Life before Wife and after

There is a big difference between house-hunting as a bachelor and house-hunting as a married man. The big difference is called Wife.

When I moved to Mumbai three years ago, it took me just two days to finalise a house. I saw two places. One was a cow shed, and another was, well, a rat hole that was nearly as big as the parking space that came with it. The choice wasn’t difficult: I’ve always felt emotionally closer to a rat than to a cow. And free shelter for my four-wheeled alter-ego clinched it. I moved into my own pad within three days of landing in Mumbai. That was in 2005 BD (Bachelor Days).

The lease on my current flat runs out on March 31st, 2008 WE (Wife Era), and Wife and I (mostly I) have been scouring the city for a place to shift to. In the last three weeks, Wife has already rejected three flats I’d thought were great. And I’m not a man who takes rejection well. Seeing my face, Bhikkubhai, the broker kindly assured me that this 1-BHK in Mahim would definitely please “bhabi”.

Bhikkubhai wasn’t fibbing. The first thing that impressed me was the huge parking space. I internally rejoiced at the prospect of not having to scrap for parking space with kids on tricycles.

Making our way up two flights of stairs decorated with beautiful abstract designs in shades of red, we reached an elegant, wooden door that looked like it had been kicked open many times — like the police do in the movies. It sure had character, that door. 

The room we entered had a nice dining table. The bedroom already had a bed, even a showcase. Great, I thought, no need to buy any furniture. The apartment was big enough, and within budget.

Hope surging in my heart, I called up Wife and told her to go check it out immediately.
 
A few hours later, Wife called. “Hello”, I said, “Liked the flat?”
“Are you out of your mind?”

“Now what?” I sighed.

“The staircase has disgusting spit marks all around. The front door is falling apart. The bed looks hideous. And they’ve got that monstrous dining table with Sunmica.”

“What’s wrong with Sunmica?” I ventured feebly.

“Even the showcase is Sunmica, chee!”

“It’s a beautiful showcase,” I said, bravely.

“In that case, you go live with the showcase. I’ll look for another flat.”

“But think of the parking space!” I said desperately. “We —” The line went dead. Nothing that had impressed me seemed to count for much with Wife. I took a deep breath. And dialled Bhikkubhai’s number once more.