Scuttling between various hostels, paying guest accommodations and one odd barsati, I survived six years in Delhi.
I was ready for a change. I wanted a place of my own – a place where I wouldn't have to entertain inquisitive questions from fellow dwellers at odd hours, a place where I wouldn’t have to hide my chocolates and fruits, and a place where I wouldn’t have to share my bathroom.
Excited at the prospect of finally being able to afford the privacy I craved, I set out on the Herculean task of house-hunting. I had heard scary stories from friends who had gone house-hunting before me, but was quick to brush them aside thinking I could do better!
Little did I know, I would have a similar, if not scarier, story to share.
Is Privacy Not a Thing Anymore?
24, independent, and ready to take the plunge...I was waiting for the meeting. A friend had set us up saying he is better than most and if lucky, I should be able to seal the deal.
And then he came. Swag intact.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked without getting into unnecessary small talk. Before I could say anything, he said, “puchna padta hai...pehle se sab clear rahe to achha rehta hai.” (We have to ask this to get a clear idea beforehand.)
I spent a full one minute deciding if I should judge him for his skewed morality or laud him for his honesty.
And before you think this was happening to me at a rishta meeting, let me tell you that this is how my first conversation with a broker progressed. Funnily enough, it sounded eerily similar to the ordeals many of my friends have had to go through at rishta meetings.
He wanted to know everything – from my lifestyle choices to food preferences. He didn’t care, he said, but the landlords do. “Occupational hazard,” he said, shrugging.
Finally, we moved on to business and landed at the first of the 20 houses I saw that day.
Culture, Sanskaar, Biases & Bulls**t
A gaunt, inquisitive man opened the door and inundated me with a barrage of questions – what do I do for a living, was I a meat-eater and will I have regular visitors?
As soon as I told him that I am a media professional he exclaimed, “You can’t drink and smoke in this house”. This baseless conjecture about my profession was baffling.
The prospect before me was bleak to say the least – I would have to shell out more money while putting up with endless restrictions. The privacy I was so furiously seeking seemed elusive.
I moved on to the next flat, only to be met with another set of amusing questions. This time, it was a woman who answered the doorbell. Her piercing glance made me uncomfortable. She sensed it and quickly brought the keys of the upper floor apartment she was wanting to rent out.
“Beta, what’s your surname?” she asked unapologetically. Taken aback by the inappropriateness of the question, I told her my full name asking her why it was important. “Wo hum jaat-gujjar ko nahi dete ghar, unlogon ko rehne ka tareeka nahi aata,” she remarked. (We don’t rent out to Jaat-Gujjars. They don’t know how to live decently). Flustered at the indecency of the remark, I chose to see yet another place.
Bad luck, again!
This time I was greeted with Islamophobia. The landlord asked me my name and the state I come from at the outset because he wanted to be sure. Of what? His safety, in case he was unwittingly putting up an anti-national or a terrorist. He even went on to caution me:
Inse zara door rehna hi theek hai. Main nahi keh raha ki sab aise hote hai lekin ye zara kattar kism ke hote hai na... (It’s best to stay away from them. I’m not saying they’re all like that, but they’re a little fundamentalist.)
He then went on to list the ‘rules’ I would have to abide by should I decide to move in. Here goes the list:
- No parties in the house
- Pets not allowed
- No male friends allowed
- Can’t cook non-vegetarian food in the kitchen
- Smoking and drinking strictly prohibited
- Non-negotiable curfew of 10:30 pm
An insurmountable rulebook of misplaced morality lay in front of me. I could either try to mount it like Sisyphus or run away from it. I chose the latter.
These interrogations and forced filial concerns left me dejected.
From aversion to people from the North-East to not letting out places to journalists – I saw it all in the short span of a day. The disdain for Muslims and North-Easterners was particularly disturbing.
All of this kept happening on a loop. It was like struggling through a cobweb of anachronistic biases and prejudices. It was exasperating to hear from complete strangers how “achche ghar ki ladkiyan” don’t come home late at night, how they must abstain from alcohol and how having guys over for “night-stay” isn’t a part of our sanskriti and culture.
When did one’s family background, caste, profession, or marital status become markers for finding or renting out a place?
Choosing the Best From the Waste
As if the mansplaining and sermonising weren’t enough, I was shown places unfit to live in – houses as small as a matchbox, houses devoid of ventilation, houses located in crammed bylanes and several other not-so-nice places. The ones I liked were either too expensive or too shady.
When I specifically asked to be shown houses in a few areas, I was told I would not get a place there because I was single. Compromise, they said, is a must. Only, I wasn’t ready for one. Not yet, at least.
I had imagined living in a little haven of my own but my dream was dashed to pieces. The emotions I went through at the end of the day were akin to the stages of a bad breakup – shock, anger, disbelief, helplessness and reluctant acceptance.
I couldn’t help thinking how big an anomaly single women are for society. We may be armed with swanky degrees from plush colleges, we may be climbing up the ladder in jobs that pay the bills, we may be smashing patriarchy in our own little way daily, but we still have to struggle to find a room of our own.
It is particularly distressing if it happens in a city like Delhi. Women come here from the length and breadth of the country seeking opportunities that are otherwise elusive.
Do they need to go through another round of struggles just to find a roof over their heads?
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