Homely Convented Girl Meets Reasonable House

There are two infallible sources of information for overworked journalists: taxi drivers and classified ads. It is, sadly, beyond the scope of this column to deal with the former, unless one follows the example of bus driver turned writer Magnus Mills, but the latter has always struck me as short stories in miniature. My addiction to the classifieds blossomed relatively late, as the natural offshoot of an inconclusive house-hunting spree. It was but a short step from the safety of the To Lets to the smouldering, but ordered (by caste, creed and increasingly, profession) world of the matrimonials. The latter, a rich if cliched source of humour as well as of perfect spouses, is also an index of how far the country has progressed. The "convented" or "convent-educated" women of yore still parade down the pages; but their ranks are increasingly swelled by the "software pro" or "computer-literate" or, in one case, simply "computer girl", a suitable updated version of the "culturally accomplished" candidate. High status, rich families still advertise: occasionally, they qualify their wealth, as one did seeking a mate for a "nice rich girl". I pondered over that one. Did they mean a nicely rich, as in pleasantly wealthy, candidate? Were they implying that she was both nice and rich, in defiance of the spoilt rich girl stereotype? Could it be "nice" in the old-fashioned sense of "particular", in which case the ad was sternly warning the unsuitable not to waste their time? "Fair" and "wheatish" complexioned women still abound, but they are not always "homely" (used in a flexibly Indian way to mean home-loving, not unattractive) these days. They, however, follow in the footsteps of supermodels to emerge as "slim", "slender", "slimmish", and in one delightfully evocative case, "slinky". The men, you ask? They're tersely "handsome", occasionally "fair, handsome", and more likely to list qualities. They're "intelligent, caring", "compassionate, motivated", "genial, intelligent"; in a reflection of gender skews online, hopeful grooms are more likely to append their e-mail addresses than hopeful brides. Both possess a quality that many writers could do with: brevity. It has always struck me as miraculous that you can fit in an entire life within the compass of 50-100 terse words. These are also, please note, wholesome lives. The swinging couples, the sexual deviants, the fetishists and daisy-chain advocates are all urged to advertise elsewhere: the charm of the matrimonials is that everyone in them is altar-bound, firm of purpose, admirably pure in intention. If the matrimonials are comparable to conventional novels, the property ads are nothing short of potted sagas, or incisive short stories. The paying guest ads often mask either tragedy, as with those who've been forced to let a stranger into their homes in order to make ends meet, or greed, in the case of those who see a spare room as a shortcut to a quick buck. The rentals reveal the prejudices, hopes and veiled snobbery of the age. "Foreigners only": ergo, the advertiser is either cashing in on the legendary tendency of foreigners to be richer, cleaner and more apt to vacate premises than Indians, or that his house is so perfect that few desis would appreciate the environs. Occasionally it's a smokescreen, with house owners betting that the only Indians who'd dare to call after being warned off are the kind of tenants he's looking for. "Marbled", in Delhi parlance, is shorthand for a landlord with social pretensions, never mind that the marble in question may be cheap, stained or cracked. The erratic distribution of commas has its own charm: bungalow, 4 bed, pretty reasonable, space, was a pretty house with a reasaonable amount of space, not a house available at pretty reasonable rates. There are other appellations: "sun/park facing" could open up vistas of green, or could mean simply that you stare into the neighbourhood dumping ground instead of the neighbour's flat. "Tastefully built" is a tag to watch out for: one man's taste is often another man's kitsch. A request for a "small family" could mean that the landlord doesn't wish to be disturbed by rampaging children, or it could tactfully indicate that the bedrooms are the size of broom closets. Often, the ads become sublime: "Honesty is the best policy. 500m furnished kothi," had me both baffled and fascinated. Did the putative landlord mean that he was an honest man, not to be cheated by shady tenants turned squatters? Or that any tenants would be required, for the length of their stay, to live by Gandhian principles? This one, I think, is a bona fide short story worth pursuing: a phone call should lead, at least, to the first chapter. e-mail: nilroy@lycos.com