The colder climes have their winters of discontent, but why must we have these summers of discomfort?” asked the little woman.
“You don’t have to be so mordacious, just because the air-conditioner is being temperamental,” I replied.
“Stop using big words and get the damn AC fixed,” scowled the love of my life.
So off I trudged to the neighbourhood store, from where I had bought the air-conditioner. The heat was as good as predicted in the yellow alert of the met department.
“So, you mean to say that your AC is not working?” asked the helpful salesman, who just the other day had extolled the virtues of the lemon that he had sold to me.
“Yes,” I said, because that seemed to be the most logical response.
“You mean to say it has stopped working?”
“Yes,” I said again. Succinctly.
“You mean….”
Illustration: Job P.K.
“My good man,” said I, interrupting him, “The air-conditioner has stopped working. It has gone kaput. It has conked out. It’s defective, faulty, broken, inoperative, damaged, knackered out and ruined. Also busted. Gone kaput, or whichever term you fancy. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. You have,” he said. “Ummm…. Did you try switching the AC off and then on again?”
Instinctively, I knew I was dealing with a specimen of the laptop generation—the generation whose most advanced technological skills extend all the way to shutting down the Windows programme and restarting the computer.
With great patience I said, “I have. I have also checked the MCB and put fresh cells in the remote control.”
“Ah! In that case, there is nothing we can do about it. You will have to contact customer care.”
“So, call the blighter who cares for customers!” I said.
“Sir, we are only the dealers. You will have to call customer care. The number is provided in the service booklet.”
“But I bought the AC from you. You may be the dealer or the wheeler-dealer, I don’t care. You sold it. You fix it. In our time, shopkeepers sold only good stuff and if something malfunctioned, they apologised and got it replaced.”
But the salesman was not interested in increasing his store of knowledge about business ethics of prehistoric times. He ignored me completely and turned to another customer, a potential sucker like me, on whom he would undoubtedly unload another lemon.
I returned home and told the missus that it would take time to get the air-conditioner repaired. For the interim, I promised to rig up our old water-cooler by the afternoon.
“Isn’t that just like you? You meet every step forward in technology by taking two steps back! I hope you remember the geyser you bought last winter which stopped functioning within a week? And then we used the old immersion rod heater the whole winter?”
“Look,” I said irritably, “Don’t nag! I have work to do. I need to register a complaint about the AC and here you are babbling away about geysers.”
I prepared for the battle with customer care. I dug out the warranty document, the cash receipt, the delivery note and the operations manual. I kept two pencils, freshly sharpened, and a notepad by my side. Then I called the service number. A disembodied voice asked me to select ‘one’ for Hindi, ‘two’ for English—and then ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘three’ etc. for different types of appliances, their defects and probably even their TOEFL scores. I answered more multiple-choice questions than I have ever done in any examination. I was truly bewildered and needed a break to recover and recuperate.
My second attempt at besting the digital labyrinth was marginally better and I meticulously answered questions like when, where and why did I buy the appliance and if it was still under warranty. After a while I even started enjoying it, because it felt like being in the hot seat at Kaun Banega Crorepati! I furiously kept punching buttons, and I thought I was doing a pretty good job, till mysteriously, without my realising it, I was pushed out into a world of silence from that wonderland of discarnate metallic voices. Nevertheless, I was certain that at some sublunary-astral level I had managed to register my complaint against the delinquent air-conditioner.
The next three days passed painfully, with the old-fashioned water cooler barely able to beat the heat, and the missus perpetually scowling at me.
On the fourth day, the security office at our condo gate called to inform that an engineer from Electronics World had arrived.
“See! The engineer is here to repair the AC!” I trilled.
The missus only scowled. Shortly, the doorbell rang. A weaselly specimen stood at our doorstep, mopping sweat from his brow. I welcomed him with a broad smile.
“Khush Aamdeed! Khush Aamdeed!” And I gleefully ushered him like royalty into the bedroom—the bedroom with the dead AC.
The engineer looked nonplussed. “I am here to fix the geyser,” he said. “According to my work order, you bought it on the 5th and complained about it on the 10th of December last year. Right?”
In dismay, I collapsed on the bed. Standing near the door, the missus continued to scowl.
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com