A Sort of Homecoming

None of us saw the cheap white A4-sized notice that had been clumsily taped to the greyish-brown wall of our building, right next to the staircase, and this is why we were surprised when, at the end of the month, our landlord informed us that we were required to vacate our apartment. We had twenty-four hours to do so.

There were four of us sharing a 1RK in Kandivali, and Suresh put the landlord on speakerphone. We gathered around his newly acquired second-hand Samsung and prepared to shout at the landlord until he changed his mind. The ruckus of four men in their twenties should be enough to scare anyone into submission.

“It’s out of my hands, bachhe,” our landlord sighed, after twenty minutes of arguing. “How do you not know about the new Rental Registration Act? If you do not fall under the category of Home Ownership, you are not allowed to rent a house in Mumbai.”

“What do you mean, not allowed to rent…” Kashish began to ask, but the landlord cut him off.

“It’s not my job to explain this to you. Just make sure you leave by tomorrow night. I have new tenants coming in the following day.”

#

Suresh knew someone who knew someone who knew a broker, and when we called him, he told us the same thing. “If you’re not eligible to rent under the new Act, then I can’t help you find a house. I’ll go to jail if I do.”

“But what would make us ‘eligible’?” I asked.

He paused. “I’m not sure.”

“So, could we be…?” I began to ask, but he’d already cut the call.

#

The next morning, I packed my belongings into a battered suitcase and carried it to work.

At the time, I was working at a xerox shop in Goregaon West. The shop was called Supreme Xerox but we also did printing, scanning, and sold stationery. The owner, Ghatpande Bhau, is a kind man. Initially, he’d hired me to fill in for a week, but he’d liked how I worked and a month after that, he asked me if I could become his full-time assistant.

After around a year, he entrusted me with running the shop. He’d only show up at the end of each day to collect money and check my accounting. He was growing old, he would tell me, and his only son had gone to study abroad.

I felt proud to be handed such a responsibility. I was friendly with customers, and extra-friendly with regulars. I diligently recorded every transaction in a notebook.

That night, the first thing Ghatpande Bhau noticed was my suitcase, squeezed between the xerox machine and the counter.

“Are you going home?” he asked me.

“No. I’ve been kicked out of my house.”

“Why?”

I told him the story. He put on his glasses and whipped out his phone. “Hmmm,” he said, at regular intervals, as he scrolled through different articles.

“Okay, Neeraj,” he said, finally. “Your landlord is not lying. There is a new Rental Registration Act. But it is not very clear on who is or is not eligible. Do one thing, go to Lokmanya Tilak Marg, there’s a Small Causes Court there, you might be able to find out more.”

“Can you come with me?”

“I’ll manage the shop tomorrow, you go.”

I’d never been to a court of any kind before.

“Where are you going to stay tonight?”

“With a friend. I’ve made arrangements.”

“Call me if you need any help.”

#

Sarvesh was the first friend I’d made in Mumbai, and he allowed me to sleep on the floor of his room, under the condition that I leave after a week. Even he had been asked to leave his house, and he was staying in the living room in one of his cousin’s apartments.

The Small Causes Court was in a grand building, built in the old-fashioned way with stone, and more beautiful than anything I’d seen in Kandivali or Goregaon, or even Andheri. This is the kind of place where problems get solved, I thought to myself.

At the gate, the security guard asked me why I was attempting to enter.

“The Home Registration Act,” I mumbled nervously.

“Hain?” he said. “There’s no such thing.”

“Wait, no.” I consulted my phone. “The Rental Registration Act. It’s new.”

“It’s new,” he shouted at the other guard, imitating me, and both of them laughed. He turned back towards me. “You’re wasting your time here. The Rental Registration Office is in a building three streets away. Here, I’ll guide you.”

I followed his directions, and found myself in front of a newer, uglier building. It was six floors tall and painted stark white. I told the security guard about my situation, and he told me to go to the fourth floor.

I was given a token. Twenty people were in line before me. I tried to strike up conversation with a couple of them but no one was in the mood to talk. The room itself was spacious, and I counted forty-five chairs in the waiting area. The walls were white, and the chairs were, too. There were five counters on one side of the room, white chairs and white tables.

After around three hours, I was called to Counter No. 2, where a woman wearing a white sari was sitting.

“ID, please.”

I fumbled in my bag for my Aadhar card, and handed it to her.

She typed something into her computer, and then looked up at me. “Your name is not in the list in the Automatic Home Ownership Category,” she declared.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can’t own a home.”

“Why not?”

“Because your name is not on the list.”

“But why is my name not in the list?”

“Because you can’t own a home.”

“But my landlord said I’m not allowed to rent a house.”

“Under the rules of the new Act, if you can’t own a home, you aren’t eligible to rent a house.”

“But why can’t I own a home?”

“Because your name is not in the list.”

I shook my fist and let out a loud grunt.

“Please calm down, or I will call security.”

“Sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can apply for a Special Permit.”

“How can I do that?”

“Go to the second floor.”

#

I applied for a Special Permit. They told me it would take three to six months to process my application.

“What do I do till then?” I asked helplessly.

“Just go to your gaon.”

#

I dialed my brother’s number thrice before he finally answered the phone.

“Yes?” he said.

“I need to come to Sinnar.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“Can’t you stay at Rao ji’s?”

“Bullu, he died years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Can I come?”

He paused. “Where would you stay?”

“With you, I was thinking.”

“Can’t you… manage somehow?”

“If I could…”

“Okay, fine.”

There was something about his tone that made me seethe. I cut the phone and almost slammed it against the wall.

#

I slept in Sarvesh’s room for a week.

On the eighth day, Kashish told me about a building in Malad East where I could spend the night. It was under construction, and all work on it had been paused because of a property dispute between two brothers.

Eight floors had already been built, and I counted at least a hundred people who seemed to have set up shelter there. Kashish had a space of his own. There was a single mattress and he had laid out some shirts around it. At the foot of the mattress was his shabby brown suitcase.

“You have to do this,” he said, shrugging, when I pointed out the shirts. “Otherwise, some fool will place his blanket right next to you and sleep.”

“Where did you get the mattress?” I asked.

He flashed a mischievous smile and lowered his voice. “The first night here, someone died in his sleep. The next morning, everyone was so busy disposing of the body, I nicked the mattress. No one even noticed.”

He patted the floor next to him. “You can sleep here.”

“Did you go to the Rental Registration Office?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I know I’ll find nothing there.”

“But… your name might be on the list. Why don’t you check?”

“Did you check?”

“I did.”

“And…?”

I shook my head. He laughed.

“What is Suresh doing? And Pramit?” I asked.

“Both of them went home.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll go, too. Just as soon as I can save some money.”

I slept by Kashish’s side for three nights. On the fourth, a bunch of policemen entered the building. They smacked the ground with sticks and ordered us to get out. Kashish refused but I didn’t need to be asked twice. At the staircase, I turned around for a second. They were beating Kashish, who was clinging on to his suitcase. I continued down the stairs.

#

Until I was twelve, I grew up in a 1BHK on the outskirts of Sinnar. Bullu and I slept in the living room, and in the morning our mother would kick us awake gently with her feet so she could sweep the floor. She’d tell us we were footballs and she was going to score a goal.

Then one day our father left us without saying why, and two years later, my mother left, too, but in a more permanent way. I needed to get away so I came to Mumbai, because I knew I’d find work there. “There’s so much money there, even a spider in the corner of a room can become rich,” Gaurav Bhaiyya would tell me. I promised Bullu I’d bring him with me to Mumbai within a month. “As soon as I get a job,” I told him. Every month after that, he’d call me and cry. I had got a job but I told him I didn’t, because I was working long hours and didn’t have the energy to handle a younger brother, on top of everything else. After a few months, he stopped calling, and a couple of years later, he got a job of his own in Sinnar. He rented a house in the heart of the town, and even though he lived alone he always slept in the living room.

He didn’t like it when I visited him.

#

For forty days, I stayed at a lodge near Goregaon station. Ghatpande Bhau increased my weekly wages so that I could comfortably afford the lodge fees.

One morning, the manager of the lodge abruptly entered my room.

“You’ll have to vacate this room,” he said, “and fast.”

“Why?”

“It’s a new rule. If you’re not allowed to rent a house, you’re not allowed to stay in a lodge.”

“Please. Don’t.”

“If I get caught, they’ll send me to jail. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry.

“So where can I go now?”

“Why don’t you go home?”

#

That same morning, when I reached Supreme Xerox, Ghatpande Bhau was waiting for me. He removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He did sound sorry.

“Why?”

“I can’t allow you to…”

“What? I didn’t even ask you anything.”

“You don’t understand. The new law…”

“What now?”

“They’ve added a new rule. We’re not allowed to employ people who are not eligible to rent a home.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… I’m sorry, beta. They’ll throw me in jail if I…”

He gave me a fat envelope filled with cash. It hurt my pride but I accepted it. He also offered me his blessings. I refused them.

“Go home,” he said to me. “This will all be fixed soon. Come back then.”

#

I took a train to the Home Registration Office and marched into the second floor.

At the counter, they told me I’d have to take a token number, so I took a token number, and then I had to wait for two hours. When it was finally my turn, I walked up to Counter Number 3.

“Where’s my permit? I was promised a permit.”

“What’s your name?”

“Neeraj Lall.”

“Did you apply for your Permit?”

“I did.”

“There’s no record of it,” the man at the counter said, indicating the computer screen.

I wanted to smash that screen.

“Wait, how do you spell your surname?”

“L-a-l-l.”

“Oh, sorry,” he laughed half-heartedly. “I had put the wrong spelling.”

“So, has it come?”

“No, it is still processing.”

“How long will it take?”

“Three to six months.”

I smiled at him. He cowered. “Until my Permit comes, I am going to come here every single day. You will see me every day until you give it to me. You understand?”

“But…”

“Do you understand?”

#

A few streets away from the Home Registration Office, there was a large dustbin, and behind that dustbin, there was a space where no one else wanted to sleep.

I stuffed the envelope of cash into my underwear and lay down. In the morning, I proceeded to the Home Registration Office. I followed this routine every day for the next two months: I’d take my token, await my turn, and politely threaten whoever was at the counter.

#

Over the next few weeks, I saw the city change.

The dustbin that I was sleeping behind started overflowing. The cars, too, became dirtier. Most of them had pigeon shit on the windshields and doors. A few cafes and restaurants shut down. Garbage started piling up on the sides of the streets.

Bullu called me one day. “Come home,” he said, and this time it sounded like he meant it.

I hung up.

#

One morning, I woke up with a fever. I should have gone to the doctor, but instead I went to the Home Registration Office.

“I have good news for you,” the person behind the counter told me. “Your application has been accepted. You will receive your Permit within one month.”

#

The next morning, I decided to sleep through the morning and visit a doctor in the afternoon. By the time I woke up, night had fallen. I was unbearably thirsty, and I stumbled to my feet, trying to walk towards the chai shop at the corner of the Main Road.

But my legs betrayed me and I fell into a heap of garbage. My phone fell out of my pocket, just out of arm’s reach.

I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, I was in the living room of my house in Sinnar, and Bullu was fast asleep right beside me. I patted his arm, and he extended his hand towards me.

I woke up, it was morning, and I was back on the street. I stared at my phone for a few seconds.

Then I fell asleep again.