The Conference Call

Vivek’s company encouraged clear communication, which became difficult when he attended a planning call from the back seat of a cab near Bellandur.

He had headphones, a charged phone, and a small notebook. The cab was moving slowly. His driver, Salma, had confirmed that his call would not disturb her if he kept his voice down. Vivek promised that this would be easy. He intended to say very little.

The meeting began with his manager, Rehan, asking whether everyone could hear.

“Yes,” said seven people.

A bus beside the cab sounded a prolonged horn.

There was a pause.

“Someone sounds unhappy,” Rehan said.

“Road noise,” Vivek explained, muting himself.

The bus, apparently sensing the availability of a communication channel, stopped honking. Rehan asked Vivek for the project update. Vivek unmuted.

The horn returned.

For a moment, the office received only the emotional position of a large vehicle with nowhere useful to go.

Vivek muted again and typed his update into the chat. His colleague Farah replied: THANK YOU. WE HAVE ALSO RECORDED THE BUS'S CONCERNS.

Salma caught his expression in the mirror while safely stopped. “Important meeting?”

“Becoming less so.”

She smiled and returned her attention to the road. There was no reason to honk back, no sensible gap to chase, and no transport problem that could be solved by joining the argument. Vivek appreciated that one person in the vehicle was maintaining operational discipline.

Rehan moved to the next agenda item. A senior director joined late and asked who had raised an objection. Farah said it had been an external stakeholder. Vivek put one hand over his face.

The bus moved ahead. The cab remained in its lane. The noise faded. Vivek waited for a suitable moment, unmuted, and began his explanation again.

“We’ve completed the first review, and the remaining dependency is—”

A short horn sounded from behind.

He stopped. Somewhere in the meeting, a person laughed and attempted to turn it into a cough. The attempt failed badly enough to attract further laughter.

Vivek could have become irritated. He had prepared the update, and the interruption was genuinely inconvenient. Instead, he typed: I WILL POST THE FULL SUMMARY. PLEASE ASSUME THE HORNS ARE NOT MY FEEDBACK.

Rehan agreed. Vivek remained muted and listened. The call improved immediately. People read the written update, asked specific questions in the chat, and discovered that a large portion of the spoken meeting could have been handled that way in the first place.

Farah sent him a private message: YOUR COMMUTE HAS ACCIDENTALLY IMPROVED OUR PROCESS.

He replied: PLEASE DO NOT MAKE IT A DEPENDENCY.

One colleague asked whether they should postpone the whole meeting. Vivek said the written decisions were already clear. There was no need for everyone to repeat an hour merely because his microphone had briefly shared office space with a bus.

At the office, Salma dropped him in the designated area. Vivek thanked her for the calm drive. She wished him luck with the rest of the meeting, apparently assuming an organisation that needed so many updates might still be discussing the first one.

Upstairs, he found Farah at the coffee machine. She asked whether his colleague had returned to the depot.

“Please retire the joke,” Vivek said.

She considered this request. “After one final question. Was the bus aligned?”

He handed her his notebook. Across the top of the meeting page, he had written three useful decisions and one large word: MUTE.

That afternoon, Rehan announced that future routine updates would be shared in writing before the call. The live meeting could focus on questions.

Farah looked at Vivek across the room and gave a small thumbs-up.

For once, he had achieved a productivity improvement without speaking over anyone.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.