Room-Hunting Adventures of Two Puttur Boys(Growing up in Bangalore – Early 80s)

In the early 80s, soon after my B.Sc., when my marks politely hinted that an MSc seat may not exactly roll out a red carpet for me, I decided to pursue Chartered Accountancy. I joined articleship with a young, upcoming and brilliant CA from Puttur, Dakshina Kannada. Our office was in BVK Iyengar Road in the majestic part of Majestic.

Among the other articles was a fellow from Puttur who came from a distinctly poor background but had his eyes firmly on the CA qualification, with ambitions higher than the Himalayas.  His commerce professor had recommended him directly to our CA, back then, the closest thing to a LinkedIn referral.

He had another friend, also from Puttur, who had joined another CA near Yeshwantpur. With a sense of geography based entirely on hope, they decided that somewhere between Yeshwantpur and Majestic would be “equidistant” and therefore perfect. They shortlisted Srirampura and thus began their legendary room hunt, roaming around the streets of Bangalore.

Budget: 180. Ambition: Unlimited.

Our stipend was princely. Thirty rupees a month in the first year. Rising sharply to 45 and then 75 by the third year, surely the RBI must have been tracking this inflation curve.  With support from home, they fixed an outer budget of Rs 180 per month, rent, food, travel, life, future, everything included.

Enter the inevitable broker

After two days of aimless walking, a universal law activated itself: when someone is innocent and helpless, a broker will automatically sense their presence.

He began showing them only houses, never single rooms (for two of them on sharing basis)

Budget demanded: ₹125/-(for 1 room)

Things shown: ₹250/-

His theory was simple: “What’s the problem? Add two more boys. Two sleep in the hall, two in the room. Problem solved.”

Unfortunately, those two extra boys had refused to materialise.

A palace on the terrace

Finally, he showed them a room on the terrace of a house, up a narrow staircase, four walls, nothing else.

“Toilet?” they asked.

“Down.” he said, pleasantly, as if announcing a sea view.

He pushed them to make a quick decision, “too much demand”, “many boys waiting”, “only one room left”, etc.

One of them had wisely carried a brand new cheque book (which would soon get the workout of its life). They negotiated the rent down from 150 to 130 and wrote a token advance cheque of ₹100. Remaining ₹150 “little later”.

The shocking discovery

After seeing a couple of other places, they returned to give the terrace treasure a proper check.

The toilet was under the staircase. You could only enter crouched, never stand. The top and bottom of the door opened, making only your face invisible from outside. Everything else was on public display.

Decision made: absolutely not.

One boy panicked about the cheque.  The other calmly said he had no balance anyway.

In those days, issuing a cheque without sufficient balance wasn’t exactly a federal offence, especially if you hadn’t got anything in return.

Bondas, coffee… and exploitation

The broker sensed their growing dependence cum desperation. He followed up with complaints that they were being “too choosy”. Then demanded they must at least buy him a coffee.

They calculated the cost of a two-by-three coffee with lightning speed and agreed.

The broker walked into the hotel and promptly ordered a bonda for himself.

The boys politely declared they were “diet conscious” and ordered only coffee, while watching him eat his bonda, mouth watering, purse tightening.

Construction tourism

For the next two days, he showed only buildings under construction, assuring them each one would be ready “in one month.” Cheques flew everywhere to “block” rooms with “high demand.”

And then, cultural shock

By now, they were again following him the next morning. Having bonded over 3-4 days of struggle, they finally mustered courage and asked, a step behind him,

“How long do we have to roam like this?”

Without turning, he barked: “Muchkond sumne banro!” (meaning, “Keep your mouth shut and just come along!”)

For boys raised in Puttur, where even children were addressed respectfully, this sudden linguistic thunderbolt was deeply shocking. They fell silent instantly, which, of course, was exactly what the broker wished.

The grand banking moment

By now, the cheque book had been exhausted blocking houses that were neither ready nor intended for them.

At the bank, he requested another cheque book.

The bank clerk, very politely, asked,  “Sir, what happened to the earlier one? Not a single cheque has been presented yet.”

What answer he gave, only God and the bank clerk will know.

From roaming behind a broker like obedient schoolboys to building successful global careers, the journey was anything but comfortable. Yet, those cramped rooms, endless walks, and even that unforgettable Kannada phrase somehow became stepping-stones.

Today, those same boys are anything but struggling articles. One spent his entire professional life in Dubai as a Chartered Accountant, travelling around the world, and is now settled in a sprawling and cosy flat in Bangalore, along with his cat, which was proudly imported from Dubai at a modest expense of only a lakh and a half! He still spends almost half the year on world tours, visiting his two children who are now settled abroad. The other is a successful practicing Chartered Accountant in Bangalore and is deep into real estate, owning large chunks of land around the city.

Looking back, it is hard not to smile, because those two boys who once survived on coffee without bonda are now men with more space than any staircase could ever promise. Sometimes, life really does say “Muchkond sumne banro”…and then quietly escorts you to a far better view.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.