Why Doesn't India have an Easy Button?

Albert and I are finally moved into a flat instead of a hotel. Finding and moving into a suitable place was as much of a hassle as one might expect, but also had a certain urgency due to the fact that, by the terms of my visa, I had to be registered as a resident of someplace or other within 14 days of reaching India. Non-Pakistani foreigners with long term visas who register late pay a fine; Pakistanis have 24 hours.

With this tight schedule in mind, my first step on arriving in Delhi was to visit the American Institute of Indian Studies, where I obtained the names of two landlords who had furnished apartments to let, congratulating myself on being so far ahead of schedule.

Second full day in Delhi, I visit both flats recommended by AIIS and experience my first big wave of culture shock this trip. Now, I take a certain amount of pride in being relatively un-phased by the developing world and fairly hearty about bearing up to it. You won’t see me Purell-ing my seat on the train. But with both of the apartments I was shown that day I made the mistake of following my host into a room and then waiting patiently, not realizing that I was, in fact, standing in the space they were offering to rent me. The first apartment just wasn’t recognizably residential. For one thing, it was a room off of an NGO-office; for another, I failed to recognize that the couch type thingie was a bed. (Indians don’t tend to be 5’9”, I guess). The second flat was clearly an apartment, but it was in terrible shape: the kitchen sink and the bathroom covered in rust, broken furniture piled in corners.

At this point, I admit that I was led astray by my wimpy liberal notions of tolerance. I reasoned that my expectations about middle class real estate had been hopelessly skewed by my country of McMansions. Thus, on day 4, I agreed to take the shabby apartment and put down a small deposit. I cannot adequately explain this decision. The first apartment was really far out of the city and the second seemed like my only option. Also, I had a certain amount of Survivor: India mentality going through my head, and a kind of deluded idea that a couple of months of garret life couldn’t be that bad, just look at how it well worked out for Sarah in The Little Princess.

I owe a big shout-out to my friend Rik for talking me out of that apartment and urging me to contact a broker.

Wiser heads than mine having prevailed, I was in the situation of having burned up a week of my pre-registration deadline time in not taking an apartment. So I was feeling quite a crunch as I went into this last search-with-broker week. Things seemed like they might come together, though, when on Wednesday evening I found a place. It is actually really nice, in a very unintimidating neighborhood (we have a Benetton!) with plenty of space, a reasonably sized bed, and a general air of cleanliness. I was, and I am, very pleased with it. So I began to make arrangements to get all the papers in order so I could get myself registered by today.

Unanticipated minor wrinkle: I spoke of my faux marriage to my landlord, with the thought that this was important groundwork for passing off any future conjugal visits without scandal. But, as it turns out, when I sign a contract in India either my father or my husband has to be designated as the competent, rational, masculine persona who will be ultimately responsible for my womanly whims. Pretending to be married to your boyfriend is one thing—legally entangling him in developing world real estate markets is another. But I managed to airily write in my father’s name on the lease muttering something about my dad being my legal next of kin. At this point, I just hope my landlord is sufficiently naïve about American family law that this does not strike him as pretty darn fishy.

Unanticipated major wrinkle: I got a big discount in rent from my landlord by agreeing to pay the whole six months up front. No problem, right? I mean, we’re talking low four figures here, it is still early in the summer stipend, and I’ve been living in a backpacker hotel. All I need to do is get the cash out of my bank account. But it turns out that trying to do any form of financial transaction from India is like trying to hail a cab while wearing an “Ask me about the Crips” t-shirt. Suffice it to say, my PayPal account has been frozen, my check card shut off, my credit cards now work only intermittently, and, in case you were wondering, Western Union will not let you wire money to yourself from outside the United States. So, basically, the fraud alert systems of America agree that my spending habits are statistically impossible.

May I just mention that at some point in this perfect storm of lack of access to my money, my local cell phone got turned off? You see, to get a cell phone in India you need to fill out security screening forms and mine, apparently, have gone astray.

So, to make a long story short, this morning, still about $500 dollars short, I nonetheless convinced my landlord to hand over a copy of my lease, so that I could make the deadline (today) for registering myself. I go to the office, relieved that this whole crazy process seems to be drawing to a close, and, naturally….

(wait for it)

My registration was rejected because my lease has not been notarized. I give up!