Night shift again. One hundred calls logged, Fifty complaints received, Ten resolved, forty pending Until tomorrow's shift.
Excels mailed to the supervisor. By ten p.m., the coffee Arrives to keep the workers Awake and alert through the Still of the night.
Two a.m, two hours before the shift Ends, an irate caller from Nottingham, UK, screams Bloody Indians, Bloody Indians You're stealing our jobs Bloody Indians
The worker holds the phone Helplessly, yes sir, sorry sir, Can I help you with anything else Sir, have a good day sir, Here is your complaint number Sir.
Three a.m. caller from Sydney G'day mate, can you send me My statement? Credit card number 5674-8765-8900-7623. Call takes 4 minutes only. That's a record.
Phones keep ringing past 4 a.m., But the shift is over and She shuts down the computer In relief, packs her handbag, Swipes out and walks to the Parking lot.
She revs up her Scooty in the dark The headlights shine on the tar And she is on the road home. Hands-free mobile rings; she starts Talking, talks so intently that She does not see the truck
Speeding out from an alleyway Head on until it is too late To turn, to escape the wheels Bearing down on her, crushing Her bones, knocking the mobile Into a drain and leaving her Speechless.
Five a.m she is rushed to the hospital. Five-thirty a.m, she stops breathing. Time of death: five forty-seven a.m., July 12, 2007. Cause of death: Multiple injuries, punctured lungs And internal bleeding.
This poem is based on a newspaper story about a call-center employee who was killed in an accident on her way home late one night, just last week. A lot of young people in Bangalore seem to be losing their lives in these kinds of traffic accidents lately. It struck me as tragic, and I wanted to write about it.
