Tags:
Journalism of Courage
My father first started dreaming of a home of his own in his 50s. After 27 years in the army, three children and eight younger siblings to settle, he actually had to wait for his pension before, in 1975, he could even consider buying a piece of land. It took him another seven years to start construction.
The house, finished in 1983, thanks in large part to an architect friend who, leave alone taking fees, actually lent us the money to paint his prefab creation. The loans took several years to taper off. It was a good thing my father was still working in his 70s.
My wife still claims I started going around with her after seeing her barsati. She could be right. After my room, her two-and-a-half room set, with all the sun you could want, was, well, many steps closer to paradise.
It was great for a couple, not the family we wanted to start. Next stop: DDA flat, Vasant Kunj. At last, a full-fledged apartment, with two bedrooms and a proper kitchen. Also with no water, power cuts and fluctuations that had us buying 12 bulbs a month.
It was then that we started thinking of a place of our own. We looked, first in Delhi, in and around Vasant Kunj, but the 8216;black8217; component simply defeated us. Property was slightly cheaper back then, but just Rs 10 lakh on paper for a flat worth Rs 27 lakh was impossible.
The first time we drove to Gurgaon was in 2000. Midway, I had already made up my mind: this was way too far. The property dealer was insistent, and we ended up looking at one of the 8216;sample flats8217; a developer had put together to advertise an upcoming apartment block.
Swimming pools, gyms, water and power back-up8212;could we actually believe these promises? Or were they the same as my Vasant Kunj broker, who8217;d assured me water supply was regular it was, for about 15 minutes every other morning.
We finally ended up putting our collective shirts and a lot of bank money on a penthouse I always thought was way beyond our means. After eight years of working in Delhi, I owed the bank more than my father had probably earned in his lifetime.
What does owning a flat in the suburbs mean? Well, the swimming pools actually work, the gyms function, and there is 24-hour water and power back-up. More important, there is no landlady to terrorise you. I8217;ve done an informal survey on this. Delhi easily has the largest collection of landladies from hell8212;the landlords are comparatively pussycats.
One of the great things about being in suburbia is that so many of our neighbours are also first generation expats8212;fellow strugglers who8217;ve also done the barsati and Maggi noodles route, and probably didn8217;t start out with the idea of property, and certainly couldn8217;t have tackled 20 per cent interest rates that prevailed till a few years ago.
Looking back, how has this changed me? On bad days, I fret about my bank loan. On good days, I fantasise about what my apartment is now worth, right after a broker has called me to ask, 8220;Sirji, bechna hai?8221;
I8217;ll leave you with an observation that, when I first made it, astonished me. One Sunday in Big Baazar, I spotted our domestic help, all dressed up for an outing on her day off. She was not intimidated by the escalators, and had figured buying in bulk at a supermarket was actually cheaper than the local grocer8217;s.
I suppose you could call it empowerment8217;s trickle down effect!
The author is head of production, India, ESPN-Star Sports
