“There is a man, you don’t know him, they call him The Donald,” an earnest Mumbai real-estate broker began explaining. “But I call him Donald Trump. Only because see that’s his whole name, so out of respect. He’s coming to Bombay in a way, with a bang, with such a big bang, that other builders’ buildings will just collapse – ground will shake out of fear, I’m telling you, boss. They will stop building and run away. Game over.”
I inquired where this Donald Trump, whoever he was, was building his explosive tower. “I will not tell you,” said the broker confidently, adding, “In Worli”. And then, “It is top secret. I WILL NOT show you because once you see it you will not be able to control yourself. How will I explain to your wife that sir went mad?” Then a three second pause. “You want to see it now?”
Everyone knows Mumbai real estate is the most expensive in the country. Perhaps (no definitely) among the most expensive in the world. In some ways, no different than any home-buying experience. You commit your life to a bank loan, you question, was this the right place? Is this where I will age with my wife, children, parents? Um, are these the right wife, children, parents (damn, last one I can’t even replace)? And as one gets older, is this it? Life? Just paying this off? Time passing as my dreams crumble, my asset appreciates balanced against RBI’s fickle rate changes vis a vis inflation?
Anyway, the fundamental difference between elsewhere and here is a tiny technical one: there is no actual place to buy.
Tokyo, London, New York, Hong Kong, Mumbai’s competitors in real-estate prices, have an odd logic to buying and selling property. Apparently, it is there. You go see it, you like it, you can afford it – you buy it or take a loan. You move in. A shockingly simple notion (and therefore impossible to understand in India).
In Mumbai, apartments are bought on the basis of brochures that promise to improve your self worth (“Let your residence announce your worth”, “Because you are luxury”). Most importantly, they are bought on a belief system. (“He’s a reputed builder. No cases and he actually has buildings,” a broker told me.) Ideally a combo: photo, faith packaged with a great story (“Security will be managed by former RAW officers”, “Ajay Devgn bought the penthouse just to do yoga here.” “Donald Trump is smiling – what more do you want?”). They are never ever bought because it is there.
Existing homes are by and large impossible to afford because they are priced at whatever an owner wants to price it at – which is a number basically equal to a number he’d like to win at lottery. So there aren’t neighbourhoods of standard-ish prices. What there is, is a home owner saying, “I feel my 300-square-foot 1 BHK is worth Rs 200 crores because as you can see there is a bird outside the window. Plus, it is actually here so that makes it 10 times worth. Ignore the iron bars – it was a jail earlier. This is Mumbai. What else can you expect?” As an aside, BHK are not the initials of a Korean diplomat but stand for Bedroom, Hall, Kitchen – though often so tiny, it is hard to distinguish which is which.
The arguments everyone knows. Mumbai is the commercial capital, space crunch, everyone wants to be here. India’s New York blah blah. What that means for the middle-class homebuyer is that when he buys a home based on a good story, the actual home will perhaps be ready by his 180th birthday.
Some of the current hit stories are these. Donald Trump. Just him. Telling us to be like him which, if one believes hoardings across the city, is to be extremely wealthy with orange hair and a smile suggesting he’s kidnapped a relative and is rather happy with the ransom. His buildings are many things, shiny, golden, mirrored, like a mall in Dubai. Which is why it is a bit of a shock that it took this long for this story to come to Mumbai because India has had similar tastes in décor ever since Sindhi housewives started decorating.
Other stories that sell residential projects range from Aishwarya Rai carrying flowers (who wouldn’t live there, even if you have no idea if she comes with a building or not), photos of gloved butlers (because hands are passé), some reference to Armani doing interiors.
Or the story, like I said earlier about self-worth (“Be above others. Look down at them” with attached stock photo of someone in a very nice graphic literally looking down.) Sometimes the story is other world cities, so “Let Venice come to you”(which would mean you’d need a boat). The actor Bipasha Basu once did a TV ad for a thing called Provence Gurgaon where the story to the best of my knowledge, seemed just to be the name of a place in France, next to the word Gurgaon. I can’t wait for Paris, Surat.
The real story will of course be different. The buyer, paying EMIs, will watch things go from plinth to floor at about the same pace as Prince Charles waits for the monarchy. He’ll reread the brochure with the words “You are luxury” at his rented flat, hoping this or that litigation doesn’t stall a process that has already taken most of his, and his kids’ adult life.
As a friend said, “They should do a real ad of an Indian tower. Some housewife shouting at a watchman. Some society meeting coming to blows over petty politics and unpaid dues. Water tankers. Caesar-like conspiracies over parking. Some wall leaking, some touch sensor Dutch elevator technology malfunctioning in the monsoons so you have to walk down 130 floors.”
Nobody wants to see that.
They want pdfs of people roaming around in some idyll. Forests, waterfalls, children, Mercedes cars, Aishwarya Rai. And believe that it can be Mumbai.
And they’ll spend about the same for the story that could otherwise get them an actual nine-bedroom house in some foreign country that they could move into a week before they even paid.
“Sure you can,” a builder friend explained. “But what we are selling Mumbai is a dream. And dreams are priceless”.
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I inquired where this Donald Trump, whoever he was, was building his explosive tower. “I will not tell you,” said the broker confidently, adding, “In Worli”. And then, “It is top secret. I WILL NOT show you because once you see it you will not be able to control yourself. How will I explain to your wife that sir went mad?” Then a three second pause. “You want to see it now?”
Everyone knows Mumbai real estate is the most expensive in the country. Perhaps (no definitely) among the most expensive in the world. In some ways, no different than any home-buying experience. You commit your life to a bank loan, you question, was this the right place? Is this where I will age with my wife, children, parents? Um, are these the right wife, children, parents (damn, last one I can’t even replace)? And as one gets older, is this it? Life? Just paying this off? Time passing as my dreams crumble, my asset appreciates balanced against RBI’s fickle rate changes vis a vis inflation?
Anyway, the fundamental difference between elsewhere and here is a tiny technical one: there is no actual place to buy.
Tokyo, London, New York, Hong Kong, Mumbai’s competitors in real-estate prices, have an odd logic to buying and selling property. Apparently, it is there. You go see it, you like it, you can afford it – you buy it or take a loan. You move in. A shockingly simple notion (and therefore impossible to understand in India).
In Mumbai, apartments are bought on the basis of brochures that promise to improve your self worth (“Let your residence announce your worth”, “Because you are luxury”). Most importantly, they are bought on a belief system. (“He’s a reputed builder. No cases and he actually has buildings,” a broker told me.) Ideally a combo: photo, faith packaged with a great story (“Security will be managed by former RAW officers”, “Ajay Devgn bought the penthouse just to do yoga here.” “Donald Trump is smiling – what more do you want?”). They are never ever bought because it is there.
Existing homes are by and large impossible to afford because they are priced at whatever an owner wants to price it at – which is a number basically equal to a number he’d like to win at lottery. So there aren’t neighbourhoods of standard-ish prices. What there is, is a home owner saying, “I feel my 300-square-foot 1 BHK is worth Rs 200 crores because as you can see there is a bird outside the window. Plus, it is actually here so that makes it 10 times worth. Ignore the iron bars – it was a jail earlier. This is Mumbai. What else can you expect?” As an aside, BHK are not the initials of a Korean diplomat but stand for Bedroom, Hall, Kitchen – though often so tiny, it is hard to distinguish which is which.
The arguments everyone knows. Mumbai is the commercial capital, space crunch, everyone wants to be here. India’s New York blah blah. What that means for the middle-class homebuyer is that when he buys a home based on a good story, the actual home will perhaps be ready by his 180th birthday.
Some of the current hit stories are these. Donald Trump. Just him. Telling us to be like him which, if one believes hoardings across the city, is to be extremely wealthy with orange hair and a smile suggesting he’s kidnapped a relative and is rather happy with the ransom. His buildings are many things, shiny, golden, mirrored, like a mall in Dubai. Which is why it is a bit of a shock that it took this long for this story to come to Mumbai because India has had similar tastes in décor ever since Sindhi housewives started decorating.
Other stories that sell residential projects range from Aishwarya Rai carrying flowers (who wouldn’t live there, even if you have no idea if she comes with a building or not), photos of gloved butlers (because hands are passé), some reference to Armani doing interiors.
Or the story, like I said earlier about self-worth (“Be above others. Look down at them” with attached stock photo of someone in a very nice graphic literally looking down.) Sometimes the story is other world cities, so “Let Venice come to you”(which would mean you’d need a boat). The actor Bipasha Basu once did a TV ad for a thing called Provence Gurgaon where the story to the best of my knowledge, seemed just to be the name of a place in France, next to the word Gurgaon. I can’t wait for Paris, Surat.
The real story will of course be different. The buyer, paying EMIs, will watch things go from plinth to floor at about the same pace as Prince Charles waits for the monarchy. He’ll reread the brochure with the words “You are luxury” at his rented flat, hoping this or that litigation doesn’t stall a process that has already taken most of his, and his kids’ adult life.
As a friend said, “They should do a real ad of an Indian tower. Some housewife shouting at a watchman. Some society meeting coming to blows over petty politics and unpaid dues. Water tankers. Caesar-like conspiracies over parking. Some wall leaking, some touch sensor Dutch elevator technology malfunctioning in the monsoons so you have to walk down 130 floors.”
Nobody wants to see that.
They want pdfs of people roaming around in some idyll. Forests, waterfalls, children, Mercedes cars, Aishwarya Rai. And believe that it can be Mumbai.
And they’ll spend about the same for the story that could otherwise get them an actual nine-bedroom house in some foreign country that they could move into a week before they even paid.
“Sure you can,” a builder friend explained. “But what we are selling Mumbai is a dream. And dreams are priceless”.
