Jaani Dushman

Usually, when one looks for a home in India, one pays attention to the neighborhood, proximity to work-school, size of the bedrooms, state of the toilets, and the water and power supply situation. Some people may even consider Vaastu compliance.

Mom looks for none of these.

When she walks into a home, her gaze invariably falls on the floor. She isn’t particular about the flooring material or its color; instead, her sharp eyes scan the surroundings for lizard droppings.

“Eeeww, gross!” she exclaimed in one house as she gingerly stepped over the porch. “Yikes!” she yelled in another house as she opened a closet. “Hmm!” she sighed resignedly in a third house as she inspected a bathroom.

“Why are you standing outside?” asked dad from the foyer of a brand new bungalow to let with a servant room and a two-car garage. “Have you seen the house already?”

“I’ve seen enough,” shuddered mom, pointing to an offending dropping between dad’s feet. “Look at the size of that. It was made either by a rat or a lizard the size of Terri.”

“I will show you best house saar,” said a realtor confidently last week, striding up to a freshly painted house with a dark green lawn and an entryway set in speckled granite. The doors opened to reveal an open kitchen as large as the one in the humans’ former home, along with the perfect alcove to fit the piano they had lugged across the seas.

Gleaming tiles beckoned mom, and after a cursory glance at the entryway, she raced inside to admire the woodwork in the kitchen, complete with frosted glass cabinet fronts and recessed lighting.

“Look,” pointed grandma, opening a drawer under the hob. “They’ve installed wire baskets instead of wooden shelves. Very sensible. That way you’ll have less cockroaches.”

“Madam, please note Aquaguard unit is already there,” pointed the realtor. “Also, hot water geyser in kitchen.”

Leaving grandma to inspect the rest of the cupboards in the kitchen, mom and dad flitted through the three rooms and a study, noting the abundant storage, split airconditioners and sunlight streaming into the rooms.

As dad discussed trivialities with the realtor, such as the rent and deposit, mom joined grandma who was still admiring the wire baskets in the kitchen.

“Tamilian owners only,” commented grandma.

“How do you know?”

“See? There’s a tulsi plant in the garden.”

Too preoccupied to argue about Tamilians owning copyright for tulsis, mom bent down to open the cabinet under the sink. Reaching for the brass knob, she recoiled in horror, for there on the knob and on the floor under the sink, were remnants of a lizard lounge bar - the worst she had seen so far.

Mom’s screams reverberated through the quiet neighborhood.

Blabbering incoherently about the dimensions of the droppings and their sheer multitude, she was escorted to the car with a shawl wrapped around her shaking shoulders.

“I’ll get back to you,” said dad grimly to the stunned realtor standing on the sidewalk.

As the car pulled into the main road and merged into bottleneck traffic, mom composed herself. Stifling her sobs, she noted a vein throbbing in dad’s neck and the determined set of his jaw as he stared resolutely ahead, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“The neighborhood was nice though. No?” she placated, trying to gauge the extent of his aggravation.

No response.

“The house was also nice, but it didn’t have a puja room, and there was no mirror in one of the bathrooms. I'm not sure it would've worked for us ...” she trailed off, looking out the window the rest of the way home.