A stranger in my land

The colour of my skin has become a problem in the country I live in. No I am not living in an Black ghetto in US, nor am I a non-white in France.

The colour of my skin has become a problem in the country I live in. No, I am not living in a Black ghetto in the US, nor am I a non-white in France. I don8217;t have anything to do with South Africa, the country wanting to forget its racial past. Unfortunately for me I am a slightly fair-complexioned Kashmiri with not a very prominent Kashmiri accent.

For the past ten days, the colour of my skin has become a problem in Delhi 8212; ironically, a city so obsessed with fair skin. Over these days I have spent hours explaining the meaning of my name, explained why I don8217;t have a very prominent Kashmiri accent, gone into intricate details not only about myself but my family back home in Srinagar. Answered personal questions on how it feels like being 8216;Kashmiri Muslim women journalist8217;. Well, I wouldn8217;t even mind talking about the first Muslim convert in our family tree, for I haven8217;t a choice 8212; I am house-hunting. A job not very easy in the aftermath of the Mumbai blasts if you have the additional baggage of a Kashmiri surname and a face that gives away your identity.

Everything seemed to be perfect just a few weeks back when we met this elegant lady in one of the upper middle class colonies in South Delhi. The prospects of having a newly-wed journalist couple as tenants seemed a godsend as her daughter, who8217;d just passed her Class XII exams, was keen on joining the profession. The airy second floor facing a park suited our Kashmiri aesthetics as well.

The lady, who soon began addressing us as 8220;bache8221;, 8220;beta/beti8221;, seemed a no-hassles person. The deal was done, half the brokerage paid out. The papers were to be signed after July 15 and we were to shift before August 1. From that moment the two-bedroom apartment became my house and mentally furnishing it while flipping though interior design magazines 8212; my favourite pastime. My mind worked overtime to choose the perfect combinations for the beautiful drawing and dining area, though my fiance and I did have the occasional squabble over the colour of the sofa.

And then came the blasts in Mumbai. A phone call from my fiance shattered my dreams. 8216;Aunty8217; had suddenly felt the need to repair a part of the flat. She said it was urgent and apologised. We did not have the signed papers, trusted the pleasant-faced lady, so had no choice but to say thank you. The ordeal was not over; over the next few days we saw about 50 houses, and every time things seemed fine until they saw this 8216;fair skinned couple8217; with 8216;strange sounding8217; names. The finest of the excuses came our way though some were candid enough to admit that Kashmiris were not welcome, others asked for exorbitant amounts as rent. One person even went to the extent of asking for a four-month rent security and three-month advance. Another gentleman simply said he is 8220;too possessive8221; about the house and renting it out to us would be impossible.

After days of being humiliated in public, I decided not to see any further places, for the houses we liked never became ours in spite of our stretching the budget to double of what we had thought of initially.

Today, however, the search ended in a very different way. We have settled for a house on a rent more than what was due. I don8217;t know where my home is. I have no idea what it looks like. I don8217;t know whether I can satisfy my 8216;creative instincts8217; there. I don8217;t care about the sofa colour or even the colour of the walls. All I know is that I will have a home to stay after I get married.

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The deal was simple 8212; we gave the token money to the first person who didn8217;t have a problem with our Kashmiri origins. Now we are praying that the house turns into our home.