call from God is completely out of place. It's 5 seconds of fantasy in a novel that's supposed to be a slice of reality. Third, is that this novel is unapologetically racist. The author spends quite a few lines in several places in the book declaring Americans to be fat, stupid, lazy, paranoid war-mongers. Not nice. Fourth, the book cover claims that the book is funny. Nope. Not even a little.

All in all, I wouldn't recommend this book.

Interesting insight into the tormented psyche of either Indian youth or the author - not sure which...
This quick, engaging story about the problems in the lives of six call center workers in India, portrays the plight of young Indians who in their desire to move up the socioeconomic ladder, ironically find themselves exploited by a distant and uncaring American corporation and restricted by outdated cultural traditions.

I enjoyed the story and the writing style, although I thought the "phone call from God" plot twist toward the end was rendered with all the subtlety of a self-help book (I'm surprised God didn't number the "valuable life lessons" for our convenience).

Forgiving that, my main gripe with this book is that neither the characters nor the author seemed to quite grasp the aforementioned "valuable life lessons".

The reason I say this is that in the story, Americans are portrayed individually (as callers into the call center) as fearful, lazy, stupid, warmongers who unfairly enjoy a better lifestyle than Indians - and collectively (in the form of corporations) as the personification of evil, unfairness and oppression. And so, the characters' economic problems are blamed on the selfish, stupid Americans who oppress them. Fair enough - every story needs a bad guy.

But yet, even after God shows up on the scene and dispenses the aforementioned "valuable life lessons" (take responsibility for your own lives, stop blaming others, stop making excuses) Americans (and the boss, as a stand-in for the Americans) are still the scapegoat, and the characters use their newfound self-confidence and perspective on life to exact REVENGE!!!

Now, to me, vindictiveness (even coupled with the loftier goal of saving the call center) seems incongruent with psychological well being and a tip-off that maybe someone doesn't fully understand those "valuable life lessons". And so I actually considered at length that perhaps the author's true intention was to convey the self-defeating nature of blaming, complaining and not taking responsibility, by showing the characters' hypocrisy - how they suffered from an inferiority complex and psychologically projected their self-loathing onto America, their perceived oppressor. (After all, the very name of the protagonist with the most wounded inner child - "Vroom" - could be a symbolic reference to his materialistic nature and the conflicted way in which he simultaneously condemns and worships western culture).

But ... strangely enough I was left with the bizarre impression that the author himself was blind to the disconnect between the lessons the book extolls and its underlying whinyness and racism, which raises the disturbing question of whether the attitudes in the book were meant as those of the characters or of Indian youth - or worse, whether they are in fact the attitudes of the writer himself (I hope not).

So overall, I enjoyed the book for it's portrayal of the youth culture in India, but even more for the bizarre, psychological conflicts which it represents and which I'm still puzzling over.

... and as a final note, one last thing that I found disconcerting was that the setup for the story (While travelling I met someone who told me this story and it was so compelling that I had to meet the characters and turn it into my next novel)is an obvious copy of the setup in "Life of Pi" - which I imagine the author must have read, since it was a huge bestseller having to do with India.

and finally...

DISCLAIMER: If in fact the author's intention was to point out the hypocrisy of claiming to take responsibility for one's life while simultaneously plotting revenge against one's imagined oppressors, then TOUCHE'! - because with this book, he is then not blind to his own predjudices or merely pandering to the attitudes of the disaffected Indian youth market, but rather is holding a mirror to their face and challenging them to recognize how their own attitudes and predjudices may play a part in holding them back while and letting them know that by healing their own collective psyche they will be able to rise above whatever systemic conditions conspire to oppress them.

Great Poolside Reading
This is a very nice first or second piece of fiction. I get a chuckle out of people throwing around the word "novel". Mr. Bhagat really stretches the sense of term "novel" by referring to this short non-fiction volume as a novel on the cover page. Novel? Perhaps in the sense that no one in my recollection has written a story centered around an Indian call center. But, a novel? Please. Doesn't novel imply a work of art or a serious attempt at art? This is not art.

Of course, if you can get by the "Americans are fat stupid idiots" pabulum sprinkled throughout the volume what you get is a very well told story about some young Indian kids striving to get ahead. The narrative and dialog, while not exactly riveting, is certainly entertaining and worth a read. I'm not expert on Indian culture, but I went to school and have worked with many Indian experts and have grown to respect the work ethic and general willingness to "get along" with people. I've always wanted to visit India and this book has done nothing to dissuade me.

I was hoping for more information or anecdotes about the inner workings of call centers. Often new "novelists" do so much homework on their subject that you actually feel like you're reading history or some other non-fiction type of work covering the subject.

Again, a nice summer read. Good job Mr. Bhagat and best of luck with future work.

And, hey, call center work sounds like a grueling, repetitive, frustrating job. So, I can forgive the anti-American stuff. If I were working a call center in Chicago (who knows) covering India I'd be cursing about customer after a while too.