Department of Complaints

The email came out of the blue. The sender was someone called resked, no one I’d ever communicated with before. But the subject line caught my eye: Important Information With Regards to Your Air India Flight. 

It read like some sort of cryptic telegram, a cipher in a novel by Dan Brown.

Dear Passenger,

AI175 23AUG21 BLR SFO ix combined with AI503 24AUG21 BLR DEL & AI173 25AUG21 DEL SFO ,BLR departure would be 1720hrs. 

AI TOLL 18602331407 01242641407 02026231407

-AIR INDIA

Regards,

Air India CC

All I could process in my state of heightened panic was that there had been a flight change, and it was likely to be to my detriment. 

I read the words several times, wondering why they could not have been written in a clearer syntax, something user friendly that would make sense to a befuddled passenger. But then again, I realized, this is the age of COVID, where the airline is king, and I am but a lowly peasant, subject to the whims and fancies of my overlord. What choice do I have if my flight is cancelled and I’m rerouted elsewhere? What am I to do if the communication is in brief-speak, as if each word has to be paid for in its weight in gold? Who’s there to listen to my idle complaints, my fussing and fuming? In a word, no one. Okay, perhaps that’s two words. 

In their hurry to get the email out, “is” had been mistyped as “ix,” perhaps reminiscent of ixnay. We have ixnayed your flight, take that, that’s your reward for flying our airline. Citizen of the world, we are here to remind you you are powerless. Shake your fist at us for all we care! We are Air India!

After sitting down, taking several deep breaths, downing a glass of Scotch, and reading the email again, several times, it all became clear. Instead of two flights, I was now booked on three, and instead of my journey taking one day, it would now happen over three. That’s right. Three full days of travel in the age of COVID, instead of one. Three full days where I’d be masked, spritzed, examined, whisked, corralled and treated like a potential pandemic spreading vector, despite being double vaccinated and completely compliant with masking protocol.

My cup had clearly runneth over. This was almost too much fun to contemplate.

It appeared that Air India had mistaken me for my doppelganger, the one who likes taking flights and sitting in airports for days on end. The one who likes conducting all activities wearing masks. They had provided three customer service numbers: I dialed the first, to inform them of this case of mistaken identity.

I was put on hold of course. “Dear Passenger, we are experiencing high call volume so there may be a delay in attending to your call,” the recorded voice intoned. I almost found the use of the word “dear” endearing. 

Soon the recorded lady went on to public service announcements. “To prevent the spread of coronavirus, always wear your face mask while in public places. Wash your hands with soap and water frequently. Maintain at least 2 meters social distancing. Do not touch mouth, eyes, or nose. Air India wishes you safe and pleasant flight.” Then the message looped to play again. Right. I clicked the speaker button so the voice could drone on in the background. Then I went looking for the volume button. It’s then that I realized the phone in my parents’ house has no volume button. Darn. Well, I can at least take this off speaker, I reasoned. I pressed a button to un-speaker the thing. There was no effect. 

Dumbly, I looked at my Dad. “How do I take this off speaker?” I asked. 

“Oh, that button is broken,” he said sanguinely. 

I was overcome by a sudden feeling of helplessness, like that guy in Clockwork Orange, who’s tied to a chair and forced to watch scenes of violence in an endless loop. 

I counted very slowly to ten in my head. I finally understood what Deepak Chopra meant when he talked about acceptance. I had better accept that I was stuck with the corona message, on speaker, at high volume, indefinitely, till it was my turn for customer service.

After what seemed like an eternity, but which was merely an hour, a customer service person came on. In my excitement, I almost dropped the phone. I explained to her my problem. 

“I now have three flights over three separate days,” I shouted into the phone. 

She was very calm. “And what is the problem?” she asked. 

By this I was momentarily struck dumb. Was the problem not obvious? Is there anyone who wants to take three flights over three days? 

“Could you give me a more direct routing?” I asked finally. 

“Let me check,” she said, placing me on hold, a gentle click.

The dreaded hold-click. To how many of us has this happened before? That seemingly innocent move, ostensibly made to put us in a place of greater comfort, while they go away to conduct their intricate customer service machinations, press their buttons, fiddle their bobbles, cross their digits, twiddle their levers, and emerge, victorious with a better solution for us. Only. Only to have none of this happen, no buttons, no bobbles, no digits, no levers and instead a resounding and terrible silence.

The silence of the disconnected call.

“No!” I screamed into the phone. “Do not disconnect me!”

But it was too late. The deed was done. Here I was after an hour of COVID messaging to wear masks, wash my hands and be a model citizen, clutching a phone emanating a solid dial tone.  

I placed my head in my hands and began to bellow, “No, no, no! This isn’t happening.” 

“What’s going on?” asked my Mom.

“I just got hung up on by customer service after an hour of waiting,” I cried.

“Forget this customer service line,” she said. “Let’s go to the Air India office.”

So we did that that very evening. Called someone to drive us there, piled into the car, drove an hour to the airport past a thousand moving objects: trucks, buses, cars, scooters, bicycles, the odd cow, pedestrians, flies, and even a couple of hens. Found the booking office located in a small nondescript building. Waited a half hour for our turn. Then finally met the most competent customer service guy, a Balasubrahmaniam, who understood my predicament and solved the problem in ten minutes. No wonder they’d hidden him miles away from anywhere. God forbid he help other customers tearing their hair out.

Rebooked route in hand, I felt fundamentally calmer and more centered. On the way back, my mother and I joked lightheartedly about the troubles we had in life. The hassles of masking, the uncertainties of travel, the heat and dust, the traffic. The other drivers who did not obey the rules of the road. If you want to complain, the list is endless. 

When we were almost home, I looked out of the car window. In the distance I saw an old woman, walking on the pavement. She was bent over at the hip, the top half of her body parallel to the ground. Then my mother saw her too. We both fell silent, sitting up a little straighter, suddenly aware of the simple shape we are able to take. The seemingly effortless gift of form. Finally, we had nothing to complain about. We just had to open our eyes.