Despite the Real Estate Regulation Act and its noble intentions and despite all the ballyhooed advancements of technology, house hunting still has the unpredictability of an IPL match in the death overs. There are many things you can pin down. The carpet area of your prospective apartment you measure to the last millimetre. You can gauge the quality of construction, and you can predict with reasonable accuracy how long it will take for your investment to multiply. But what about the folks who have just entered your life — your brand new neighbours? They are the ones who bring in the “X factor” to the enterprise.
Homebuyers of a generation that has seen the 1968 hit Padosan may nurse expectations that a vision of loveliness will be visible through their front window. But such fantasies are eclipsed when reality, or more specifically, realty bites. Your front window reveals nothing more romantic than other houses like your own, entwined creepers and enough clothes hung out to dry to make a laundry rue the lost business.
Neighbours go through a process of transition. Before they acquire a name, they are alphanumeric. So I deduce that B 1206 must be the “work from home” breed — I have never seen him go out to work. K 14 or spouse has a green thumb — such a pretty rose garden they have set up on their terrace. Neighbours also allow me to try out my face-reading skills. Mr. Spectacles and Frown looks the crotchety type. Taken along with Ms. Stiff Upper Lip, they are sure to make the word “cooperative” in the society’s letterhead a misnomer.
