Sunday, November 8, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Brokers Who Broke Us: Part 1
Brokers here call us the “American Nightmare”. Thank god we have Wendy to help us find an apartment when we get back to NYC. What started with the slick-haired sunglassed tight-lipped smooth cellphone talking Rosario, a.k.a. Rosie, and his inverted 2 bedroom duplex (the bedrooms were buried in a windowless basement), has now turned into a full-fledged fiasco involving at least 23 brokers and counting. We have not yet found an apartment, and no broker in Bangalore will take our calls. Yet our search continues, and somewhere hidden below all of our pessimism, both Simone and I know that our apartment hunt will finally come to fruition when we uncover the true identity of the mysterious Ravi.
We’ve heard murmurs about this Ravi from other brokers. We’ve read his eloquent postings, his too good to be true postings, on the web: “Amazing terrace area with beautiful lawn and chilled sexy lights with 1000 sq feet area.” But, Ravi, the man, eludes us. He never once has taken our calls, and until a fortuitous little accident opened our eyes, we never could have imagined the extent of the conspiracy he was masterminding, a conspiracy so extensive that it included a network of at least 15 individual brokers, and a conspiracy so bold, that it demanded nothing short of our financial and physical destruction.
But let us not jump ahead.
Two hours after Rosario dropped us off at the Bangalore Club, Uday, as Simone calls him, or Kumar, as I call him, scooped us up. We barely had time for a lime juice, when Kumar rolled by with his driver, and invited us into his car. Turning over his shoulder from the front seat, he gets right down to business, “What do you want?” he asks. Simone says she’ll have a muffin; I stop her before she gets ahead of herself. “Security is what we are looking for, only the safest apartment complexes will do.” Kumar agrees, “Security is very important in this town, and I know exactly where to take you.”
He takes us to the Sea-Breeze Apartment Complex; but the only trace of ocean water is the stench of fresh leaking sewage. A cow meanders by, and starts feasting on the pile of shit that decorates the front lawn. A lone security guard rests out front in a beach-chair. He is absolutely, 100%, blind. His walking stick rests on the ground nearby. Kumar motions us to sneak by him, a finger across his lips, so we could see the apartment without “security” hassling us. Simone says something along the lines of “…at least this country has equal opportunity employment,” and the security guard perks up and lets out a “Who goes there?” before quickly resigning his efforts to the wind.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to fire Kumar over the physical disability of another for fear of being labeled an enemy of the blind, so we decided to see another apartment with him. This is when things started to fall into place. Never mind the details of the apartment, it was a dumpster in the overwhelming apartment complex known as Diamond District, a collection of about 1000 decaying cardboard boxes. Nothing like the diamond district Zeida used to deal in. During our tour, though, Simone overheard a little conversation between Kumar and his “colleague”, the renter’s representative, whom we shall call, due to lack of knowledge, “Pinker.” The conversation took place in the local language of Kanada, a language that is unique to Karnataka, the State within which Bangalore is located, but Simone was still able to understand enough to alert us that something fishy was going on. As we huddled in the corner of the shower of the vacant apartment, Simone whispered into my ear, “Pinker asked Kumar what our budget was. Kumar, responded that our budget was Rs. 25,000. Pinker said he will report this to Ravi.”
We obviously could not hope to guess who Ravi was at this time; we assumed he was the owner of the flat. But more pressingly, we were enraged that our broker was selling us out to the opposition party. We decided to put our theory to the test. We ask Pinker what the rental price of the apartment is, and without missing a beat, he responds Rs. 25,000. Confirmed. Kumar is either an asshole, or part of a grand conspiracy to rob us.
At this point we knew we had to find another broker. So we call Anoop, a broker that one of the Israelis recommended we use. We tell him our story and how our last idiot broker took us to an apartment complex with a blind security guard. Anoop tells us he works with Kumar and doesn’t appreciate us going behind Kumar’s back like that. As he hangs up on us, we wonder how many of the brokers in this town work together. How many of them know our budget is Rs. 25,000? Will any of them show us apartments below that price, and will any negotiate on our behalf?
We call Ram. Ram is pushing an unfurnished 3 bedroom in an apartment complex aptly named Stardust Splendor. We tell him to meet us on the northbound side of the Old Airport Road at 7:15 pm sharp. We wait patiently across the street, cigar and scotch in hand, to scope out our target. A small grayish car comes to slow halt. The car lights are flashed, not once, but twice. This is our man. We cross the street and enter his car from the rear. To our surprise, the entire interior of the car is coated in plastic sheeting. We expect him to pull out a Magnum at any moment, and blow out our brains in the backseat. Our guts wouldn’t even stain. Simone looks worried. I could tell she is convinced that this strange man is about to kill us. I motion to her to sit behind the passenger seat, as I squeeze in behind Ram. I slowly unfasten my belt buckle as he introduces himself, and fashion it into a noose. I watch as Simone removes a long spiky heel. Any sudden movements by our driver, and this would end badly for all of us.
Turns out, Ram was not going to kill us after all. He’s just an obsessive compulsive neat-freak, and lining his car with plastic sheeting is his idea of good planning. He wears a uniform every day, meticulously washes his hands after touching doorknobs, and claims to be an active homemaker. We apologized to him for disrobing in the back seat of his car, and ensured him that nothing inappropriate occurred that would necessitate changing the sheets. He didn’t believe us, and unfortunately, we lost the apartment over that debacle.
Next we call Mansoor. We really think it is great that Mansoor has a job, and gets out of the house, and ties his shoes all by himself. I’m sure he works really hard, and we appreciate his efforts. But Mansoor will not be the one to find our apartment. His (lack of) intelligence precludes him from participating with the rest of society in any meaningful way, but also, from taking part in any complex conspiracy. Or so we thought…
to be continued.
We’ve heard murmurs about this Ravi from other brokers. We’ve read his eloquent postings, his too good to be true postings, on the web: “Amazing terrace area with beautiful lawn and chilled sexy lights with 1000 sq feet area.” But, Ravi, the man, eludes us. He never once has taken our calls, and until a fortuitous little accident opened our eyes, we never could have imagined the extent of the conspiracy he was masterminding, a conspiracy so extensive that it included a network of at least 15 individual brokers, and a conspiracy so bold, that it demanded nothing short of our financial and physical destruction.
But let us not jump ahead.
Two hours after Rosario dropped us off at the Bangalore Club, Uday, as Simone calls him, or Kumar, as I call him, scooped us up. We barely had time for a lime juice, when Kumar rolled by with his driver, and invited us into his car. Turning over his shoulder from the front seat, he gets right down to business, “What do you want?” he asks. Simone says she’ll have a muffin; I stop her before she gets ahead of herself. “Security is what we are looking for, only the safest apartment complexes will do.” Kumar agrees, “Security is very important in this town, and I know exactly where to take you.”
He takes us to the Sea-Breeze Apartment Complex; but the only trace of ocean water is the stench of fresh leaking sewage. A cow meanders by, and starts feasting on the pile of shit that decorates the front lawn. A lone security guard rests out front in a beach-chair. He is absolutely, 100%, blind. His walking stick rests on the ground nearby. Kumar motions us to sneak by him, a finger across his lips, so we could see the apartment without “security” hassling us. Simone says something along the lines of “…at least this country has equal opportunity employment,” and the security guard perks up and lets out a “Who goes there?” before quickly resigning his efforts to the wind.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to fire Kumar over the physical disability of another for fear of being labeled an enemy of the blind, so we decided to see another apartment with him. This is when things started to fall into place. Never mind the details of the apartment, it was a dumpster in the overwhelming apartment complex known as Diamond District, a collection of about 1000 decaying cardboard boxes. Nothing like the diamond district Zeida used to deal in. During our tour, though, Simone overheard a little conversation between Kumar and his “colleague”, the renter’s representative, whom we shall call, due to lack of knowledge, “Pinker.” The conversation took place in the local language of Kanada, a language that is unique to Karnataka, the State within which Bangalore is located, but Simone was still able to understand enough to alert us that something fishy was going on. As we huddled in the corner of the shower of the vacant apartment, Simone whispered into my ear, “Pinker asked Kumar what our budget was. Kumar, responded that our budget was Rs. 25,000. Pinker said he will report this to Ravi.”
We obviously could not hope to guess who Ravi was at this time; we assumed he was the owner of the flat. But more pressingly, we were enraged that our broker was selling us out to the opposition party. We decided to put our theory to the test. We ask Pinker what the rental price of the apartment is, and without missing a beat, he responds Rs. 25,000. Confirmed. Kumar is either an asshole, or part of a grand conspiracy to rob us.
At this point we knew we had to find another broker. So we call Anoop, a broker that one of the Israelis recommended we use. We tell him our story and how our last idiot broker took us to an apartment complex with a blind security guard. Anoop tells us he works with Kumar and doesn’t appreciate us going behind Kumar’s back like that. As he hangs up on us, we wonder how many of the brokers in this town work together. How many of them know our budget is Rs. 25,000? Will any of them show us apartments below that price, and will any negotiate on our behalf?
We call Ram. Ram is pushing an unfurnished 3 bedroom in an apartment complex aptly named Stardust Splendor. We tell him to meet us on the northbound side of the Old Airport Road at 7:15 pm sharp. We wait patiently across the street, cigar and scotch in hand, to scope out our target. A small grayish car comes to slow halt. The car lights are flashed, not once, but twice. This is our man. We cross the street and enter his car from the rear. To our surprise, the entire interior of the car is coated in plastic sheeting. We expect him to pull out a Magnum at any moment, and blow out our brains in the backseat. Our guts wouldn’t even stain. Simone looks worried. I could tell she is convinced that this strange man is about to kill us. I motion to her to sit behind the passenger seat, as I squeeze in behind Ram. I slowly unfasten my belt buckle as he introduces himself, and fashion it into a noose. I watch as Simone removes a long spiky heel. Any sudden movements by our driver, and this would end badly for all of us.
Turns out, Ram was not going to kill us after all. He’s just an obsessive compulsive neat-freak, and lining his car with plastic sheeting is his idea of good planning. He wears a uniform every day, meticulously washes his hands after touching doorknobs, and claims to be an active homemaker. We apologized to him for disrobing in the back seat of his car, and ensured him that nothing inappropriate occurred that would necessitate changing the sheets. He didn’t believe us, and unfortunately, we lost the apartment over that debacle.
Next we call Mansoor. We really think it is great that Mansoor has a job, and gets out of the house, and ties his shoes all by himself. I’m sure he works really hard, and we appreciate his efforts. But Mansoor will not be the one to find our apartment. His (lack of) intelligence precludes him from participating with the rest of society in any meaningful way, but also, from taking part in any complex conspiracy. Or so we thought…
to be continued.
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