CHALTA HAI, YAAR

A relative told me, when I shifted to my new home, "You'll find one new thing falling apart each day." That wasn't very encouraging, as far as welcome lines go, but it couldn't be further from the truth.

Keeping my home dust-and-cobweb-proof is one thing, as I was soon to discover, but insulating it from shoddy, unprofessional work by builders/contractors/electricians, sundry others from whom I'd bought appliances, insensitive neighbours who chucked things out of their homes, quite another. From then on, till date, I am victim to a syndrome psychologists haven't yet discovered: Household Stress. And worse, here's something mum never told me, or perhaps Harvard would never think of teaching you: Your first lesson in ruthless street savvy begins at home.

Mine begins at my doorstep. The high-tech door lock I bought barely a year ago from a reputed consumer durables firm, is faulty. I have to struggle for a good five minutes with my key before I enter.

From here on, allow me to take you through a guided tour of disaster zone. Walk into my house, and find the walls wet with seepage from shoddy waterproofing in the building. Worse still, wade through ankle-deep water on a particularly bad day. No fault of mine, of course. It's just that every time someone's appointed to do the building waterproofing and repair, there are people who'll find fault with the process, and that's pretty much end of story.

So what does this land animal who doesn't find a flooded drawing room her idea of a weekend by the poolside, do? Pick up phone to call the guys responsible for this, of course. Not so fast, dearie, the damn phone's dead. Call them from your cellphone. Guy who's probably been warming that seat for God-knows-how-long in this cushy government job he knows will never be taken away from him asks you your number. Hangs up. It's that simple.

Walk into my kitchen. Try fixing myself a smoothie. Plug the food processor into the socket, and draw a blank. Call the guys. Ask them to come Monday morning, and they land up next Saturday afternoon. Act like they're doing you a grand favour.

Try playing my satellite radio for some peace. I've renewed my subscription a week before it's due to expire, but the darned thing won't work for reasons best known to them. I don't even bother calling.

Try switching on my computer. Recoil after I get this nerve-splitting electric shock. Sure-fire cure for the insanity all this has left me with, I guess. Run out, call the electrician. The guy says there's no earthing, and the wires fixed by the builder are of poor quality. Proceeds to correct the flaw, but the darned comp still gives you the rude jerks.

Try taking a shower, just to cool off. The geyser blows a fuse. Hey, at least you're not alone. Call the electrician back, and he gives you the same old spiel.

Look out the window. Find the place littered with bits of paper, deep red paan stains and packets of that great bane of modern civilisation -- gutkha. Ever tried living in a zoo, where the keeper's lost and the shit hits the fan? Welcome to my home.

Moral of the story: Don't ever try getting your house fixed in this wonderful country where consumer is truly king. Or at least, thinks he is. Hello, aren't they all talking about the great Indian middle-class that everyone in the world worth his bottomline is chasing? Anyone heard of courtesy, professionalism, ethics, follow-up service that go with courting business? Sab chalta hai, boss. We're Indians, and we live with half-baked jobs, half-truths, and general half-heartedness. Discipline, professionalism and courtesy are alien to this great civilisation.

If you thought you could get your way by being this polite, well-brought-up "convent educated" girl who never so much as swore or cussed, you've got many nasty surprises coming your way. Grow up, or be left plodding for answers in ankle-deep water and muck from someone else's backyard.