Shanti Menezes doesn’t have a Vi number but made the mistake of introducing me to the company once. Now she gets mercilessly harassed if I don’t pay my bill
Vodafone’s debt collectors’ key skill is in making you lose your composure without losing theirs. Representation pic/Getty Images
Maybe you could give me some dead person’s phone number?” said the girl from the Vodafone call centre, helpfully.
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“Why?” I asked.
“Sir, because we need an alternate number for you,” she said.
“Dead people are notorious for not answering calls.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
My brother had passed away a couple of years ago. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I shared his defunct number.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. To understand why Vodafone wanted any number at all from me, I have to tell you about Shanti Menezes, who lives in Mumbai and tries to be a good and helpful person.
Every month, around month’s end, Shanti gets a call from Vodafone, now unpronounceably Vi, that her payment is overdue. Her number happens to be listed on my account as my alternate number. Years ago, Shanti would patiently explain that she did not have a Vodafone account so her bill could not possibly be overdue. Nowadays she just sends me a barely restrained WhatsApp message in Bangkok, telling to please pay my bill for chrissakes.
My problem was threefold. Firstly, Vodafone had assured me they had replaced Shanti’s phone number with my late brother’s as my alternate number just a few weeks earlier. Second, my bill was a paltry Rs 199. Third, I had already paid it. I didn’t see why their debt collection agency was on my case.
India became the world’s debt collection hub around 2006, because people everywhere owe money, from housing loans, car mortgages, property payments, insurance premiums and credit card dues to, yes, cellphone bills. Each agency claims it tightens the screws better than the others. Some advertised their ‘No Cure No Pay’ policy, implying suddenly that an unpaid bill is like a disease and could be cured.
One claims superiority because they contact debtors in their local language, suddenly implying a whole new level of crassness. Another ominously hints that they “have the possibility to personally visit your debtor in India”.
Vodafone’s brutal, merciless collection techniques, always delivered with a warm smile and cloying courtesy, start weeks ahead of your due date. Every outgoing call is interrupted by a laughing voice enunciating a message first in Marathi, then in Hindi and English, an endless trilingual tirade telling you your bill will soon be due. There will be more, every day, relentless, making normal communication impossible — and your bill is not even due yet.
A survey in the United Kingdom last year by the consumer lobby group Which? honoured Vodafone there with the title of worst mobile phone provider for the seventh year running. Vodafone also had the worst customer service score with one in six customers telling Which? they would not recommend it to a friend.
Vodafone’s debt collectors’ key skill is in making you lose your composure without losing theirs. After a few heated sessions, most people will just pay up. Some, like me, will block the calls, effectively cutting their noses to spite their faces.
That’s when Shanti Menezes’ harassment would start.
I challenged Vodafone’s requirement of an alternate number. Why should my ability to acquire a Vodafone depend on my knowing someone else who had a Vodafone account?
Shanti Menezes, kind-hearted and Christian as always, offered to recommend me. I could not have suspected then that I was setting her up as lamb to the slaughter. No one likes owing money and likes it even less if others know about it. Calling Shanti was this corporate giant’s way of naming and shaming me in the eyes of someone who’d trusted me enough to recommend me.
I called their 98200 98200 helpline from Bangkok some months ago. Thanks to recent belt-tightening, the call is answered on the second ring instead of the 72nd. After a harrowing and excessively civil conversation, they agreed to replace Shanti’s number with my late brother’s.
But then, two weeks ago, Shanti got the dreaded call once more. Gopinath, she was told, had not paid his trivial bill and needed to be shamed yet again.
I understand now that Shanti Menezes is doomed to Vodafone harassment. Vodafone may have struck her name from my profile but they’ve already passed it on to their debt collection agency. And they are certainly not about to let it go. They get paid per call they make.
If you want to see a parallel universe in which mobile companies treat you like human beings, try Thailand. Three or four days before my bill is due, I will receive a single SMS alert. If I don’t pay I will get a second discreet message three days after the due date. If I still don’t pay, my internet speed will be reduced first. If I still don’t pay, my line will be cut off.
No further messages are needed. I pay within hours. My connection is restored minutes later.
Life is good again.
Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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