#Reviewing my previous Reads, #Overrated Books To Roast:
I read One Night at the Call Center in 2007, in a single evening that I still count as one of my least profitable literary investments.
The premise sounded just idiosyncratic enough to work: six call center employees in Gurgaon, each wrestling with personal and professional dead-ends, grind through another night of US tech-support calls until, out of nowhere, they receive a phone call from God.
I was prepared for a smart workplace dramedy with a dreamlike twist.
What I got was a reheated plate of clichés smothered in Hinglish banter.
The six characters are less people than stock types stamped out of a Bollywood prop cupboard. There’s Shyam, the “nice guy” narrator nursing a broken heart; Priyanka, his glamorous but indecisive ex; Vroom, the loud and suitably “funny” overweight friend; the strict mother with arranged-marriage tunnel vision; and an insecure boss designed solely for readers to hate.
None of them evolve, surprise, or break out of their narrative cages. You can see their arcs coming from several chapters away, which is a problem when the book is barely over 200 pages.
And then there’s the novel’s crown jewel of absurdity: the call from God. This should have been strange, unsettling, maybe even profound. Instead, “God” turns out to be a motivational speaker in celestial cosplay, tossing out corporate pep slogans about believing in yourself, taking risks, and making changes — advice you could find on a coffee mug or an Instagram reel.
There’s no theological tension, no moral wrestling, no eerie ambiguity. It’s less The Brothers Karamazov and more “Your Time Is Now!” from a PowerPoint slide.
Serious themes — workplace exploitation, emotional burnout, parental pressure, the hollowness of outsourcing culture — are treated like sitcom setups to be tidily resolved by the final chapter. In real life, you don’t overthrow your tyrannical boss, mend your love life, and find your life’s calling between one night shift and sunrise. In this book, you do, because it’s narratively convenient.
The prose itself isn’t helping. The Hinglish chatter might charm some, but it gets repetitive fast. Gurgaon at night could have been painted with texture and menace; here it’s scarcely sketched in. Dialogue reads like stage directions disguised as conversation.
And yet, I can’t deny the cultural impact. In the mid-2000s, this book flew off shelves, pulling non-readers into bookstores and making the BPO world a mainstream fictional setting.
But impact and quality are not synonyms.
By the end, I felt duped: what promised to be an edgy slice of contemporary life with a metaphysical twist turned out to be fast-food fiction — quick, salty, instantly forgettable, and leaving you wishing you’d ordered something else.