I’ve been finding myself woefully blocked as far as ideas for writing are concerned. Today I thought - why not write about the thing that has been giving me stressful days and sleepless nights for the past few months and eating away at what little is left of my sanity – the incredibly mind-bending business of finding a rented home to our liking in this overgrown, all-inclusive residential society in Mumbai that is Bandra.
I’d always thought of A as the decisive one and me as the dithering idiot who just cannot make up her mind about anything. Clearly, at least when it comes to this all-important decision which will determine whether or not we are homeless in about two weeks, we’ve basically become the other.
It is a simple enough task - prioritize our likes and dislikes, our must-haves and good-to-haves and make a decision to make a bid at least one or two of those ten thousand houses we must’ve seen by now. It’s not like we’re not being industrious about it. We debate the merits and the flaws of the houses we’ve seen diligently, we look at each house from multiple perspectives, cross off the ones that don’t meet the non-negotiable criteria, and shortlist the probable candidates. Once that is done, we dust our hands, stare at the ceiling and twiddle our thumbs. At one point we even gave each of them weightages and created a factor model, because clearly our rational brains weren’t up to the task.
Our brokers have taken over the mantle of our parents – gently prodding us about our life choices and when we intend to grow up and make responsible decisions. The important operating words there is ‘When’. As far as they’re concerned, we’re the archetypal fussy house-hunting couple, finding one excuse after another to reject houses, being exacting about what aspects of the house must change before we can move in and generally being a nuisance about everything. To top it all off, there is always a third invisible prospective renter visiting thee houses – our dog, who invariably makes his presence felt in every conversation with broker or house owner. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to pay whoever manages to find me a house twice the usual amount of brokerage to compensate for the mental harassment I’ve caused them.
The funny thing is that we have less rigid expectations than many people we’ve met who’ve been through this grind – it’s just that we have so many! Between the vastly different brains that we carry inside our respective heads, we have amassed a small city of what-we-wants. It’s like taking two seven year-olds to an ice-cream parlour, letting them taste all the different kinds flavours there are, and then telling that they must now decide, based on mutual agreement, on just one. Oh, the agony!
Anyway, I’m clearly at the end of my tether if I’m writing about it. So I can only hope, in true Indian fashion, that our incessant labour will soon bear fruit, and that we will soon be able to give all our well-wishers some ‘good news’ – that we have finally, once more, found a home. Half imagined is half done, I say, so bid me luck – because here I go again!
