silimfish-blog

[silimfish-blog]

Noise Intolerant.

I suffer from two conditions. 1. Unmarried. 2. Noise-intolerant. 

‘Unmarried’, please note, not 'single'  -- is defined as a condition that warrants unsolicited advice and unnecessary concern, a situation which emphasizes the absence of a husband rather the presence of oneself, often suffered by females only. An effect of this is that one becomes Noise Intolerant. Ironic for a human who lives in an infamous slum called Pathanwadi, in the city with the loudest cacophony. Read more to understand.

*** “You're the quiet kind, aren't you?,” my housemaid Farida once asked me, sipping her tea. We had developed a tea-drinking ritual after she'd finish her chores. I'd shifted to a new apartment, a year after I first started this blog. 2 years since she started working for me.

“Yes,” I said confused, “Why do you say that?”

“It’ll change once you get married. Have you wondered how you would handle the noise that comes with living with another human being 24/7? You've been alone for so long!" 

My maid loves to ask awkward questions with an air of authority that she wouldn't assume with other housewife clients of hers. "I suppose so," I replied.

Farida's questions were stirring the exact emotions that had been simmering in my mind; the thought that one day I might not be single. That this privilege of spending quiet time might vanish.

Mumbai is crowded, and singlehood was my antidote. Mumbai is noisy, and the sliding windows of my apartment were my shields. Being alone is my protection from the constant sensorial abuse inflicted by this city. 

But Farida doesn't care for privacy. She recounts, "When I got married, in the early days, like all these young newly married men (am not sure which kind she means), my husband wouldn't be quiet for even a second. He'd keep pulling me into conversation often late into the night. I love to sleep and he didn't know that, but I didn't dare tell him. I silently suffered insomnia and fatigue. Finally, my body gave us and I fell sick. Really sick. I had jaundice. The doctors ordered sleep and rest. That was God's way of telling my husband to never interrupt my sleep again (No, it was self-destruction. Why am I not surprised by her lack of boundaries?)," she giggled as she'd narrated her newly-wed nightmare from a decade ago. 

For context, Farida and I are just 2 years apart in age. While I’m “unmarried”, she is the mother of two sons, 12 and 8. We live in the same neighborhood but in two wildly different worlds.

"I would never speak ill of my husband but you're like a girlfriend (Is that why she assumes it’s ok to ask me deeply uncomfortable questions?!) and I can tell you frankly how things were when I got married. You might be married soon too. This is useful information!” (Thanks, Farida, I thought). I couldn't stop smiling. I sound like a jerk for making fun of my kindhearted maid's innocence/naïveté but her complete lack of boundaries is dangerous at worst and amusing at best. She worries more than my mother about my unmarried status. Little does she know the joys it bears.

– Unmarried and Noise Intolerant.

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Better Halves

“5th floor,” I tell the liftman of what looked like a lift too tiny to need a liftman in the first place. From the moment we got into the lift the air was pregnant with the anticipation of a conversation.

I was moving into a new apartment yet again. Standing in the lift next to me was a friend, Utkarsh, who was helping me move in. By now, I was immune to assumptions that I was married to him because, God forbid, a man should help a woman otherwise. 

“Hi, I am Arvind. B1801,” said the 60-year-old man who’d had been in the lift before us. “I’m Utkarsh,” said my friend, awkwardly glancing at Arvind’s extended hand, then at my resting-bitch face, before shaking hands.

I turned around hoping that Arvind might want to shake my hand too, but I guess handshakes are exchanged only between one Indian man and another.

“So are you guys moving in?” Arvind asked Utkarsh.  “Hmmm?” Utkarsh responded. Technically, he wasn’t moving in, only I was.

“Give me your number, I’ll add you to the WhatsApp group for the residents,” Arvind uncle demanded. 

“Actually, you should add her to it.” Utkarsh replied, cueing me to join the conversation. 

“Hi,” I extended my hand to Arvind who reluctantly shook it, “I’m Anusha. Add me to the group.” 

As we exchanged numbers the doors opened on the 5th floor. Utkarsh and I got out. Before Arvind could ask any further, the lift doors shut on the two confused faces. A few days later I visited Arvind to ask about any known carpenters in the locality. My apartment needed some fixing up. As I was about to leave with the few phone numbers he gave me, Arvind felt inclined to make some small-talk. 

“What do you do?” He asked.  “Run a business,” I replied with a smile. “Where’s your office?” “In Goregaon East.” “What does your better half do?”  “Oh! I’m not married.” 

(Silence)

Arvind looked puzzled. He must have been thinking “who was that dude with her that day?” “That was just a friend who was helping me move in,” I explained quickly before he could verbalize this thoughts, “But I live with my parents.”

“Oh! Are your parents here?” He asked. 

“No, not right now. They spend half their time at our home in Gujarat and come over every now and then, for a couple of months. Back and forth.” 

“So you live alone?” said Arvind. I felt nervous. I hope this wouldn’t become an issue because “unmarried” women were always assumed to be a menace.  “Yes, practically I do.” I said, hurriedly backing away towards the lift, “I better go. I need to make dinner.”

“Well, you’re very brave! I like it!” were Arvind’s parting comments. As encouraging as that sounded, I wanted to bolt. Was I brave? I felt more scared than brave. Perhaps I was seeking comfort in anonymity. It was better to not be seen, to be a ghost, to not be known – than be known as the unmarried women who lives on the 5th floor.

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Fort Alta Familia

(Cue loud drilling and hammering sounds!) It's Sunday afternoon in the month of May. I am sweating and fuming. Irritable because of the weather but it could well be the inconsiderate labourers next door who have decided that THIS will be the day when they incessantly drill, hammer and destroy the common wall of the two houses and the peace of my mind.

I storm off to the Facility Management office to ask them about rules for civil work during holidays.

“Where is the resident's handbook?” I demand. “Ma'am, it is with the tower committee.” They answer. “Who is in that committee??” “Aren't you? On that WhatsApp group?” He asked puzzled.

Obviously, I am not.

“What are the rules for drilling on Sundays?” I ask. “In a recent meeting, it was allowed by the committee manager.” He replies. “Does the committee manager's neighbour make as much noise as mine for 5 months?” I ask.

He stares sheepishly at his phone, goes into one room and reappears.

He sighs, “I have spoken to the manager. He says there will be no work on your floor on any Sunday. I will let your neighbours know.”

I go up to my place and am met by the owners of the neighbouring flat. “But the rules say we can drill till 8:30pm,” says the middle-aged housewife (sorry for being sexist/any-ist but you know the kind I describe), with a smile that is half-embarrassed and as half-hearted as mine. “Yes, I know the rules. You had reminded me yesterday, so I checked with the office. Apparently there is no such rule.” I asserted. “Our pooja is 10 days from now and we're nowhere near completion,” pleads the husband (notice the subtle change in tone), “Please can you accommodate this for another weekend?”

“I have been accommodating that every weekend for 5 months. All I am asking is that YOU accommodate my peace for a change.” Aghast, I stare.

Nothing changed. 10 days went by, drilling continued. Pooja happened, the drilling continued the day after. The family moved in 10 days after Pooja and the work continued all that while. It continued after they moved in for 2 more weekends. It finally stopped after 6 months and 2 weeks, yesterday. I wonder, is that a home or a fortress they were building? What’s this habit of destroying every space we’re given and embellishing it with gaudy reminders of wealth (monetary wealth, not the wealth of knowledge or wisdom). Gaudy. Loud. The name of my apartment towers means “A Higher Plane” in an exotic foreign language. Its residents are psychotic on a higher plane indeed.

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Hare Krishna & The Single Ladies

Hare Krishna is the name of my apartment broker. On the day of shifting, when he saw me get out of the passenger seat of the movers' truck, his expression was of reverence. “Ma’am, you actually sat in that truck with them and came here?” “Yes?” I replied; why would I want to waste money following the truck in a cab half way across the city? “Hats off!” he saluted, taking my backpack in what seemed like a gesture of chivalry, somewhat misplaced in the context of our conversation.

My brief to Hare Krishna when I started house hunting was elaborate. “I am single. I work for myself. I don't eat meat, but I don't want to live in a ‘vegetarian’ tower. I won’t get my parents to sign the lease. They will visit me often and as and when they want to. They can’t be summoned. And if you get me a lease for more than 1 year, you’ll get a better brokerage.” Phew. “Oh, also, I won't pay for things if they break down within a month of moving in.”

He always seemed anxious and fidgety when arranging a meeting between me and house owners. His brief to me would be, “You talk only to me; I will fix the deal. If you like the deal, I will arrange a second meeting for you to put your points forth.” The landlord this time was a 50-year-old self-made entrepreneur who didn’t care about my marital, religious or economic status as long as my rent was on time and his house was not damaged. “You’re lucky, ma’am," said Hare Krishna, “No one really leases apartments to bachelors in this building so easily.” This was easy, it seems.

[silimfish-blog]

The Steadfast Soldier

They would watch me everyday. The guards. Whether I was with my mom or a friend. My father or my business partner. Or with a couple who were visiting me. They would continue to watch me as I would walk past them. The entrance lobby was strategic. It was just a corridor, where one had to parade past the guards and the lifts, to the other end where the card sensing device was placed. This made sure no one missed their gaze.

I could see their eyes follow me till I entered the lift, especially if I was with someone other than my parents. Some days I pretended to be on a phone call to avoid eye contact. Other days when my Malaysian friend would visit me, I would already brief him on our way to the parking, "Don't be too chirpy. Don't be too loud. Don't stand too close to me. Don't stand too far. Don't stare back at them." And sometimes even "Don't talk to me." The unflinching gaze would make me look down at my feet as though ashamed of bringing an male home. If there was a neighbour around, my friend would be checked out, from head to toe as well. We felt a sense of camaraderie in being objectified this way. One day I finally said to him, "You know, let's have chai in office. I don't want you coming there for chai anymore. It's too stressful." And there went my social life, or what remained of it anyway.

Do you need an access card to trespass my mind?

[silimfish-blog]

Blind Spots

My phone rang. I had just got an email from the Facility Management office*. It said something on the lines of "Dear Residents of The Higher Mountain, please do not give access cards to your maids, drivers or babysitters. Only people registered at the office as residents can use access cards. This is for your own security."

A few days later, a similar mail came in. But it said something different. "Dear Residents of The Higher Mountain, this is to inform you that Shyam Lal, the driver of the residents of apartment 2201, was fired from him duties and a few days later, our cameras caught him vandalising the car belonging to apartment 2201. This is his photo. Please do not employ him since he has been blacklisted. We have filed an official police FIR against him. He has not returned his access card, so please be wary of him loitering around your floors. Several other residents have seen him knocking on doors asking for a job, before it came to our awareness."

I wondered. What security? Did he really even need a card to thrash that car? Where was the army of security personnel when he was at it? Why was he loitering and why haven't the CCTV cameras on each floor caught any of this?

A few days later, my maid told me that there had been a murder in one of the Towers. Someone had wrapped an infant in a garbage bag and thrown him from the 20th floor balcony of an apartment. “Some people would die for a child, and here we have such monsters,” she lamented, visibly disturbed. The CCTVs had not caught any of this because the suspect was standing at a particular blind spot.

The Higher Mountain, sure seemed to be getting creepier by the day. I wonder, should I be going for my morning walks in the quiet, empty parking levels anymore? How many blind spots were there?

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Chai & China

My business partner is Malaysian, is married, has two daughters and is generally ignorant of many social and moral parameters we take for granted. In the days when I had just moved in, he had asked if he could come over for chai someday and see what my swanky apartment looked like. I was happy to host him. We parked his car at my designated parking spot and walked towards the lift lobby again. At the lobby, I met another middle-aged working woman, who said she'd forgotten her card and wanted me to help her get to the 12th floor. I, of course, obliged. We entered the lift.

"I am a teacher," she said, "I teach in Juhu at a boys' high school." "Oh that's nice," I replied, "I am self-employed. This is my business partner here." She looked at me, then at him standing barely 3 steps behind us.

"So?" She nudged,"How did you and Chinaman here meet?"

Silence.

What she would have assumed was a blushing face, was actually an embarrassed one. I looked around for something else to look at. The fully-mirrored insides of the lift made it hard to not catch her eye again. I saw him stare into his phone. "Oh look at China-man," she said, "so curious about the phone. I am sure he's thinking of how to take it apart!" she giggled. "12 floor!” said the angelic lift voice and finally, she left. I breathed.

"I am not a China-man.” He said, through clenched teeth. Not only was he angry, I was equally ashamed and apologetic. The next three floors took what seemed like eons to ascend. "But if we'd reacted, it would make you conspicuous," he said. He understood that I secretly wished to disappear anyway. We reached my home. The view of the mounds of Sanjay Gandhi National Park from the balcony didn't look like much, given their distance and the clear view of vast slums all around, between the tower and the Park. We walked along the long balcony and turned around. I caught the 1503 lady looking at us from her bedroom. She turned away. I went into my kitchen, to make chai, wishing to just evaporate in the air. Every time I am at the lifts now, I remind myself to put on my unfriendly face. For where there is no room for conversation, there are no rude surprises.

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Truth & Lies

Day 01, I had just moved in. Once I was in the apartment I was lazy to get out. The lifts were all operated by access cards, a system that I was unfamiliar with. Invariably I would make many trips to the lift lobby and back home before I got into a habit of keeping the access card handy. Towards the evening, a family was moving into their new home on the same floor as mine. The lady of the house saw me waiting for the lift and walked up to me, to make some conversation. The main doors of our houses didn't face each others. We only had intrusive windows from her master bedroom that looked right into my kitchen and bedroom through the full-height sliding doors/windows. It would have been hard to avoid each other anyway.

"Hi, I live in 1503," she said. A middle-aged woman in her late-30s, with a husband and two teenage boys. I knew this because her apartment door was ajar and her house was right in front of the lift; I could hear them from where I stood. "We need to get that double door fixed!" She yelled at someone inside her house before smiling back at me sheepishly. "I moved into 1506," I replied, confused if she wanted me to go or stay.

"So," she asked, "what does your husband do?"

Silence.

"I am not married." I replied. "Oh? But who is your family?", she asked. This was getting uncomfortable. Anxiety seeped into my veins as I waited for the lift. "My parents. They live with me," I lied. I lived alone, but it seemed she wouldn't like that. She had that smile, the one that wasn't really a smile. The lift door pinged open. "15 Floor!", an angelic voice chimed. "I should go, see you!" I said rushing off. "Bye," she said, her eyes following the back of my head as I entered the lift. Every time I am near the lift lobby now, I remind myself – I am a family person, acceptable and decent.