Bombay Homes Part 1

The first time I took a place for rent was a small room, with a small kitchen and a tiny bathroom. It was in Andheri East, beyond the residential colonies, by a wide field. The field was used for Shiv Sena functions. Every evening the greatness of Balasaheb would waft in through the wide window, the harsh loud speaker under the orange sky. All around the building were garbage dumps. Even the inside had garbage strewn randomly, making way for dog shit here and there. Right next to it a Tamilian ran a dosa shop. I would buy a masala dosa for 26 rupees, a better option than the vada pav, the chutney for which vaguely resembled the muck in the open sewers. A pack of mongrels handled security quite efficiently, chasing me a couple of times. It was a good place to write. You could sit by the window, look out over the fields at the posher buildings of Poonam Nagar, and contemplate the beauty of austerity. Maybe that was the reason I did not manage to write a single word in the few months that I was there.

I have lived on my own before, but this was the first time I was managing things, talking to the broker, the owner, and such extremely stressful activities. I was also in a city I did not know very well. Bombay has a population of over 12 million, crammed into a makeshift urban dream. So things go wrong. Like they did when one day water stopped coming to our 7000 rupees a month room. Tushar and I spent hours checking the pipes, the 500 liter tank, and the taps. We called the owner and the broker, who walked around with great confidence, tapped the pipes, declared everything fit, and went away. But water didn't come. In the middle of the night we would walk across the main road to pee. We called the owner again. This time he came with a disheveled man who said he was the plumber. He too went around knocking the pipes and declared them fit. They then launched into a lengthy explanation about water pressure. But how only one room on one floor can have pressure problems for itself they couldn't explain. We used to get very little water, which was rationed strictly. Tushar and I even fought once over it. I became intimately familiar with mall bathrooms. Kind friends often donated their bathrooms. Every second morning we would try to call the owner or the broker. They both had bhajans as their caller tones. The broker's began with the words, 'Om ganapataye namo namaha, Shri Siddhivinayaka namo namaha... ' Most of the time they would ignore our calls. Sometimes our helplessness would get through and one of them would grace our hovel with his presence.

So we decided to leave. We had paid a security deposit of 15 thousand rupees. I told the owner he could deduct the last month's rent from it and return the rest. That was unacceptable to him. He shouted at me and threatened to evict us. I tried to explain that this is the custom. Once you have notified the owner of your decision to leave, you do not pay rent. Someone was being dishonest, and if memory serves me correctly, it wasn't me. After making phone calls to the owner and broker for three days continuously, he stopped pestering us. But the hopes of getting the rest of money were slim. He called me two days before we were going to leave and shouted again. He wanted the room cleaned. I wanted to tell him that when he had given us the keys there were stains all over and I had spent 100 rupees getting it washed with chemicals. We cleaned the room.

On a busy evening Mithkari, the owner, and Ghanashyam, the broker, came to bid us goodbye. Mithkari was suddenly the epitome of kindness. I realized why when I remembered an innocent South Indian boy who had come to see the room two days before. He wanted to bring his wife there. They had just been married and wanted to make a home in Bombay. He had asked me in English, 'Everything is okay here?' And I had replied, 'Yes'. Balasaheb's men were celebrating outside, while Mithkari asked me if I had paid the 50 rupees donation for the Ganesh Chaturthi festival which was 10 days away. I told him I had. He looked at me in a paternal way and said, 'Patle ho gaye ho.' 'You have become thin.' I smiled politely. He then asked me, 'Kitna dun vaapas. Aap batao. Dekho haraam ka paisa nahin chahiye mujhe. Bolo, Kitna?' 'How much should I return? Look, I don't want dirty money. Tell me, how much?' His kindness overwhelmed me. Thankfully, he didn't wait for me, and asked, '6000?' I couldn't believe my ears. I had thought we would get fifty percent back if we were lucky. I was on the verge of thanking him when Ghanashyam spoke up. 'Arre nahin nahin. 5000 kaafi hai.' Mithkari nodded his head. 'Haan 5000 kaafi hai.' He looked at me and asked me again if I was okay with it. Seeing that he was really concerned, I nodded. What a wonderful man, I thought. He is robbing me of only 2000 rupees.

On our way out, I looked at the garbage strewn streets with children playing and wondered about Mithkari. He wasn't such a bad guy. Ganesh chaturthi tents were being erected over the garbage. Balasaheb's loud speaker was announcing the greatness of Shri Ganesh. Bombay's lights burned through the darkness.