Fiction: Ayingbi Mayengbam is a volunteer for a suicide hotline. But she can’t save everyone

Sonal looked barely out of college. She was dressed in vibrant clothing, and had so many clips and barrettes in her hair that the headphones were easy to miss. She appeared to be listening to reggae music while playing Spider Solitaire.

Ayingbi sat next to her on a very tall red plastic stool, notebook open in hand, feeling rather foolish. She tapped Sonal on the shoulder.

“So what happens now?”

“I told you,” said Sonal impatiently, tugging down the headphones. “Nothing happens. We sit and wait for a call. Chill!”

Ayingbi tapped her on the shoulder again. Off came the headphones again.

“What?” barked Sonal.

“How often does someone call?”

“The hell do I know? They don’t make appointments, do they? It’s not a part of anyone’s friggin’ daily routine, is it? Whoops, it’s time for me to cry in the shower, but I haven’t got ten thousand steps in yet.”

“We’re supposed to spend the time when there isn’t a call responding to emails,” said Ayingbi, checking the manual.

“I looked at the list. There’s a huge backlog.”

“Listen to me, what’s your name?”

“Ayingbi.”

“Yeah, whatever. So, the manual, it’s bullshit. It was written because they had to write something down. Human nature is erratic and unpredictable. You feel me?”

“I guess . . .”

“You can’t pin that shit down to these guidelines. You gotta go with the flow, right?”

“Mmm . . .”

“Lemme give you an example. This place tells us to treat all calls seriously. But what if it’s a prank call? Then, what do we do? Do we listen to them or do we tell them to suck a sack of mouldy old dick?”

“So, what do we do?”

“Like I said, babe,” said Sonal. “Chill the fuck out and . . . fuck! Was that the four of spades? Did I click too fast? Fuck!”

Ayingbi sat back on the stool and sighed. First Srivastav, now this Sonal.

She wondered if Merry Euphrosyne really was like a call centre, in that it routed calls from all over the world. Probably not – there was way too much downtime here. Had to be local only. One set of male eyes, three cubicles down, kept peering towards Ayingbi every few seconds. Just when Ayingbi was beginning to get uncomfortable, the floating head left the cubicle and headed in her direction, until a barrel-chested young man was standing before her.

Ayingbi braced herself for conversation, but the man ignored her entirely and, grinning to himself, reached out and plucked at Sonal’s headphones, causing them to smack hard on her ears.

“Ow! said Sonal, scowling as she looked around. “Piss off, Ribs.”

Ribs did not piss off. He stood there, leering. Ayingbi stared at him, afraid of what might happen next. She had an uncomfortable apprehension. Sonal turned back towards the computer and began clicking on nothing in a show of busyness.

Ribs stood there, staring at an imaginary point between Sonal’s shoulder blades. Then he began to inch closer, till he was leaning into the back of her chair. Sonal emitted a tch as he placed both hands upon her shoulders. Ayingbi cleared her throat, so perhaps Ribs might be wakened to her presence. No such luck.

“No . . .” whispered Sonal, as Ribs’s hand slid between the back of her chair and Sonal’s shirt.

Ribs was grinning shamelessly now, looking pleased at his daring. “I’ll complain to Srivastav, you bastard,” protested Sonal, arching her back and wriggling about. The hump of her chest sagged an inch. Judging by the satisfied, validated look on his face, Ribs had unhooked her bra through the shirt.

Sonal shrugged him aside. “Five minutes,” whispered Ribs.

“No. Get lost.”

“Two minutes.”

“I said beat it!”

“Twooo.”

“Get lost, you creep –”

“Twoooooooooooo,” crooned Ribs.

“Jerk. I’ll kill you, I swear!” exclaimed Sonal, though with muted resistance. And Ribs began to bump rhythmically into the back of the chair. The display was awful; it was as if they weren’t in a fairly busy office. To Ayingbi, perched on the stool like a baby in a high chair who wouldn’t understand what was going on, it was the least sensuous thing in the world, the polar opposite of erotic.

Sonal’s head tipped back and she began to croon a dim, affected, tuneless moan, like a lost goat bleating on a faraway hilltop. Finally, Ribs’s toils bore fruit and Sonal plucked the headphones off.

“I’m going to get a Pepsi,” she said, as if Ayingbi hadn’t been around for the past five minutes.

“You want anything?”

“No,” said Ayingbi truthfully.

“What do I do if there’s a call?”

“Take it,” shrugged Sonal indifferently. “It’s probably going to be some wet-dick phone sexer anyway.”

“No,” said Ayingbi. “For real. What do I do?”

“Nobody’s gonna call,” said Sonal firmly, pulling off the headphones and pushing herself off the chair. “Just sit in my seat.”

And then she and Ribs were gone.

Ayingbi slowly took Sonal’s place. The squashy leather chair was warm and comfortable from Sonal’s shape and presence. She imagined the grimy corridor outside and wondered where on earth Sonal and Ribs were even going to find a spot. Her eyes fell to the sign “Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way” and she wondered no more. She looked at the computer screen.

The words, “CALL INCOMING” were pulsing in green letters on a black background.

Ayingbi blinked.

She looked again.

CALL INCOMING.

Oh. That wasn’t good.

Coming to herself, Ayingbi pounced at the leather headphones, also still warm, and clapped them over her ears – she could hear a “dididi-doo” type ringing through them.

“Shit,” she muttered. Somebody was calling the Merry Euphrosyne hotline and the call had been routed to Sonal.

Ayingbi stood up straight, pulling the headphone wire taut. “Sonal?” she called out, though she knew Sonal was not there.

“You’re getting a call.”

Then she called out to the cubicle maze surrounding her.

“Anyone free to take a call?”

The people in the cubicles to her left and right were both on calls of their own.

“Hello!” called out Ayingbi again. “Can . . . um . . . anyone please take this? I’m still in orientation, so . . .”

The phone was still ringing. Ayingbi’s heart began to thump. Ayingbi half-shouted, “Please, somebody, take this!”

No response from anyone.

The phone had been ringing for a while. It might not stay ringing much longer. Shit. Ayingbi finally clicked on the green “receive call” button on the computer screen.

“Merry Euphrosyne!” she said, in a voice that was all cheer, making a conscious effort to sound sincere and enthusiastic.

It wasn’t a prank call. It wasn’t even some wet-dick phone sexer.

Excerpted with permission from The Velvet Hotline, Arsh Verma, Penguin India.