Watching Homebound reminded me of an incident from a few years ago when I was living in Mumbai.
I was endlessly apartment hunting and during one of those exhausting hunts, I met a lovely woman. We clicked and decided to find an apartment together as flatmates.
Weeks passed. We finally found a charming 2BHK in Khar. It felt right. We made an offer and like clockwork, the owner requested a meeting – as they often do in Mumbai, to make sure you’re a “good girl” with a “good job” and no “friends” coming over. You know the drill.
The meeting went well, and he said he’d get back to us the next day.
When he called, I was expecting a simple yes or no. Instead, he said, “You’re fine to stay, but not your friend.”
Confused, I asked why. We were applying together. What was the issue?
He hesitated and mumbled something. I kept pressing, genuinely wondering – was there something he knew that I didn’t?
Then he asked, “What’s her full name?”
I told him.
His tone shifted. “I’m okay with it… but the building-walle won’t allow.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You understand, beta…”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Is she M…Mo…Mohammedan?”
I paused. “What does that mean?”
“You know… her surname is…”
“You mean Muslim? Yes, she is. And?”
“She’s not allowed in this building. I’m okay with it, but the committee isn’t. Sorry.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say.
This was Mumbai. A city I thought was too evolved, too cosmopolitan for this kind of thing. How is this even a normal conversation…?
I replied, “It’s your house. If you’re okay with it, why should anyone else have a problem? Also, would the committee have the same issue if Shah Rukh Khan wanted to live here? Never mind. You can keep your apartment.”
We moved on (angrily). But that interaction stuck with me. And Homebound reminded me of it all over again.
So many of us live in bubbles, far removed from the everyday realities others have to navigate. We take the simplest things for granted. Things that really shouldn’t be “privileges” at all — like the right to a safe home.
What’s in a name, they say?
Apparently, everything.
(And while we’re on the subject, yes, I still prefer calling it Bombay.)
PS. For the record, the discrimination during house-hunting didn’t stop there. Like many women in the city, I was also turned away from countless apartments just because I worked in advertising and had “odd hours”. But maybe that’s a rant for another day.