India’s fourth-largest city, Hyderabad, works hard to project the image its political leaders and business community want the world to see—that of a bustling modern city, with thriving retail, financial and technology sectors and an educated workforce. Competing with its regional rival, Bengaluru (Bangalore), Hyderabad claims to have more than 1,300 IT firms, most of them in the ostentatiously-named Cyberabad or HITEC City, the acronym for the Hyderabad Information Technology and Engineering Consultancy City.
In this city that prides itself on technology, I thought it would be easy to buy a SIM card for my phone and have it activated. Far from it. My story begins at the reception desk of the Taj Deccan Hotel.
“Where’s the nearest mall?” I asked the duty manager. “I need to buy a SIM card.”
“Sir, the City Centre Mall is close by, but I deeply regret to inform you that you will not be able to buy a SIM card there. You must go to a mobile provider shop.”
I didn’t bother asking about the marketing logic of restricting SIM card sales to specific outlets, presumably with limited opening hours.
“OK, please give me the addresses,” I said. The manager wrote down three. “You could walk but, in this heat, I’d advise taking an auto rickshaw.”
I selected the closest one, Airtel, whose address was listed as Road No. 12, Banjara Hills. It seemed a bit imprecise, but I assumed the driver would know where to go.
The duty manager approached me again. “Do you have a copy of your passport face page and visa, also a passport picture?” he asked. “I really need all that?” I answered, but with almost rhetorical resignation. “Yes, and you will need a letter from the hotel stating that this is your local address. I’ll be pleased to write it.”
After assembling the paperwork, I set off in an auto rickshaw. We turned off the main road onto Road No. 12. After a few minutes, I remembered the manager’s remark that I could have walked to the store if the weather had not been so hot. I would not have walked this far, even if the temperature had been 20 degrees lower. We were now moving out of the commercial area, passing a hospital, villas and the gardens of the Income Tax Department guest house.
“I don’t think it’s this far,” I told the driver.
“Where is it you want sir? This is Road No. 12.”
“The Airtel mobile shop.”
“You can buy recharge at many places.”
“No, I need a SIM card, not a recharge. Please turn around.”
Eventually we did, then sat in a traffic jam for 15 minutes as we edged slowly towards the main road. The Airtel store was near the junction and the detour had cost me almost 30 minutes. I joined a line of customers. The sales assistant scrutinized my passport and visa page copies. I was half expecting him to ask for a notarized copy, but he didn’t. His only comment was on the passport picture, which was too large for the box on the registration form. “Feel free to cut it down,” I told him.
I asked when my SIM card would be activated. “Sir, tomorrow is a holiday. It will take three days.” He could sense my displeasure. “But you can go to the Airtel head office and they can activate by this evening.” I asked for the address. It was, at least, reasonably precise: Splendid Towers, near Begumpet police station.
“Yes, sir, I know it well,” said my next auto rickshaw driver. It turned out that he didn’t. We stopped several times on our way across the city so that he could ask for directions, and once so he could buy a coconut milk. We got there eventually. “I wait for you, sir?” he asked. I said no. I had no idea how long the transaction would take.
The application form for a SIM card is a page long with many boxes to complete. The sales assistant said he could fill out most of the questions from the information on my passport and visa but needed additional data. “What is the name of your father?” he asked. I wondered briefly about questioning the relevance of this item, considering that my father died 30 years ago, but thought better of it. The assistant was simply following instructions.
“I also need the names, addresses and mobile numbers for two people in Hyderabad.” I listed the numbers of two colleagues from the University of Hyderabad, but this time felt justified in asking why their mobile numbers were needed.
“So we can notify them by text when your SIM card is activated.”
“Why can’t you text me on my number?”
“No, sir, we are not allowed to do this. Please inform them they will receive a text.”
I was about to ask how I was supposed to do this if I did not have a working mobile phone but decided to go with the flow.
“Now you must sign,” said the assistant. I signed in three places on the application form, and on the copies of the passport and visa.
“I’d like to buy some time while I’m here,” I added.
“We cannot sell you time until your phone is activated,” the assistant replied.
“Seriously?”
He did not see the irony. “You will go online to Airtel. There you will find some most attractive data packages,” he said.
Half an hour later, I was back at the hotel. The expedition had taken more than two hours, and all I had to show for it was a 25-rupee (40 cent) SIM card with no credit. I had spent almost 700 rupees ($10) on circuitous auto rickshaw rides, but at least collected a few travel notes along the way.
Airtel would not accept my credit card. Over dinner, a university colleague said he would add credit and I could pay him back. Later, I received a text saying that 500 rupees had been added, followed by another text saying my credit was under five rupees and I could not make any calls or send texts. I gave up and went to bed. The next morning, the credit had been activated. I felt newly empowered.