“Don’t push you chair back, it will spoil the wall ” said a house owner of a Versova flat we had gone to see. I was caught in a haIf sitting position and almost winced an ‘ouch’ before smiling back politely. No, the wall did not have fresh paint on it. Some people like their four walls spotless and I do not judge them. But for me to live in a house with two teenagers and spotless walls was a definite no. Though the house offered a glimpse of the sea from it’s kitchen window, we chose to choose a house which we could make a home. My sea-view apartment dream has still not seen the dawn, but in it’s quest I have managed to learn quite a few by laws of the tenancy laws and some life lessons too.

My in-laws were the only ‘laws’ I had known in my life till we reached Mumbai some fourteen years back. The only similarity between the in-laws and the tenancy laws being that I get to enter a new house (where terms and conditions apply) courtesy those ‘laws’. But tenancy laws (especially the ones which are not written on those fine lines of agreement papers) are the most difficult set of rules to adhere, understand and deal with.

I learnt the difference between landowner and licensor, and of the tenant and the licensee. Our new identity was of a licensee who lives in the house of the licensor. Just when I start to understand the simple equation of a family needing a house to live and another family wanting to put their property on rent, a third and most vital character enters the story, he/ she is called a broker. The director and producer, that’s the owner and I have to take back seat for the broker. He is the legitimate script writer of my story ‘hunted-house’. He is the bridge between the director and producer. One has to give credit where it is due, the broker does a lot of house hunting before he is ready to show you some half a dozen empty flats. Mr. Broker has the keys to multiple flats, the doors to which open like Khul ja sim sim, and you get a peekaboo into these houses. They are mostly empty, dusty rooms, which makes me feel very lost and confused. The idea of making these houses my ‘home’ seems very remote on these visits. I want to be in anyplace but this, but this is a transitory feeling in fear of displacement. After the first few times I pretend to have gotten used to the idea of displacement. Once we had walked into a flat where a window had been kept open and some two dozen pigeons had already made it home much before us. Another house we saw was totally furnished, even with crockery, utensils, and furnishings. The owner insisted that we bring in only our suitcases with us and live in like you do in a service apartment. But alas, my attachments to all my earthly possessions, (aka linen, glasses, pans-pots, books, boxes, wall pieces,etc) stopped me from entering a house without them. One owner refused to take away his name plate from the entrance, and we insisted on having ours put up, both forgetting the famous bard’s line “What’s in a name? ”

After seeing several houses one realization dawned is that the trick is in letting the mind win over the heart. You have to learn to look hard with a trained eye to see damp walls covered with fresh coat of distemper, sliding windows that don’t always slide, termites hiding behind bathroom mirrors and pelmets that may fall off at the sight of curtains. The list is long but not listed in any contract paper.  I have acquired all this experience over a decade of being a licensee in this mega city of dreams. My husband had done the ground work of renting our first flat in Mumbai all by himself, while the rest of the family were sitting like nawabs in our nawabo ki nagri, Lucknow. Therefore, moving into our first flat in Mumbai had left us without any experience of house-hunt.

Monsoon was drowning the city the year we landed in Mumbai. Like an eager gypsy I had looked down at the city from the plane window with dreams in my eyes to see the place where I could make my own ‘ashiyaan’.  The blue plastic sheets over the roofs of Mumbai slums (the first glimpse of Mumbai from air) did not look anything like a dream. My Urdu sensibilities of ‘ashiyaan‘ jerked aside sighting ‘jhopar patti’ nestling comfortably all around Chatrapati Shivaji Airport.   “Life in this city would not be cake walk” my pounding heart told me as our taxi drove through crawling, rain-soaked traffic towards our new address. My still young children were trying to explain to me the meaning of BHK, a term they had just been introduced to. A definition of BHK, bedroom, hall and kitchen, marked your space in this apartment city. A four BHK would mean super luxury, a three BHK spelled very spacious, a two BHK meant comfort and one BHK was economy. I already knew that in the days to come I would be getting sad and miss my last house with a lawn, backyard, kitchen garden, and the big rooms for my children to run around and play hide and seek. But for now, I had to learn to play hide and seek with my emotions and practicality.

Our first rented house was a comfortable three BHK, but my nine-year-old son had exclaimed the cliche that first day, ” Ma why does the house end here? ” on entering the third room! Growing up in spacious government quarters till then, his understanding of four walls was much more expansive than what he was seeing in the ten feet by twelve feet master bedroom.  And why blame the child alone, we all missed our old home very dearly, but it was time for fresh perspective. The sliding windows of the flat kept injuring my fingers for some time, and then I learnt to slide the windows without hurting inside-out. The house owners of our first house in Mumbai were an elderly couple and in the years that we lived in their house bonded us like family and changed our relationship from licensor/ licensee to uncle-aunty / beta-beti. There are laws above tenancy laws, the laws of human bonding, of love and compassion.

From one lease period to the other we will keep finding a new home for ourselves. Maybe the larger picture is for me to understand that nothing that you own or assume to be your own is yours in reality. The bundle which I can hold within my heart and hand is perhaps all I need for a fulfilling life. Could not end this note without quoting these favorite lines which so beautifully sum up the story of our existence.

Time you old gypsy man , 
Will you not stay, 
Put up your caravan 
Just for one day. 

Last week in Babylon,
Last night in Rome, 
Morning, and in the crush
Under Paul’ s dome;
Under Paul’s dial 
You tighten your rein-
Only a moment,
And off once again;
Off to some city
Now blind in the womb, 
Off to another 
Ere that’s in the tomb.

Ralph Hodgson