On Thursday, of all days, I called customer service. A man picked up. He spoke to me in what seemed like South Asian-accented English, but as usual, I didn’t ask him where he was, even when he said my name almost flawlessly. I generally don’t ask customer service representatives where they are. Sometimes it’s because I think that question would put them on the defensive; sometimes it’s just because I’m in a rush. On Thursday, I was in a rush. Why would I want to connect with another human? I’m BUSY. Um, right. What Vivek might call Badmoodistan. But even though I was Unfriendlyananthan, he was not. And he was the first customer-service representative I’ve ever spoken to who asked me where I was from.
HIM: Are you from Tamil Nadu? [notable tone of excitement]
ME: [taken aback by unwarranted kindness] No, my parents are Sri Lankan. Where are you?
HIM: I’m in Mumbai, but I’m from the South.
ME: Oh!
HIM: Well, madam, except for your accent, anyone would say you are an Indian.
ME: [laughs] Yeah, I was born in America.
And then: Lucky girl! he said. And suddenly, I was not in Badmoodistan any more.
I know that he’s right–I am a lucky girl. But America! America! Sometimes you have crappy sitcoms. Continue reading