Most of us - I'm sure - have friends of all sorts. And yes, we love them all irrespective of the idiotic ways in which they behave at times. And I am also sure there's one set of friends whom you sometimes wish wasn't around. This set is the one that's forever laughing, just cannot pretend to be sad, and can never be serious about anything at all. Oh these friends are a treat for sure - that I don't deny. But - you know - there are moments when that particular set gets so irritating, you wish they all just get lost. Or worse! You wish you can throw them into a bout of depression.
Well, if that's what's on your mind, take my advice and send them to the Maharashtra Chamber of Housing Industry (MCHI) property exhibition. Chances are you'll have to admit them all to the nearest psychiatric hospital after that exhibition is done with them!
I went there a few mornings ago and Oh my God! I wish I hadn't. It's a horrible place to start searching for property in the first place. And secondly, it's superb at making you feel like a mongrel.
These days I reside at Sion - Pratiksha Nagar to be precise. And the nearest station to that is GTB Nagar (Sion Koliwada for the ones who insist on degrading it). So, I took the train from GTB to Kurla, then caught Bus no. 310, and got down at Citibank - the stop opposite to which stood the MMRDA grounds that let the exhibition unfurl.
So far so good. The organizers had just the right yellow splashed on all their posters with a rooster crowing to Mumbai (in the posters of course) to wake up for now is the right time to buy! Nothing bad about it but on closer inspection, I noticed that their notion of buying great property was some Godforsaken housing project planted in Virar - the station that's known quite famously to be the back of the beyond of the Western line.
This was on the outside. And I should have taken that as a precursor of what was inside. But no, I just refused to let that register. Instead, I walked in and promptly began to register. The girl at the desk was so bland in her answers, even water would have tasted better. I asked her for a pen and she motioned towards a string that tied a pen to the desk. I then asked her whether I need to give my address for I was doling out my number anyway. And she says in a tone deader than a frying pan: "Yes address necessary." And then she shut up as if the program in her had finished its execution.
I did not quite know what to make of it, so I smiled and walked in. The stalls were all spacious - never mind that they were there to sell flats that comparatively looked like pigeonholes. All of them were tastefully done up so that you could not even tell whether the recession has hit them. The salespeople were in suits and the tables were all glass and wood. It's just that I knew I was in an exhibition. Were I to blindfold myself and walk in, I would have easily mistaken it to be the lounge of a posh upscale restaurant in downtown Mumbai. So much for the ambience.
Well, I walked into one of the stalls to make sure they were indeed selling apartments. Right enough they were - at prices I never knew existed.
"How much for this one?'
"Oh it's around 6,100 psft."
"Okay and how much's the total area?"
"1,123."
"So this is somewhere-"
"-around 71 lakhs!"
"I see." I said, not wanting to see any of it anymore. So I asked: Do you have a 1 BHK?
"No sir, we have no plans!"
Well, that is so stupid of them! At Rs. 6100, 1 BHKs would be something people would buy!
"But no Sir, we have no plans." is what I heard them saying all over again.
As if that wasn't enough, they also managed to throw in truckloads of attitude. This happened at the Lodha stall. I began by inquiring about a project at Bhandup. And the salesgirls thought here is a man with lots of money. After that, one of them launched into a litany of the most stupid details about the project. Really, why should I know where the club house is gonna be or where the gymnasium has decided to build itself. All I want is a bloody house!
So when I realized she wasn't about to shut up about how elegant the whole construction was, I cut in and asked her for the price. Needless to say as she spoke, it blew my life away but I managed to let my legs hold fort.
"Oh 65 lakhs eh? Alright alright!" I heard myself saying, "And that's for a 2 BHK?"
"Oh no sir," she cooed, "it's for a 2 and half BHK."
"Right right! Oh how about 1 BHKs? Do you have any?"
"Yes Sir but those are at Thane. You can check there." And she pointed the counter to me.
I followed her pointer and towards that counter. Needless to say, it was crowded. At Rs. 33 lakhs, this was the cheapest offering Lodha had. I then took a look at the site address and I sighed. All those flats were sitting off some Godforsaken road in Thane. And I know no one ever wants to go down that road at all. However, the agency they had hired to make posters knew their job well.
Nowhere had they information about how tedious a road that is to travel. And not even one of them mentioned the fact that Thane is actually not even Mumbai!
Well I caught hold of the nearest salesfellow and inspite of the fact that I could read it straight off the poster I asked: "How much is this?"
"33," he said.
"Okay and when will it be ready?"
He mentioned a date.
"Okay, can you write down the price and the total area on some brochure and give it to me?"
Well now that apparently was not his job or so he gave me to believe. He did not refuse, but pointed out a certain fellow dressed in a sleek black suit who would do that for me. This fellow happened to be talking to a couple who were in all earnestness asking him quite a lot about a project he had raved and ranted about. Perhaps he was dedicated to his job, or perhaps he was trained to do what he did for he took no notice of me even though I stood a foot away. So the salesfellow who pointed him out did a little whispering in his ears. The moment he heard Thane and 1 BHK, he looked at me as if I had risen from the dustbin and had no right to be there. Of course, he quickly left that look aside to don a smile as he said: "Oh alright sir, I'll be with you in five minutes."
Okay and I waited. The couple resumed their questions and he returned to his act of ignoring me. A full five minutes impatiently passed my way and the fellow had yet to begin to acknowledge me again. At the start of the sixth minute, he turned to me and said: "Sir, please have a seat. I'll be right with you."
So I sat down. Well, once you sit down at such exhibitions, it becomes a little difficult to not allow yourself to be caught with an irritating feeling that you are being deliberately given the snub. I tried then to distract myself from that idea by looking around. I looked at the sofas (all white - straight from the Koffee with Karan show), the people (some dressed with a perpetual pout, some with a perpetual shock), and then realized I was close to being irritated all over again. So, I looked at the fellow in the black suit once more. There he was looking at me too, but with no apologetic look at all. Instead, he seemed quite perplexed that I was still there. I kept looking at him nevertheless, but he just sailed on in his talks with that couple. Evidently, they were Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags and he wasn't interested in the change I was to offer for a flat God-knows-where in Thane. So decided to get up and do. The moment I did that his look changed to that which spreads on a man's face when things have gone according to plan. I have a 180-degree vision, so from the corner of my eye, I could see his gaze follow me quite happily out of the stall till I could see that bloody fellow no more.
If I am to teach a lesson about class distinction on the basis of income, I am sure to slip this somewhere in my discourse.
I wandered around then - not knowing what to do next. Inquiring around in other stalls was of no use. It was the same old story: If you showed interest in anything priced between 80 to a crore, the entire desk would fawn over you. But the moment you switch to asking about budget flats, they would recoil and turn into ice maidens. Well, for the inquiries I made, tolerating their behaviour was a nasty price to pay!
Which, incidentally, brings me to the prices. They were the best set of ridiculous rates to have ever been stated in the history of the real estate. A 2 BHK in Kanjurmarg was priced at Rs. 8, 600 psft while a 2 BHK in Bhandup asked for around Rs. 6,100 psft. Now everyone - at least all the people staying along the Central line - know what a gaon Kanjurmarg is. There's life only for the first few roads that lead away from its station (Which by the way looks haunted). Beyond that it's dead. The West has a mall and a movie hall and that's about it. The rest of the stretch yawns with boredom. As for the East, it only has residences that give way to shanties lining both sides of the road. There's no pub, no cafe, nothing. So the logistics and reasoning that the realtor used to arrive at Rs. 8600 psft for the apartment in that area escapes me.
As for Bhandup, well, the less said the better. It takes an hour to reach there from VT, has hills dotted quite colourfully with slums for panaromic views, and has a station that reminds you of those nondescript stops along a Godforsaken railway line where - forget an Express - not even a goods train will bother to go to. Yet, some realtor decided quite happily to sell his wares at Rs. 6,100 psft and more!
Oh and at Vikhroli, Godrej decides to peg the price of its apartments at the same price at which flats in Sion are available! So, you pay Rs. 70 to 80 lakhs for a 1 BHK built by Ackruti at Sion and you pay just the same amount for a slightly bigger 2 BHK constructed by Godrej at Vikhroli! The reason? "Oh it's a Godrej!" I was told, "How can you even think of anything lesser than that?!"
Effectively then, you pay the same exorbitant amount irrespective of where you are - be it Sion or Vikhroli or Mulund or Bhandup - or so they have decided to drill into my head.
Luckily, I am educated you know. I read Pride and Prejudice and occasionally open books written by Sidney Sheldon. So yes, I do think and that's why I thought it much better to just not accept the drilling at all.
Well but there were moments when I felt rather humiliated. Infact, at one point during my jaunt, I nearly began to cry. See, I understand it's merely a property exhibition and I have nothing to lose. But the very thought that inspite of earning so much and living all my life in Mumbai, I cannot afford any of these places was rather humiliating.
There's a reason why I have been in Mumbai all my life. The reason is I love the city despite the thousand and more flaws I can pick in its administration, transport, infrastructure, etc, etc. I was born here. I got an education here. And here's where I first learnt to let myself be enthralled by the magic of the movies.
Mumbai's also the city in which I began to love music. I began to listen to music at home and home was Mumbai. And gradually, it became the love I was never to let go off. Somewhere down the line, as I associated a song with my ups and downs, my highs and lows, this city always was the backdrop for it all - be it the disastrous engineering results in New Mumbai, the showdown with a certain boss at Nerul, the gossip sessions at Costa Coffee - Juhu, the heartaches at Carter Road - it's been there watching, tolerating my tantrums, and just letting me be.
For that I love the city. And since I love it so much, I was rather hurt that it could not afford to make some space for me.
"Oh ho will you just stop now!"
I was on the phone with Sister Dearest.
"But why? Am I not entitled even a square feet of space here?"
"You are standing on one."
"You know what I mean."
"Very much."
'Then why don't you side with me?"
"And what side are you on?"
"Stop that!"
"Okay okay peace peace!"
"Seriously man! These rates! They look like death threats."
"Seriously who told you to go there in the first place?"
"Well I thought-"
"Oh yes indeed - you know what? You think too much! Now just come home. That place is no place for you."
"Oh really! At 8,600 psf, I wonder even if ET will want to step in here!"
"Haha. So come home then. Bother!"
So I threw all of those brochures in the gutter, jumped into Bus no. 310, landed home, and slept my constructed headache away.
There was a time Mother hated Michael Jackson. I remember the day we were watching one of his music videos (or was it a stage performance?) and in walked Mother with her hand on her hip.
“What’s this?” She asked as she pointed at him pointing his vitals at us. “What’s this?”
“Well Mother,” I said, smiling, “this is Michael Jackson.”
“Shee! This fellow! Doesn’t know how to dress up at all.”
“Well Mother, it’s show business you know. They’ve got to dress up that way.”
“That doesn’t mean they show how vulgar they can be!”
I burst out laughing at that observation and she shook her head and stormed off into the kitchen.
Thereafter, as and when she encountered his face in the newspaper or an article about him, her reaction was more or less the same: She would frown, shake her head and ask rhetorically: “What’s this world come to?!
Well the world and Mother then saw things worse than Jackson’s dance moves and she slowly lost track of him and his work.
It was only a couple of years ago that she got in touch with him once again. I happened to be working at that time. And I also did myself and the family a favour: I bought a computer and paid for an Internet connection as well. Well, with the Internet came the habit of listening to stuff online. And one fine day, that stuff happened to be Heal the World.
As you may or may not know, it’s a pretty song. A child quite innocently muses about the world and its future and a little later, a slow mellifluous guitar melts into Jackson’s thin delicate voice that is laced with honey and tenderness. I let it play for a while as a cool breeze swept in from the windows and rustled my hair. I was so taken by the song that I hadn’t noticed Mother Dearest standing at my door – again with her hand on her hip.
“Alright fine,” I said as I yanked myself out of my bed, “I’ll lower the volume.” I said.
“On no no! That’s not what I came here for!”
I was surprised. “Then then?”
“Who’s this singer?”
“Well guess guess.”
“Why do you think I am asking you then?”
“Okay it’s your favourite Michael Jackson.”
For a minute, she did not know how to react. The hand went down from the hip to her sides and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, when she knew she had to say something, “Oh really! ” is what she managed.
“Yes, Mother, it’s the same fellow you never approved of!”
“What rubbish! I never said I never approved of him.”
“No, but whatever you did say more or less left nothing unsaid you know.”
“Oh my God! He sings so well,” She said, evidently ignoring me, “Why ever has he to be so outrageous!”
“Well that,” I sighed, “is something we have to live with.”
“Really he has such a lovely voice. Play that song again. Come on.”
So, I played it once more. And another dozen times as well.
Thereafter, Mother began to take a lenient view of the man. Gone were the acerbic admonitions of his ways and his lifestyle. “Oh he is misguided,”she began to explain as if I needed that clarification, “if he only were to understand what he is doing, he would not do all of that!”
Well Jackson clearly decided not to understand. From plastic surgeries to scandalous happenstances to being crowned the King of an African tribe to marrying twice to living on pills, he was quite sure of the loud noise he wanted as his lifestyle.
In the end, that very lifestyle swallowed him and his finances. He realized what had happened to him and knew he needed the fame and the money back. So, he went berserk and rehearsed for hours on end for his comeback concert that was to be held in London. Apparently, he did smile and wave at the dancers – that came naturally to him – and he was spot on with his impromptu sessions as well.
Anyway, minutes after that exuberant vitality pleasantly shocked his dance troupe, he died and shocked us all! Of course, the news took some time to drift across the Arabian Sea and land at my door. But the moment it did, Mother began to surf the Internet.
“And what exactly are you searching for Mother?”
“Oh there are no details about his burial service.”
“And you are planning to fly down there to attend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous dear!” And she returned to her searches. She searched on Monday.
She would not know about the burial service till the ensuing Wednesday.
Needless to say, but say I must, she was more in regret about his life than even perhaps he himself was. She urged me to keep playing Heal the World nearly a dozen times all over again. And since I have no complaint against that song, I played it.
Well, I was rather amused at Mother’s about turn through the years. And now that he was dead, she was quite close to proclaiming him rather innocent as well. It’s just that his scandals stood quite boldly and irritatingly in her way and she could do nothing about them. Or else, she would have gladly pretended to believe that they never happened at all.
I did mention this whole change of heart to her and she wiped her hands on her apron and gave me what I knew I would hear: “Oh he is dead and gone now. And he had a nice voice too. It’s a pity he did not follow what he did sing (Heal the World) or else he would have healed himself too!”
