The stories around building a house

Atul Joshi

IT is everybody’s dream to own a house, even though constructing one involves challenges. When my father embarked on this path some 45 years ago, I was a school kid. Being a teacher, he did not have a big income or the family’s financial support. Taking a loan was the only option. A princely sum of Rs 55,000 was approved. My parents decided to take the plunge. In short, it was an audacious attempt and a potential tightrope walk.

I vividly remember my little contributions to that effort. Cement then used to be rationed and was available only on permits issued by the district administration. My father had to apply for the release of the scarcely available cement bags, stand in long queues at government offices to collect the permit and then present it to an approved cement store. This hard-earned essential would then be loaded on to a horse cart to be transported to the construction site. Since our under-construction house was way out of the city limits, there was a risk of cement pilferage. Therefore, I was made to sit on the horse cart as a diminutive guard. I enjoyed many such rides while apparently protecting the precious consignment.

At the site, I would keenly observe the workers. I was amused to learn that the cement and sand mixture was called masala. Till then, I was only aware of the masala my mother used for cooking. I learnt a couple of other new words. One that caught my fancy was binnu. This essentially was a head ring, made of a rolled-up jute bag or cloth, which they used as a cushion while carrying construction material on their heads. I often joined the workers in using the durmut, a handheld heavy pounding instrument for levelling the ground. I did enjoy being a part of their team, while my father had his daily trysts with managing the ever-burgeoning expenses.

Once, a tyre of my father’s scooter got punctured. The vehicle was his constant companion. The spare wheel was completely worn out and unusable. We pushed the vehicle to the neighbourhood repair shop. The mechanic ruefully looked at the tyre tube, which bore multiple puncture marks. His laconic advice was telling: ‘If one doesn’t have adequate means, one should not venture into constructing a house!’ My father acknowledged his earthy wisdom with an understanding glance, while I looked admiringly at him for his courage and resilience.

Last month, I decided to sell that house since it had fallen into disuse after the death of my father many years ago. While the negotiations were being finalised, I suffered from an intense, heart-wrenching feeling of severance. The buyer wanted to raze the house to the ground and build it anew. I realised that another story was in the process of being written, and that story would be someone else’s.

Join Whatsapp Channel of The Tribune for latest updates.