SOMETHING needs to be done about the PTCL. I am a disgruntled telephone user who has just about had it with the high-handedness of the entire staff of the organization — the clerks, the accountants, the paan-spitting linemen, and the people in positions of authority.
The real problem lies in an absurdity that not even the blithe ‘Yeh Pakistan hai’ catch-phrase can justify. Most of us know, of course, that the Pakistan Telecommunication is quite particular about its bill receipts. Come the end of every month, and one can find a neatly folded piece of paper stipulating the exact amount to be paid in no uncertain terms. What most of us don’t expect is that the ‘beloved’ (and I do say that with much cynicism) PTCL is going to pull a fast one on the poor, unsuspecting souls by disconnecting their phone lines if they fail to pay their bills. Disconnections that will occur way before the due date, mind you.
That’s just what happened a few weeks ago. With the deadline some three days away or so, my mother decided to pay the bill — not the very next day, but a day after she found it tucked away in the mailbox. I can only assume that it gravely offended the organization’s sensibilities and so the phone line was promptly disconnected, perhaps to teach her a lesson for her tardiness. And the irony of it all? The PTCL made its move while my mum was probably handing over the not-so-insignificant sum to the bank clerk.
Suffice it to say that when my mother came back home and discovered that she had been duped, she did all but hit the roof. So my mum went to the PTCL customer care centre in the vicinity in a rather unbridled fit of fury. Shoving the bill in that guy’s face, she demanded to know why her phone was not working, even though she had paid her bill. The man smiled cheekily and said: “Bibi, you are a defaulter according to our computer, that’s why.”
“But, why in God’s name am I a defaulter when the due date is still a few days away?” asked mother, making a supreme effort to be patient.
To this the man just shrugged: “I don’t know. But, don’t worry, by the evening the phone line will be reconnected,” came the nonchalant reply. Then he said, “Next!” clearing indicating that my mother’s turn was over.
She is usually not the one to give up without a fight and fight she did, with the insolent man. “Just a minute. I’m not leaving so easily. Not until I’ve met with the district engineer,” her voice jumped a notch higher with each word, unnerving Mr Insolence, if only for a second.
“He is very busy. You can’t meet him just like that,” he answered, picking out the remains of his last meal stuck between his teeth.
“Well, I’m not moving till I meet him,” she said stubbornly. Sensing that the situation was fast turning into something like a crisis, the man called out to a peon standing near by and murmured confusedly: “Take the bibi to the saheb.” Triumphant, mother plodded off to the DE’s office, wanting nothing more than to give him a piece of her mind.
“Ji, bolen?” a man said as he looked up from the paperwork that he was studying. Surprised at meeting a gentleman of sorts, who was in fact the DE, my mum’s anger dissolved a little.
“I have just one question,” she said, calmed by his polite disposition and what appeared to be a sensible mind. “I want to know why my phone has been disconnected. The due date isn’t till a few days away!” she pointed out emphatically.
A silence that seemed to last forever, followed. “Errr... I don’t know. That’s just the way we work around here.” The man was obviously clueless, not used to answering questions that involved common sense or anything like it. He was not alone in that because rusty grey cells were in all likelihood the order of the day in the organization. “But,” he added cheerfully, “the line will be reconnected by the evening.”
Not surprisingly, mother was numbed by the insanity at that point. Shocked and witless. “Oh!” she finally managed to utter. “Well, that’s that then,” and made her way to the door, dazed and disoriented.
“Bibi, there is something that you can do about this mess,” he spoke again, while my mum thought there was after all light at the end of the tunnel. “Why don’t you go home right now and send an e-mail to our head-office in Islamabad? You know sort of like filing a complaint. Here’s the address...” the door slammed before he could finish his sentence.
SOMETHING needs to be done about the PTCL. I am a disgruntled telephone user who has just about had it with the high-handedness of the entire staff of the organization — the clerks, the accountants, the paan-spitting linemen, and the people in positions of authority.
