“Sir, this flat is perfect. Full ventilation, big window, nice balcony.”
I continue to look at the skirting, as it runs across the hall into the kitchen.
“Sir, the roof is also yours, top floor benefit, plus the owner doesn’t live here.”
“- don’t bug the neighbours, that’s all” the broker says, in a small quippy voice.
At this prompt, I asked him about the rent.
“Sir, 25k, 1 month security, 1 month brokerage- we can negotiate a little bit. But given you are a bachelor, you should be happy you are getting this. They only allow families. Right now also, a family is living.”
As if this was a student play, the said family stumbled into their apartment, after climbing 5 flights of stairs, the current inhabitants of this apartment found themselves on the 3rd floor- now this pisses me off. It happens only in Delhi, but when you live in a building without a lift, everyone is trying to name their floor a couple levels down, while if you do have a lift, they raise the floor number. This apartment building, with its rickety railing and mold-stained staircase claimed to have a GF, UGF, 0, 1, 2, 3 as floor names, while the luxury residences near my office had Lobby, 1, 2, 3 and on.
I nodded, with the best of social skills I could muster, while the broker who was pretending to be a marwari with me until this point, started breaking punjabi into a pulp with his greetings to the sikh family that lived on rent here.
This sudden addition to the audience made me lose my ability to speak and I went into 5 sentence questions and 1 word answer mode.
“Are you looking for 1BHK?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be living alone?
“Yes. Is this a good flat?”
“Yes, we love it, we had it painted, it’s just been 5 months, but we need to shift to Bangalore because of some change in the WFH policy.”
“Understood”
“We think you’ll like it.”
“Thanks.”
Two weeks later, I moved in.
After summoning up the courage to call the broker, then his electrician, the plumber, the technician, and a lengthy array of fixers- who were always on the way but never showed up.
I resorted to fixing things.
I scrubbed the walls, the cabinets rinsed, the floors mopped with industrial precision.
Every room fitted with fresh odonils, every surface dusted, every piece of furniture rearranged.
At one point during this exercise, I thought of listing myself on some cleaners-for-hire site, just in case doing this over and over would wash off the memories of the girl I broke up with, or the ones of my friend who was supposed to move here with me and work on the start-up we had planned years ago. No cigar, they only hired people who had a license.
Tired, proud, and in a proportional amount - sweaty, I stepped onto the balcony.
I had a flat before this, it was on the ground floor, with 0 windows and three tubelights.
Before that, I lived with my girlfriend, who had a 2BHK basement.
Naturally, I had longed for a balcony. This would release the arrest on my growth.
All dreams had to be paused, as the balcony was painted a filthy green in pigeon droppings.
I looked at my blistered hands, and scheduled a service from the same app I wanted to list myself on.
He came the next day, cleaned everything with a smile, and while leaving said, “Sir, please put a pigeon net. It will save you money.”
Fifteen days later, I bought the net.
Five days after that, I stacked chairs and set it up.
2 hours later, pigeons were walking on my balcony again.
They had found a loose nail, hung to the net surrounding it, and created an opening.
These pigeons clearly had more willpower than the one who tried to stop them.
I tried shooing them away, I tried putting extra nails, lost energy and gave up.
For the next 2 weeks, pigeons danced, walked, and frolicked around on my AC.
The next month started, and with it came the inspiration to create a flat worthy of dreams- a livable space that breathed freshness.
This mission was disjointed from the inhabitant of the said flat.
At this point, I was struggling to fit into any jeans I owned- I climbed all these stairs, walked to the metro to save money, then spent it all on food that felt like a heart-burn. I hated my job, I hated my manager, I hated his manager, I hated the girl who sat next to me and called me a hack. I hated that I confronted her about this.
I hated how I had broken up with the one person who used to take my fickle, destructive self and make lemonade out of it.
I hated how I had let that one friend go, who had helped me deal with the break-up.
I hated how the friends I had at work were going to leave in 15 days or so.
I hated myself for letting all this happen.
All this hate came bursting one night at 3, when I found myself drained of all energy, slung over the toilet of my stinky bathroom floor.
I vomited buckets. I bled and coughed like life was trying to escape its rotten shell until morning came.
At dawn, there were pigeons, hoo-ing and looking curiously. Were they non veg.?
I washed my face, and went to the office.
I shat 6 times.
At 7 PM, I was on a flight to Bangalore.
Sipping antacid like coffee, painkillers like tic tac and chewing bananas with my full strength- I got into the client meeting.
It was the best presentation I had ever given.
I shat 17 times between the flight and the pitch. Whatever detox this was, I recommend with caution.
Turned out, I had COVID, with 104 fever- I laughed as if it was a FM station instead of a condition.
Feeling valiant, some lopsided pride out of this sacrificial style of work, I crashed into my sofa at 5 AM after a midnight flight.
I woke up to pigeons, hoo-ing, as if to ask, “What is all this commotion for?”
I ordered the cleaner again, I ordered a larger net.
I spent the next evening putting it up. Feeling proud of the land I had reclaimed, surfing on the wave of recent wins at work- I sang and danced. Alone.
I woke up early next morning, with blood in my mouth, to the frantic sounds of a pigeon struggling with the net. I went to the window, and saw the neighbours across the street signalling me to release the pigeon somehow.
I had severe acidity, something I always attributed to the mismatch of gut bacteria between me and my ex-girlfriend. I started waking up with blood in my mouth from the day I kissed her. My genius lies in believing in this explanation instead of owning up that I had a heart that broke and bled every day knowing my love for her was fake, knowing every word I said to her was a lie.
Carrying the same heavy heart, I went to the roof, cut the net I had put up a day before and set the pigeon free. I was more scared than the pigeon.
A couple of months passed, the hoo-ing accompanied as I slowly realised my mistakes, owned up to them. I called all my exes and apologised, made up with that one friend, bade farewell to the good colleagues, found peace with the bad ones, got promoted, started exercising, ate better, and lastly, stopped feeling sorry for myself.
Having sorted my affairs, I decided to get the balcony cleaned for the last time. I decided to put the net right.
And I did.
Pigeons stopped coming. They would fly around, look close, try to pierce through, and fail.
Two days later, my flat’s water pump broke.
After 5 days it got fixed.
The next day, one of the walls in my bedroom had a huge seepage stain.
A week later, the whole flat had mold.
3 days later, I had an asthmatic attack.
Today, I am leaving this city. I am putting down the net.
I need to apologise to the pigeons. I need to say thanks.
Wow, need to polish that ending.