Monday Musings -34

I thought I found a house. That is until I went there again, and discovered 'bachelor boys' in the extension next door. The next time I visited the house, a ghostly girl appeared on an extra bed. She was just visiting, the almost eerie landlady claimed. I began to succumb to nightmares involving its grotesque all-wall cupboard that opens into a bathroom. Still, I went there again. On the rickety stairway (that I was willing to make do with) there were cooked aloo and onion peels scattered. Food, if you please?

I ran. I ran across ten lanes of houses clung together and found nothing. They were too small, or too filthy, or surrounded by construction workers, or at the end of a dingy road. The house hunting had now moved a whole block away. Pretty, serene, but desolate. Patches of dark to welcome me home, every night. Not a market to dekko. And, a landlady (with a live-in lover) and a hickey on her double chin.

Welcome to DLF City Phase 2. We've run out of patience, and they've run out of truth. We find a lovely first-floor house with an open terrace and five doors. 'No boys,' the old, sleazy owner states. Before he decides to ogle us over, and hand in a little fact: the owner has the keys to what would be my house. We scoot.

And, arrive at an 'independent' all girls accommodation. An old uncle and his wife, live downstairs. You can live here alone, he claims. And, exercise on the terrace. And, boil milk on the gas. But no men, and no guests allowed. Not your father. And, not an uncle who's come to help you hunt for the place. "Beta bas doodh khareed lo, garam kar lo, aur pee lo. Yehi shaant.'

An educated doctor seems to join the moral police too. A lovely room that overlooks a garden, cannot be taken. Because the owner has a time restriction. You cannot arrive after 9:15 pm. Please note these are on rent, not paying guest accommodations.

By now, it is time to give the next un' a little rude-talk. "This isn't Mumbai, this is Gurgaon. It is different from your Bombay. Be discreet," he asserts. My mother stomps his hypocrisy out of action. "Rather be loud and honest, than discreet," she says. Then there are owners who promise to be parents, "We will ensure she doesn't do anything wrong," they say. And, owners who will insist on their privacy even if it means you walking through a tunnel without lights. They won't let you have yours though.

We find a place without the moral police. A little compromise of a room with a bathroom the size and shape of a bit-sized train compartment. In our procrastination, we lose the offer. It is a good thing, I reckon. We are left with one option- a tiny house-extension with a room, and a kitchen, and a terrace. There are no owners living below, and there is no moral police. Heck, the bathroom isn't a dingy compromise either. Perhaps, that could be a home, I think?

Although, I've lost faith, and I've lost hope this Monday. Perhaps houses are like life itself, you learn to fall in love with them. And, perhaps the British, make-my-morning kinda cab companion was right: "House hunting is the most soul shattering experience in your life. Even in London."

[More Monday Musings here ]