Kishore Singh: It's never good enough

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Not having overcome the trauma of an Indian lavatory in his apartment in Pune, where he is in college, my son petitioned that he be allowed to move into one with western-style facilities, to which we concurred. After all, apart from shifting the few belongings he called his own in that city, what other expense was there likely to be? We couldn't have been more wrong.

To start with, he wanted a more upmarket address than the one where he had been living, next to his friends and a straight, if not necessarily closer, drive to college. We juggled our budget and made allowances for a higher rent, and our son went house-hunting.

Landlords in Pune, like their counterparts in Delhi, are an inherently insensitive breed who think nothing of asking personal questions "" everything from family income to his marks in the last semester (which, come to think of it, even I don't know). If one would not rent to my son because he ate meat, my son rejected another because the walls were painted green. One wanted him to cook in the spare bathroom (western facilities, mind you), my son insisted on a two-bedroom option with a terrace for parties.

"Scale down your expectations," I told my son, but he wanted a place with a gym in the basement "" "think of the money you'll save on gym fees," he pointed out "" and a swimming pool. The view had to be great, the neighbours genial and non-interfering, and there should be a garage for his bike. Braving Pune's heavy rains and potholed roads, he visited flats on the main road and apartments in housing societies while we watched his wishlist skyrocket till, finally, a suitable place was found.

Advances were paid, papers signed, he served notice to his old landlord, the new landlord wanted to hold a puja before handing over the premises, days passed. Finally, on the weekend he was to move into his apartment, the landlord said sorry, he'd found someone who was willing to pay higher, so...

Because he was to vacate his old flat, my son was now panicky. We had no choice but to sanction another increase in his allowance so he could find another place quick. Fortunately, he did luck in on another flat that met his expectations, if not our budget, and for a second time my son got ready to move in after he'd paid a six-month deposit, a three-month advance on the rent, and hired contractors to make the new but unfinished flat livable.

There was just one hitch. Before the landlord handed over the keys to my son, he wanted to have a tête-à-tête with me. We spoke on the phone. "Your son," he quickly laid down the law, "must pay punctually." Considering that we'd practically paid for the whole year in advance, it seemed an absurd remark to make, but I let it pass. "He must behave like a gentleman," he insisted. "I'll tell him to wear his jeans around his waist," I agreed. "No parties," he continued. "Er, no," I murmured. "No girlfriends," he ticked off his list. "Of course not," I said, crossing my fingers. "No complaints from the neighbours," he finished off. "Oh, absolutely," I breathed in relief, knowing my son had no intention of adhering to the promises I had so rashly made.

Now that he had a place (with a gym, a swimming pool and a garage) to call his own, I phoned my son to tell him I'd like to come visiting once he had settled in. "At least," I said, "I can stay at home with you." "I don't think," my son weighed his words carefully, "this place is good enough for you, so when you come, can we stay in a hotel instead!"