House Hunting in Koramangala

Nikhil and I have discovered a new dream profession. It requires zero intelligence, vast networks, and smooth talking abilities, and has good work-life balance because you only need to work in the evenings and on weekends.

It's the job of a broker.

When Nikhil and I started off on our house-hunt, we dreamt of finding a nice cozy little place. We knew the rent would be outrageous, considering we were looking at Koramangala. But we were okay with that, Double Income No Kids couple that we are. All we asked for was a place that we could come home to after work and find peace in.

Both of us had house-hunted in Bangalore earlier, and had found nice places in Koramangala with relative ease. Based on those earlier experiences, we decided not to use brokers this time. They charge a month's rent as commission from both the owner and the tenant, which struck as way too much. What was the internet for, anyway?

Till we discovered the reality. About 95% of the ads on real estate websites are posted by brokers (and half of those posting as 'owners' turn out to be brokers). No matter which site you look at - Sulekha, Magic Bricks, 99 Acres - they're all teeming with the blood-sucking leaches called brokers.

At one point, we were so desperate that we spent a rainy afternoon going back and forth along the lanes of Koramangala, searching for 'To Let' boards. A hopeless pursuit, of course, because brokers don't allow owners to put up these boards.

Finally, we gave up and called in the brokers. That was on Wednesday. Since then, we have covered every inch of Koramangala on Nikhil's bike, following young broker boys as they zip along without helmets in patched-together bikes, flouting all traffic rules, but never getting caught. We have been baked in the morning heat, we have been drenched in the afternoon rain, we have yelled at each other out of sheer frustration, we have been passed along from broker to broker like lucky coins.

The specimens of houses we have seen have been amazing. Houses with no bathrooms except a sort of servant quarters at the back (Rs 14, 000), a house that stank of dogs and made Nikhil almost throw up (Rs 11, 000), a house that stank of urine (Rs 16, 000), a house with a staircase a fat person would have trouble squeezing into (Rs 18, 000), a house a stone's throw away from a drain (Rs 19, 200).

We have seen at least 6-7 brokers during this time. Most were nice, except for one guy who took us to a place we had already discovered on our own, and then insisted that we pay him brokerage just because he told us it was still available. We're not taking the (mostly nice) house just because we don't want to pay him brokerage.

Right now, we're contemplating the Rs 19, 000 one near the drain. It's on the second floor, so we're hoping the stench of the drain won't be too much. It's a nice house, cozy, yellow, warm colours. It has an open kitchen, and a balcony that runs the entire length of the house. And the bathrooms are big enough, something which was an absolute must-have for me.

We've resigned ourselves to having to pay the brokerage. But really - does any profession pay so much for doing nothing as does brokering? You're getting paid just for your networks. And if you're in Koramangala and manage to get some 4 new tenants in a month, you're already above the Rs 1 lakh barrier. And I bet none of them pay tax either. Wow.

Swarathma

The first rain of the season. I can hear it through the window. I can smell it, though I'm closeted inside. I can feel the sweetness on my face, I can feel the wind on my arms.

I'm lost in music. Music about the rain, music about longing.

This is heaven. An image of brown earth, a red sari blowing in the wind. Loneliness, romantized. Possibilities.

Music really does make life worth it, doesn't it?

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.7

Maps

Looking at world maps is so depressing. So many places that you'll never see in your life. Their names call out to you tantalizingly, promising music and starry nights and camp fire dancing. You're tempted, but you know that there are just too many, and you can't ever see them all. Instead, you surrender to reality, and eke out your life in a single place, a single city. Day after day, the same boredom, the same  thoughts, the same routines. Never mustering the courage to step out, lest you get swept away.

A Day in the Life

I was reading the other day about Google's Life in a Day project, where people from all over the world could submit videos on their life on July 24th. Google will now be creating a user generated film of how the world was on July 24th 2010. It's a unique project, but let me tell Google how the world is today. Well, not today - every day.

All of us, we have our dreams, our desires. I want to go to Hawaii, I want to buy her some diamonds, I wish I were that girl. No matter how big those dreams are, they get lost some time or the other. The world passes us by, uncaring. We have our little worries, our little tensions. Will I get my hike? Will she go out with me? Will my book get published? They don't matter, because nobody will remember them.

People were happy today. People were exploited today. People got married and had children today. People died today. People saw rainbows in the sky today. People watched today's sunset and thought, "I'll never be this happy ever again." People kissed and hugged and held hands and told each other they loved each other. People were asked for enormous bribes today. People lost their lands to uncaring governments today. People started new exercise plans today. People's stomachs rumbled of hunger today. People fell in love with a book today. People sat in closed rooms today and waited for someone to rescue them from their loneliness. People forgot to water their plants today. People sat outside their homes and idly chatted with their neighbours today. People were nostalgic about the sixties today. People bought new clothes at discount sales today. People sang aloud today out of sheer joy today. People flunked exams today. People slipped on banana skins today. People...

It doesn't matter, at the end of the day.

Nostalgia. And Acceptance

Reminded me of - golgappas at Green Park, basketball in the rain, old dreams.

Amplify’d from thecompulsiveconfessor.blogspot.com

For the most part, the death of our friendship seemed inevitable. Perhaps it was the wrong choices, perhaps it was just geography, but you, who used to be part of the fibre of my everyday life, have been patched over. Sometimes when I hear a song you used to love, or tell a story that you were a part of, I feel a pang of longing. Not longing for who you are now, in much the same way that I don’t think you give a thought to who I am now, but for who we were then.Read more at thecompulsiveconfessor.blogspot.com

See this Amp at http://amplify.com/u/8b0z

My Phone and Me

Dear Reader, I am writing this post in order to give you some valuable advice. My wisdom is free of cost, though I have gained it through painful experience.

And my advice, reader, is this: If any part of your phone stops working, just ditch it. Buy a new one, no matter how much you love your phone, no matter how minor the malfunctioning.

Why? Let me tell you my experience.

My phone is a Moto Rokr, which my uncle gifted me almost two years ago. It has always served me perfectly well, once I figured out the touchscreen.

Unfortunately, one fine day in March, the touchscreen stopped working. And since the Moto Rokr is a phone that has about five keys in total, this made it almost completely useless.

I googled a lot, to try and figure out what I could do to make it work again. Some website said I should try re-flashing it, so I did that. Nothing happened, except for me losing my entire contacts list.

Finally, I went and got the screen replaced. Eight hundred bucks, end of story.

Or so I thought.

Three days later, the cover of the phone started peeling off. Yup, peeling off. Apparently, the guy hadn't put the cover back on properly when he replaced the screen.

I was in Kerala at the time, and I tried to glue the cover back with Fevicol.

Long story short, my brand new screen got a few white pimples. And the phone and its cover continued to refuse to meet.

Fine, I thought. I'll put a piece of cello tape around the body and just continue using it for a while. So I did that for a couple of months, though both my poor phone and I had to suffer a lot of people's contemptuous looks. I stopped carrying it around unless I absolutely needed to. A phone with white pimples, held together by cello tape.

In the meantime, another tragedy happened. The touch screen's lock stopped working. Which meant that I had to always hold it in my hand, because otherwise it might go and dial some random number.

So I was again in a quandary. I could neither carry it around in my hand, because it looked so supremely fugly, nor could I put it in my bag.

Back to the repair shop.

The repair guy quoted thousand bucks for the replacement of the body and the lock. Fine, I said. Just do it - I just want a working phone again!

But when I went back to pick it up, he said that the fevicol had damaged the screen, and so he had had to replace the screen as well. Another five hundred bucks, he said.

I explained to him patiently that it was after he had replaced the screen last time that the body had started peeling off. He told me, equally patiently, that that was all very well, but who had asked me to smear Fevicol all over the screen? We spoke very patiently (okay, not) to each other for some half an hour, providing much amusement to the other customers. At the end of the half hour, I paid him the money and came back.

Clearly, I should have listened more in those Collective Bargaining & Negotiation classes in XL.

Anyway. The phone came back good as new. The body was completely scratch-less, the screen was absolutely spotless. Wow, I thought - maybe all that money was worth it.

And then the buzzing started.

Let me describe the buzzing noise. It's like a loud bee somewhere inside the phone, singing exclusively for my pleasure, and that of the caller.  And the best part is that the bee likes singing only when I'm at home.

When I'm in the repair guy's shop, trying to yell at him, it refuses to open its mouth.

Fine, I thought. I'll carry out all my phone conversations in other parts of the city.

So that was the status quo. Till today.

Today, my phone decided to just give up and die. It conked off without a word, without a final tearful goodbye. At first, I thought it had run out of charge. So I plugged it in, but it refused to show its lively blue face to me. Right now, I'm staring at it, completely emotionless and empty, resigned to the fact that two grand has gone down the drain, and I will have to buy a new phone. I just wish I'd made this decision four months ago.


Update: It's back, the phone is back! It seems it heard my plea and decided to come back to me! Woohoo! (Though the loud bee seems to be still residing inside it, but who cares!)

Thoughts on Being an XLer

Recently, I've been thinking a bit about XL and XLers in general.

Perhaps it was the alumni party last month. Perhaps it's the fact that my juniors recently joined the company I work with, so I'm seeing a lot more XLers these days. Or maybe it's just the fact that I completed a year recently at work, and one of my juniors asked me, "Don't you miss XL at all?"

Of COURSE I miss XL. Though maybe not as much as in the months immediately after I reached Bangalore. Back then, it was a constant throbbing, an absence of something inside me. Sometimes, in the afternoons, I used to just let my mind wander back to Jamshedpur, to those few acres of green trees and golden sunlight - it felt so good, that bittersweetness.

While at XL, I used to wonder - how do these alumni handle it? Don't they know that they've left Heaven behind forever? That they're always going to have to look back upon these years with a mixture of longing and a wonder that they were allowed to be part of the magic at all?

But now I know how it is. Either enough time passes by that you get used to it, or you realize that you don't have an option, so you better just get yourself to deal with it. Over time, XL fades from your system, it becomes muted, sometimes for days. But inevitably, something or the other will remind you, maybe a photo on Facebook, or a horrible dosa that makes you pine for those early morning visits to Mad Sam, or - hell - just the way the sunlight plays on the trees! And then you feel that familiar ache again.

I'm told that people from other b-schools undergo the same thing. But somehow, I refuse to believe that their experiences were as good as ours - there's just no way!

Most of the reason being, of course, Jamshedpur. Objectivity be damned, there's no way an Ahmedabad or a Bangalore or a Calcutta can compare with Jamshedpur. The orange of the sky in the nights, the endless rain, the sheer cosiness of the place! And of course, the fact that there was zilch to do outside the campus, which ensured that XLers always created their own entertainment!

XL's magic has remained a secret for generations, known only to the ones who've experienced it. Plus maybe the ones who've read a certain incredibly well-written book (let's not take names here) on XL.

Unfortunately, I've discovered recently that it's not just the magic, but XL itself that seems to be a well-kept secret. Despite being chosen number 3 on India's best b-schools list, the fact remains that most people would know an IIM (even the new ones, though I've lost track of those now) way more than an XL. Recently, I was introducing myself to somebody when he asked me, "Oh, but you're from Kerala. Why did you go all the way to Jamshedpur for your MBA?" And this guy was a 'Learning Consultant' with a reasonably well-known firm. So much for the 'Best HR Couse in the Asia-Pacific', then.