HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--THREE

LOST

Believe me, hunting for a house to live in is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed,  cloud the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                          

*

I spotted another advertisement in one of the local journals about a house overlooking  the beach near the Murugan temple in Besant Nagar.  I was overjoyed at the prospect of living in that  house, because I loved to look at the sea and watch the sun rising over it as a muted orange globe.  Also, I loved the atmosphere of the temple called “Arupadai Veedu”, where I had occasionally spent the evenings sitting in one of the mandapams, leaning against a stone pillar carved with curvaceous figures, pondering on the purpose of living.  That very morning, I zoomed in on the advertised house and knocked on the door.

A beautiful young woman opened the door.  Before I could tell her why I was there, she invited me to step in, assuming that I was there to inspect the house for renting it.  How I regretted I was not a thief and a rapist: I could have been doubly fortunate, with such women around, throwing open doors and  invitations to enter.

The main door opened into a spacious hall, from which I could enter two bedrooms, one of which was well ventilated and roomy enough to contain a double-cot and space to move around.   The young woman then ushered me into the other bedroom, slightly smaller than the first.  It had only one small window along a wall.  I walked over and opened it and got a big jolt!  I saw a wall of unplastered bricks, which I could touch, thrusting my arm through the bars of the window!  It was the wall of the adjoining house!  I was speechless for a few moments. 

“Is this a store room?” I asked her, attempting to give her the benefit of doubt. 

“No, this is a bedroom,” she asserted.

“I see,” I said, “And the ventilation?”

“The fan,” she looked up.  There was only the ceiling there.  “I can fix one,” she added, “You may also install an AC.”

“I see,” I said, “Where?”

“Where the window is.”

“If the power fails?  It does, every day, you know.”

“No, it won’t.  Not here.”  I have heard such irrational answers all my life.  One has to be merely loud and assertive to sound truthful and convincing.

She then took me through an open corridor, covered with iron grill for safety, to an enclosure with a washbasin, beyond which was the kitchen.  As I was looking around, she excused herself and disappeared.  I waited for a few minutes, for her to reappear.  She did not.

I decided to leave, if there was nothing more to see.  I left through a door, I thought would take me back the way I came, but it did not.  It led me into a room, which could be used for dining.  Satisfied that I had seen enough, I opened a door I thought would lead me out, but it was a bathroom.  I stood there for a while, wondering if that was the only bathroom, so far removed from the bedrooms.  Then I saw another door out of the bathroom and opened it to enter a kind of a small storeroom, where brooms, scrubbing brushes, cleaning liquids, rags, and whatnot were lying helter-skelter.  I opened a door, which I thought was the one through which I came in, and entered the bathroom I had been through.  However, when I took a good look at it, I realized it was a different bathroom.  When I went to open the door, through which I came in, I noticed that there was another door next to it, looking exactly like the one next to it. Suddenly, I panicked.  I was scared to open either of the doors, fearing I might get lost, deeper and deeper in this confounded maze, if I was not lost already.  I stood there paralysed, not knowing which way to go. 

“Christ,” I prayed aloud, “help me out, you are the shepherd of the lost sheep.”  

Miraculously at that moment, I heard a voice from somewhere in the house, but it could not have been the voice of Christ, because it was the voice of a woman.  Was it the voice of Mother Mary, as Jesus was too busy rounding up  other lost sheep elsewhere?

“Where are you?” asked the voice.  It could not have been Mother Mary, as she would have known where I was.  Further, it was not in Aramaic, the mother tongue of Mother Mary I had not learnt.  I concluded it must have been the voice of the pretty young woman, who showed me half way through the house.

“Where are you?”  I threw the question back at her.  I sounded like her male  echo.

“What is the point in telling you where I am?  You wouldn’t know anyway, literally.”

Her answer made profound sense to me, so I decided to answer her question, “I’m in the bathroom.”

“Oh!...mmm… which bathroom?” was her next question.

Shit, I thought, how was I to answer that question?  “Look, I am in the second bathroom.”

“You are in the second bathroom?  But that’s impossible,” she retorted.

I was really pissed off, a bathroom being the most appropriate place to do so.  “Why not?” I too retorted, trying hard not to show anger in my voice, lest she abandoned me a second time.

“Because I am in the second bathroom,” she answered with some authority.

“Well, I must be in the other bathroom obviously, whether you call it the first or the second.  Can you come and get me?  Because if you are sure you are in the second bathroom, you must be sure where the first is, although I’m not sure if I am there.”

“I think I can,” she replied. 

I waited for about a hundred years.  Was she also lost?  Or, was space really warped, that you could never make a beeline for anything.

Suddenly, one of the doors in front of me opened and out came a short, lean man of middle age.

“What?  Who are you?” I almost screamed.

“I am the voice you were talking to,” he replied in the same female voice I have been talking to. 

“Sorry, I thought you were the lady of the house, who was showing me around.  Doesn’t matter, but where is she?”  I asked  him.

“Yes, where is she?” he asked, now sounding like my female echo.

“What do you mean ‘where is she?’.  Are you not her husband?” I asked, annoyed already that he was not.

“What?” he recoiled, “Who put that silly idea in you head?”

“Well, nobody, really.  I guess I was hoping you were, so you can get me out of here.  Then who are you?” I repeated the question, but now stressing the verb. 

“Me?  I wish to God I knew.   After a week of wandering about in this house, I feel like Jeremiah in the wilderness, looking for a house to live,” he wailed.  I was sure, his Bible was all messed up.

I did a double-take.  “What?” I screamed again, sounding like my own echo this time.

“Yes, I came about a week ago, to see this house.  She showed me around, but excused herself halfway through.  Since that cursed day, I have been going round and round trying to get out, but getting nowhere.  My friends used to call me ‘fatso’ but look at me now, a scarecrow.  I have neither slept nor eaten for a week.  I am famished.  Do you have something on you I could eat?”

I felt like a scared crow now.  The only thing I had on me was me.  I could already see him eyeing me hungrily.  Instinct warned me that I should get out NOW!  But HOW?

Precisely at that moment, one of the two doors in front of us banged open and the pretty woman of the house breezed in.

“Well, gentlemen, if you have seen the house fully, I’ll show you out.”

“YES!  YES!” we both cried in unison.

She then promptly opened the other of the two doors in front of us, and we walked through to find ourselves bang on the street!

A.V. DHANUSHKODI,  June 23, 2011

HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--TWO

THE  LOST  SHEEP

Believe me, hunting for a house to live in is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed,  cloud the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                          

*

Scanning the rental columns of the local journals, I noted  down the address of a house in Kalakshetra Colony and decided to see it without any delay.

As the address was within the colony I was living in, I took a leisurely walk in the direction of the area, where I guessed it must be.   Approaching the area I had in mind, I started to look keenly for the name Raja Street.  I went about it methodically, from one end to the other, reading every name board without fail.  After about fifteen minutes of careful combing, I ended up at the other end, without finding the street. 

I was now standing in front of a large house.  A big black car was parked in front of it, with its engine running and a man at the wheel.  All the dark tinted glasses were up, obviously the car was air-conditioned.  When I was wondering if I should ask someone, a burly man came out of the house, opened the gate, came out, closed it, and took a few steps towards the car.  Then he saw me standing there with an air of uncertainty and walked towards me. 

“Are you looking for someone?” he enquired.  His speech was slightly slurred.   He was near enough for me to pick up a whiff of alchohol.

“Well…,” I dragged, “not really.  I’m looking for a street.”  I replied  reluctantly. 

“Which street?” he asked.

I decided not to bother a stranger with my problem, especially when he was inebriated, “Please don’t bother.  I can find out myself.  You must be busy with your work, and your friend is waiting at the wheel.”  I took a step to move away from him, when he caught me by the arm with unexpected alacrity. 

“I am not busy at all Sir, and my friend is in no hurry at all.  Sir, you are lost, and it is my duty to show you the way.  Please get into the car.  We’ll take you to where you want to go.”

I was beginning to get worried.  I almost felt like a lost sheep, waiting to be rounded up.

Rather sheepishly I replied, “Look mister, I am not lost.  I am only looking for a street.”

“Precisely!” he exclaimed.  “If you don’t know your street, you are lost, I tell you,” he told me.  His grip tightened.

I thought I was getting into panic mode.  What was he getting at?  My purse had not more than a couple of low denomination notes and a few assorted coins.  Or, were they a bunch of gays, trying to get me into the car, take me to a remote spot and rape me?  The very thought was repulsive.  Perhaps it was an attempt to kidnap me and claim a handsome ransom from my son, or daughter, or wife, or brother, or anybody at all, who valued my life worth the ransom.  To my knowledge, and I am very knowledgeable in such matters, nobody, I repeat nobody at all, in the whole inner and outer circles of my family and friends, valued my life worth any kind of ransom, apart from the fact that none of them was financially fit to pay a handsome ransom.   In fact, to be frank, many of them were unaware that I was still alive and kicking, kicking myself for being alive.

“Look,” I tried to make it clear to him, “I am not looking for my street, but a street,”  making sure I got the stress on the indefinite article right.

“A street?” he repeated, mentally scratching his head.  “I don’t think there is any A street, or B street, or C street around here.”  Now, he physically started to scratch his head and, in the process, unwittingly let go of my arm.  He looked crestfallen that a rare opportunity to play the good Samaritan had slipped out of his hand.

That was the moment I was waiting for.  Within seconds, I was out of his reach and moving, saying, “Thank you, thank you very much for your kind consideration.”

As I took a turn, away from that street, I could see him still standing next to the car and scratching his head.                    

A.V. Dhanushkodi

June 23, 2011

HUNTING FOR A HOUSE--ONE

Hunting for a House--One

I was living happily as a tenant in a house for the past nearly five years; a house which I, in my opinion, deserved neither by status nor by financial means.  How I came to I occupy it as a tenant could be the subject of another story altogether.  Although I was generally happy living there, during the past few months I was feeling uncomfortable continuing to be a tenant there, due to certain reasons, which appear now, in hindsight, rather inexplicable.  At the time, however, I was unsuccessfully rejecting those reasons, although  I recognized them to be irrational.  It is like our ambivalent attitude towards God, whom we, as adults, rationally reject, but at the same time irrationally fear, and ultimately, settle down to appease, rationalizing that we do not wish to hurt our parents and the society, but, in truth, appease to be on the safe side, lest we incur the wrath of the Almighty.   Summarizing my state of mind, I vaguely desired to shift to another house but could not see any reasonable reason I should.    

A few days after my birthday this year, I was deeply ruminating on the futility of all existence, in particular, of mine.  I was wondering what I had achieved through all the years of my existence; at the same time I was groping for a defensible definition of “achievement”. Mercifully, I heard the cell phone ringing, pulling me out of a possible descent into depression.  When I answered it, it was the landlady urging me urgently, in a trembling voice, to descend to her ground floor.  I did so, unable to understand the urgency, as I was up-to-date in the payment of all bills, including the monthly rent.   However, deciding that the ground floor was preferable to depression, more than willingly I made the descent.

She received me at the door with a grave expression and ushered me into the house.  I knew where she was heading, as the floor plan of the ground floor was the same as the first.  It was the kitchen.  Was it some fantastic dish she had prepared which she wanted me to taste straight from the stove?  I dismissed the idea as most unlikely under the present circumstance, when, as a confirmation of my conclusion, she stopped at the door to the kitchen and said, “Take a look”.  I did so promptly.  The kitchen was a perfect set for a horror movie.  The floor was completely strewn with chunks of plaster, of all sizes, which had fallen from the ceiling.  In other words, the ceiling was on the floor.  I stood there, frozen, speechless, for what appeared to be a hundred years.  Then, the first thought that appeared in my frozen head was, “how fortunate, no one was in the kitchen, when it happened.”  She almost echoed my thoughts, “Thank God, no one was in the kitchen when this happened.” At the time, I never imagined that that would be the reasonable reason for me to move out of the house. 

She consulted three engineers, all of whom gave the same advice, “Demolish and reconstruct.  The builder had used sea-sand. The problem would recur, even if repaired.”  Finally, she decided to demolish the house and construct apartments.  When she called me one day and informed me of her decision, I recollected my indescribable discomfort and the vague desire to vacate. 

With that began my hunt for another house.  Believe me, that is the most daunting task I have ever faced.  When one has lived for a long time in a house, the comforts of the house one has configured and enjoyed    block the vision from seeing the comforts of the houses inspected for possible occupation.  It appears to be a matter of mental readjustment; it takes time to ease the old house out and see the new houses with an open mind.  However, there are certain indisputable aspects in a house which stick out as sore thumbs.                                                           

One of the apartments located on the ground floor had windows with wooden panes opening within and horizontal iron bars were fixed on the outside.   When I went into the rooms and opened the windows, I was staring at multi-coloured clothes and undergarments of the watchman, hanging from the window bars for drying: a good preview of the colourful day one could look forward to, early every morning!

Another house had such a small strip of a kitchen, which allowed only one person to move at a time and no dining area at all: a house most suited to house a rishi who had no need for material sustenance to sustain his spiritual evolution, perhaps. 

I stumbled upon another house, which I was prepared to rent, despite all its shortcomings, but the owner put me on to his sister-in-law who demanded a commission of one month’s rent, although she neither brought the vacant house to my attention nor was she a broker.  Further, when I attempted to negotiate the rent and other terms, she said that I should discuss those matters with the owner, upon which I inquired why I should pay her commission when she was not prepared to do anything for me.  Most annoyed at the question, she asserted that that was the way it was; an assertion one hears day in day out from almost everyone when he or she has no rational argument to support the point under dispute.  She further informed me that when the tenancy agreement was renewed every eleven months, I would be required to pay her a commission of one month’s rent.  I politely advised her to work to earn money and disconnected the line.  (To be continued in part two)

November 29, 2009