Foreign Correspondence

Mumbai by Janhavi Acharekar

Conde Nast Traveller (UK), March 2008

‘Ma’am, I have just the place for you - 625 square feet, 1 BHK, sea view,’ says my estate agent. ‘Carpet, built-up or super built-up?’ I ask him, now familiar with Mumbai real estate and its unique vocabulary. ‘Super built-up,’ he informs me. Super built-up is no luxury apartment for superhumans. It simply means that the area of this cramped ‘one-bedroom-hall-kitchen’ includes even the lobby, the elevator area and the landing of the staircase outside its front door. (Carpet area is the wall-to-wall area or the area you can actually use while the built-up area includes both, the carpet area and the area taken by the walls.)

Nowhere is a square foot more precious than it is here in Mumbai. A square foot is the space on which two strangers share perspiration on a crowded local train. It is the space on which lovers grab a moment of privacy on the rocky seafront, oblivious to the ocean of people milling around them. A square foot is roughly the size of the painting that just sold for Rs. 1,500,000 ($ 37,500) at a city auction. Or the size of the top worn by a model at Mumbai’s Fashion Week. And Rs.20,000 ($500) for the size of a floor tile in what used to be a quiet seaside suburb, is well, simply unbelievable.

Even as my family tree spreads its tentacle branches across the globe, I am the fourth generation to seek my own place under the oppressive Mumbai sun and the third generation to take up residence in this neighbourhood. Even though it means having to travel two hours to work every morning. ‘Life in the fast lane’ is a paradox in this megalopolis where traffic moves at a crawl.

When my grandmother was little and growing up in the city, wild animals and even the odd leopard roamed Pali Hill (today the Beverly Hills of Mumbai) in the then distant suburb of Bandra. So when my family moved near here in the sixties, it was for the cool sea breeze and proximity to nature, for the charming Goan-style cottages and the occasional paddy field. And, of course, for the fact that property was much cheaper than it was in the city centre.

Today, Bandra could well be the city centre. Malls have sprouted along arterial roads as have the supermarkets that are fast replacing friendly local fruit-and-vegetable vendors. The cottages have all but disappeared, giving way to luxury apartments. The sea breeze is blocked by the rush of concrete buildings that have collectively raised the temperature of this asphalt city. And the estate agents are delighted. These cellphone-toting wheeler dealers who don the avatars of mediator, soothsayer, friend and therapist, even as they spawn an eco system of their own.

My agent informs me that property prices have doubled in the last two years. This apartment is a good deal, he insists. What about renting? I ask. He shakes his head. Owners prefer to lease apartments to foreigners for a higher price. I sigh and give in, agreeing to take a look at this place he’s raving about. As we approach the building, I see that it is a dilapidated souvenir from the past, and that it is nowhere near the sea. We are greeted by the equally decrepit owner who tells us ruefully of the days when he could watch the fishermen taking their boats out to sea. And as we sip on our cups of masala tea, gazing at the concrete skyline, the building mocks passers-by with its name: Sea View.