Up On The Roof

I thought I was paying for a dream house, not a flipping nightmare. When I threatened to strangle them, they smiled and said they would win the case, and offered to recommend a lawyer, if I needed one.

Five years ago, we decided (my wife did and I was told to agree or else…) to invest in a house. There is this thing about houses that is etched into our minds at the weaning stage. If you don’t have your own house you are the dregs—pitiful pathetic creatures, not worth a sou. People without houses are on the social fringe. 

So, we got all these colourful brochures where happy families frolic in the sun and building complexes  with pseudo-Californian names beckon attractively and there are lawns stretching into eternity and ‘amnities’ by the barrel. Slick-talking agents tell you what a dummy you are for even hesitating when opportunity is singing on your side of the street.

You sign the dotted line.

We did. With a flourish and we began paying our dues like model citizens.

Now, in their wisdom, these builders discover they can’t bring in the construction on schedule and, being two years late, obviously find their costs increasing. The rupee has done the dirty, the dollar has gained muscle, fuel has risen, bricks and cement are on the rise, labour is demanding, whatever.

So they write these letters to us about how the prices have repsonded in volatile fashion  and what do you know, we owners can now feel privileged to share what is known as escalation costs. I demur, which means I say, no. I say, seeing as how you did not keep your end of the bargain there is no reason why I should be saddled with the rising costs.

I tell them I feel volatile. We had already cut down our lifestyle to pay for this flipping house.

For several months after, I get these periodical letters expressing deep disappointment in my attitude and how, if I do not mend my ways, they, the builders, will have to take unpleasant action which they don’t really want to take.

I ignore these letters, confident that no system in the world can make you pay for the other guy’s fault.

Finally, I get this letter telling me if I don’t cough up 40 per cent of the base price over again, I shall be at risk of the house in which I have not lived in being taken away.

So, simmering with indignation I fly to Delhi, to fight the good fight and put these people in their place. I walk in to this plush office with this ice piece of a receptionist, and promise, in cold, measured, hostile tones that I will not take such nonsense from them, that I have a good mind to sue them for their arrogance.

I am asked if I need a good lawyer, and if I do, they can recommend someone. I am told that they don’t care a fig leaf if I want to write an expose, go to the PMO or appear on television as a pigeon in one of coops on a talk show.

This was not the script. Now, they are sitting around telling me that I have three days to produce a princely ransom in escalation costs plus a small fortune in state registration costs and another bundle in handing over costs plus the shirt off my back for ‘wooding’ the place, all of which comes to 94 per cent more than I have.

We go on site. The lawns are not green but a sludgy mud, it having rained the day before. The clubhouse is still on the blueprint but no work has started on it. The sylvan forest is two twigs and a sad looking jhar with nine leaves.

So, now I am asked if want a loan.

Naturally, they have a handy neighbourhood buddy bank available that can provide a loan at 18 per cent interest if Sir would so like after Sir has retaken control of himself, and would Sir like some tea.

Since none of this was in that eight-page glossy life-is-but-a-dream-surroundings brochure, Sir says what he would like to do is strangle them. They smile and say, we will win the case.

This was supposed to be a dream house.

Not a flipping nightmare.