Penmanship Problems

Our cell phone stopped working last night when we arrived in Mumbai.

After months of haggling and hassling and all-but-wrestling shop owners to keep minutes in fresh supply, we received a curious greeting when we tried to call anyone after checking into our hotel.

"We're sorry," a sickeningly-cheery recording of a young woman greeted us. "You're account is unable to make outgoing calls. Please dial 111 to speak with a Customer Care Representative."

If you know anything about IVR lines, you know that it's nearly impossible to reach an actual representative. The Vodaphone IVR line proved no different.

Resolved to tackle the problem today I went to a big Vodaphone store nearby after breakfast. Still battling with my hangover I waited in line and punched in an excerpt from the first paragraph of "Tale of Two Cities" into an on-display Blackberry. (If you're ever in the Fort area Vodaphone Store in Mumbai, check the notepad application on one of the Blackberries ...) It's a habit I enjoy.

My number was called and I approached the desk of the smiling representative.

"Hello, sir, how may I help you?" the nice man asked.

I calmly explained the situation. "I purchased this Vodaphone in Mumbai 2 months ago. I've been travelling India with it, no problem. When I arrived in Mumbai last night it started telling me I can no longer make outgoing calls. I'd like to make outgoing calls."

"Ah, ok. Can you please verify you're phone number? OK. You're from US? No problem. Let me see, OK, one second please, sir." And he wandered away from his desk into a back room.

The Vodaphone stores are actually really cool. There are many customer desks to help you, they have a phenomenal queuing system, several automated computers to deal with easy transactions (paying your monthly bill if you have an account, for example). I'm very impressed. The services we have in the States are, relatively, crap. One of the many small ways in which India is way ahead of us. If only they had safe running water.

I was left to contemplate on this and other things for an unusually long time before my customer service friend returned with several pieces of paper.

"Well, sir," he explained, "it seems that you're account has been rejected due to a signature problem." He spread out the paperwork in front of me and started writing x's in various locations. It was the same paperwork we'd filled out to get the phone in the first place. "You are staying in Mumbai, yes? OK. Do you have a friend here? OK, good. Now you're friend is going to have to get a letter from the embassy and you'll need to give us another passport photo and we'll need your signature here, here and here," he pointed to his x's. Before he could continue I stopped him.

"We did this paperwork already when we got the phone 2 months ago," I said.

"Oh yes, yes I know sir, it's just that after the terrorist attacks new regulations are in place."

In the US this might have been a big problem and could have meant that we would be without cell phone for the rest of our journey. Fortunately I'm in India, so I knew how to handle the situation. I began to haggle.

"Look, we fly home in 2 days on the 26th. Republic Day."

"Oh, yes, Republic Day."

"There's no way I'm going to be able to get anything from any embassy now."

He agreed and called a security guard over. They discussed the situation in rapid Hindi. Finally my friend turned to me.

"You are from America, yes?"

I nodded.

"Can we come to America?"

I was taken aback. "I'm sorry? What was that?"

"Can we come to America?" he repeated with a smile.

"Sure," I said. "If I had it my way, there'd be no problem."

Those may have been the magic words that saved me because my friend apologized and slipped off into the back again. In a few minutes his manager arrived and was brought up to speed on the situation, again in rapid Hindi. I understood the gist: I was a nice guy, I was gone in two days, couldn't they just turn on the phone?

The manager was reluctant.

"OK, you have ID?"

"ID?"

"Passport, license?"

Yes, Laura had our passports. But she was out shopping nearby while I was handling the phone with the customer service desk-turned-customs security.

"Yes," I said. "My wife has them. She's down the street shopping, I can go get them."

"OK, you wait for her here," the manager said defiantly.

"No," I countered. "She's shopping, she's not coming here. I have to go to her. She's two stores away."

"How soon can you be back?"

What was I going to do? Flee with a cell phone that didn't work? I looked at my watchless-wrist sarcastically and looked back. "Two minutes," I said.

I forget frequently that Indians, though they have phenomenal senses of humor and have a deep appreciation of irony, don't get dry sarcasm. The manager looked at my wrist, then at me, unsure of what to do.

"I'll be right back," I assured him.

"She comes here," he tried again.

"No, I need to get the passports from her."

"OK," he allowed. "You come back with your passport, we'll make a copy."

I left feeling like everything was going to work out. Ah, if only it was that easy. I was back in less than a minute with my passport. My friend inspected it, checked the visa, checked the (grungy college-era) photo.

"Where's the signature?" he asked. I pointed it out. Satisfied, the security guard took it into the back to make a Xerox while my friend and I chatted as best we could through his broken english. "I don't speak very well," he lowered his head in shame.

"No, no," I encouraged him, "you speak fine."

The passport and copy returned.

"Please sign," my friend instructed. I scrawled out my usual scrawl next to the copy of both the passport info page and the visa page. My friend frowned. "Why doesn't your signature look the same?"

I stared, incredulous. Could he really see a difference between the two sets of chicken scratches?

"Well," I tried to be as patient as possible, "this was my signature 5 years ago in college. This is my signature now." I examined the pair. I guess there was a difference. An extra crest here, a little bit of a wave there. I could even almost make out a discernable letter. I considered explaining the poor marks in penmanship in the 3rd grade -- the first bad grades I had received! I still carry the scars of shame in the form of an ever-deteriorating signature style.

My friend shook his head and scratched out my initial attempt. "Try again."

Shit, he was serious. OK. I studied my old signature carefully and tried my best to copy it. We looked at the result. Neither of us was satisfied but he took the paperwork into the back anyway. In about as much time as it took for me to retrieve the passport from Laura, the manager was back.

"Why isn't your signature the same?" he demanded. I realized with horror that my signature -- something as simple as penmanship -- could be all that identifies me as me. This is a bad, bad situation for me to be in. Thankfully I'm not in some of the more strict Asian countries. I might have been dragged out and beated with bamboo.

Instead I thumped my head on the desk in frustration.

"Look," I pointed desperately to the date on my passport. "This was my handwriting 6 years ago." I took a second look. Actually, 8 years ago. Crap how time flies. "My handwriting has changed."

"Signature is not the same," he chastized and stormed off to make another copy for me to sign. My friend had returned to the desk and was looking at me very sheepishly. When his manager disappeared I asked for a notepad to practice my signature on. I noticed then that my friend was already doing the same -- and quite well, too. When the new photocopies were placed on the desk I was still frowning at my practice attempts and silently contemplating how to wrangle my way out of this. (It occurs to me now that a good bribe would have done the trick.) Fortunately it wasn't necessary. My friend grabbed the papers while his manager's back was turned and deftly crafted my signature onto both sheets.

My eyes widened with appreciation and surprise.

"Your phone will be activated within 2 hours," my friend beamed. "Thank you for choosing Vodaphone."

I thanked him and tried to whisper a friendly conspiratorial "I won't tell your boss," but he either didn't understand or was simply eager to get me out of there. In any case the phone is working again.

And when I renew my passport I'm going to be pretty damn careful about how I sign it.