The Birth of a Housing Society
The Birth
of a Housing Society
There was
once a family so perfectly balanced that it could have impressed a
statistician. Two brothers lived together under one roof with their wives and
children—each couple blessed with one son and one daughter. As a result, the
household consisted of two men, two women, two boys, and two girls: a neat
arithmetic harmony.
This
demographic symmetry wasn’t accidental. It was a continuation of their late
father’s dying advice: “Stay together, come what may.” And so they
did—living as a joint family, rationing food, milk, vegetables, and even sweets
with a discipline that could put government planners to shame. They were not
rich, but they had enough to maintain their household and sustain their smiles.
Their modest grocery business brought neither joy in a boom nor anxiety in a
slump; it simply kept the family afloat with quiet consistency.
Both
families were non-vegetarian, though the wives had initially declared
abstinence from mutton and chicken after marriage—out of newly-wedded piety,
perhaps. That resolve lasted two years, until their husbands, tired of cooking
meat themselves, gently requested them to resume their old food habits. The
request was met not with hesitation but with delight; apparently, they had only
been waiting for the invitation.
And thus,
this minor culinary discord melted away—almost as if, for the first time, the
fragrance of true harmony had wafted through the joint family kitchen.
The
children were still quite young—the youngest only five. As they grew, one
wondered if they had learnt the rules of good behaviour even before they were
born, for they behaved as if discipline came pre-installed. The eldest, a
fifteen-year-old girl, was blossoming into a confident and graceful young
woman, earning a reputation as an all-rounder, with a particular flair for
cooking and painting.
Everything
in that household operated in perfect harmony—until one looked a little closer.
The elder
brother, Sushant, was a maverick. He questioned old customs, challenged
superstitions, and preferred logic over ritual. His younger brother, Sumant,
was gentler and more accommodating. Domestic peace was largely maintained by
Binoo, Sushant’s devout wife, who balanced her husband’s rationalism with an
excess of religiosity—sometimes even overriding him.
Yet
Sushant held firm on two non-negotiable principles: (1) The family would
worship only the deities their father had worshipped—no new Babas, no
self-styled Gurujis. (2) They would never sell their father’s ancestral land to
any builder or developer.
In
hindsight, Sushant sensed a strange chain of cause and effect—first, the
emergence of new gods; then, the breakdown of joint families; and, somewhere in
between the two, bulldozers replacing ancestral bungalows with matchbox flats.
As it transpired, both his cherished principles would soon be tested—and
weakened.
When
Sushant had formulated those must-directives, everyone had agreed with him. The
principles looked innocuous enough—like hanging a garland of lemons and green
chillies, or an ash gourd, at the doorstep to ward off evil eyes.
However,
soon thereafter, Minoo, Sumant’s wife, introduced a new spiritual flavour to
the household, conveniently ignoring Sushant’s edict. It began with her hanging
a wall calendar featuring Shri Shri Guruji Babaji, who lately had been seen on
the walls and in the puja rooms of others.
Minoo’s
father was an avid devotee of Guruji Babaji, whose socio-spiritual empire was
rapidly expanding through networking and strategic squatting on government
land. Minoo claimed her father’s asthma disappeared as soon as he received
Babaji’s mantra and a vial of “magic water” from his ashram. Naturally, she
wished her husband to follow the same divine path—for the glory of the family
and its business.
Sumant
hesitated. “I can’t become anyone’s disciple without my elder brother’s
permission,” he said.
So Minoo
approached Sushant directly. She knew he was fond of her—always calling her Chhoti
Bahu—and hoped her plea would melt his heart. She spoke of her father’s
miraculous recovery with tearful conviction.
Sushant
listened patiently and smiled. “Look, Chhoti Bahu,” he said gently,
“thanks to our father’s blessings, no one in this family suffers from asthma.
So, Guruji Babaji has no assignment here.”
Days
later, Sumant came armed with fresh testimonials—one devotee of Guruji Babaji
had won a lottery, another had been reinstated after suspension. Sushant
chuckled. “We’re neither gamblers nor government servants. We run a grocery
store. Tell your Guruji to bless those who buy lottery tickets or face
departmental inquiries.”
No amount
of persuasion worked. Babaji remained outside the gates.
Then came
another tempter—the builder. He told the ladies that their neighbour had sold
his plot in exchange for two flats in a new apartment complex. “Imagine,” he
said, “private kitchens, personal balconies—your own space!” The idea spread
like wildfire through the family.
When
Sushant heard the whispers, he remained unmoved. “Why do we need two flats when
the existing six rooms already house eight people?” he reasoned. “Look how
exhausted the ladies are maintaining one house—imagine the burden of two!”
Finally,
the builder himself called on Sushant, only to be turned away at the door. The
atmosphere grew tense. All their ambitions to “move forward” were thus thwarted
by the elder brother, the senior-most member of the joint family. Such a
hindrance!
Not long
after, a new visitor appeared—a man claiming to be Guruji Babaji’s senior
disciple and astrologer-in-chief to several powerful politicians. He spoke with
ominous calm:
Your
household lacks peace, and this is a recent development. An unseen malevolent
force is creeping into your home. As is often the case, it first causes
discord, then financial hardship, and ultimately illness. Only our Guruji
Babaji can prevent this.
When
Sushant scoffed, the man mentioned migraines among the afflictions Babaji could
heal. Ironically, Sushant did suffer from migraine attacks. Out of curiosity—or
perhaps politeness—he accepted a small bottle of “blessed water.”
A week
later, the disciple returned for feedback.
“There’s
some effect,” Sushant said vaguely, eager to end the exchange.
“Then,”
said the man eagerly, “accept Guruji Babaji as your Guru. His divine halo will
cure everything—and then you’ll live happily forever.”
This
time, Sushant lost his temper. “You people are trying to trap my family into
your cult. It won’t work!”
But alas!
Before leaving, the man dropped a bombshell:
“Your
younger brother Sumant has already accepted Babaji’s mentorship. He’s even
climbed a few rungs in Guruji Babaji’s spiritual hierarchy—and receives a
stipend from the new devotees’ offerings!”
The
revelation shook the household. Confronted, Sumant admitted the truth. Tension
boiled over.
The very
next day, the builder reappeared—offering the same tempting deal: two flats, not
a rupee's worth of investment. Weary of conflict and wary of further
manipulation, Sushant relented, and the ancestral land was handed over. The
builder housed the family in a rented place at his own expense, demolished the
old home, completed the construction within eighteen months, and finally handed
Binu and Meenu the keys to two gleaming flats—ready for occupation.
Months
later, the bitter irony surfaced: whispers circulated that the “ace disciple”
of Babaji—armed with astrological acumen—had also received a flat as his
commission for convincing the brothers to sell their homestead plot. He was, in
fact, Minoo’s father’s trusted agent or proxy, although the truth about that
ownership remained neatly buried for the time being.
The joint
family still lived together—but now divided by concrete walls instead of
invisible harmony. Instead of one kitchen, two kitchens became operational! Though
they continued to sit together at meals, there was a doubt about how long this
arrangement would last. It was open to doubt whether such
an arrangement would endure! The builder profited by crores; the disciple
gained a flat; and Guruji Babaji acquired two new followers—along with a
generous donation.
When the
brothers moved into their separate flats, Binoo and Minoo handled the shifting,
while Sushant focused on two sacred installations—the family deity and their
father’s photograph. Both were carried to his flat: God to remain under Binoo’s
care, and Father to adorn Sushant’s bedroom wall.
Sumant,
meanwhile, installed an expensive portrait of Shri Shri Guruji Babaji in his
new divine room, inaugurating it with chants and offerings. Babaji
himself blessed the occasion with a recorded video message, later posted on
social media, where it attracted millions of views. In the caption, Minoo
claimed to have collected Bibhuti dust from the sacred portrait of their
most revered mentor. How blessed they were!
Luckily,
Sushant fell ill on that holy day—sparing himself the ordeal of attending the
installation ceremony of Shri Shri Guruji Babaji. Lying in bed, he found
himself unable to imagine what the future might hold, however hard he tried.
Weeks
later, sitting in his plush new living room, Sushant smiled wryly.
“So,” he murmured, “Babaji did perform a miracle after all—he converted a joint
family into a housing society.”
They were
still discussing a name for the society—preferably one beginning with the
prefix Guruji Babaji.
---------------------------------
By
Ananta Narayan Nanda
30/10/2025
Bhubaneswar
-----------------------------------
Visit the following Amazon links for the ebook of the author's The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail
https://amzn.in/d/02gtbab
Visit the following Amazon links for the paperback of the author's The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail
https://amzn.in/d/8u41U6Y
Labels: short story
posted by The Unadorned | 8:48 PM
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