Toronto Star

Life in our first apartment is set to a backdrop of Indian pop music

I met my roommate about 16 months ago at a Bollywood dance class.

“Hi, I’m Mona,” a voice croaked beside me.

“Aparita,” I barely managed to blurt out.

We were both sprawled on the floor after a gruelling class, wondering what two 24-year-old professionals were doing there.

We never thought we’d move in together after a few months of knowing each other. But when we did, we brought a little bit of home with us – our mothers’ saris, a splash of colour and goodies from Little India on Gerrard St. E. near Coxwell Ave.

You see, good Indian girls are usually expected to stay with their parents until they settle down – read get married. The only other possible scenario is a job-related relocation.
But that very convenient arrangement suddenly wasn’t working for us.

I needed to prove I could make it out on my own. She needed to cut down on her daily commute from Oakville to Markham.

Our parents, after some initial trepidation, gave us their blessings. Our friends questioned the idea – disaster often strikes when friends turn into roommates.

And we were polar opposites. I was a struggling freelance journalist, she spent long nights at her computer firm. Her favourite store turned out to be the Home Depot, while I loved hanging out on Gerrard St.

But we got along like a house on fire.
We shared the experience of growing up in India, spoke fluent Hindi and loved Bollywood, the Indian moviemaking industry.

Finding the apartment wasn’t an easy task. It had to be conveniently located but affordable. Driving around on the weekends, Mona finally struck gold near Don Mills and York Mills.

“You’ll love it,” she said. “It’s on the 25th floor.”

Mona had already partially moved in the first time I visited “our apartment.”

Maybe it was the anomalous cool June afternoon, but I fell in love with the place – despite the bizarre combination of bland white walls, the temporary neon mauve inflatable couches, the dining set from Wal-Mart and the many, many paint cans (courtesy of Mona’s parents’ basement) strewn all over the floor.

“We have to paint the walls,” I said.

A “spice red” colour nestled in the palette of the dozen half-full paint cans caught our eyes.

Dedicated fans of television decorating shows such as The Decorating Challenge and Trading Spaces, Mona and I had learnt all about being unafraid of colour and playing with textures.

So, in one hot Saturday afternoon, with Bollywood tunes blaring in the background, the empty living room was transformed into a feisty lounge.

Long before we moved in, we’d decided we would have to throw a fantabulous housewarming party.
We begged our mothers for old saris they no longer used. They generously let us loose in their sari trunks full of gorgeous silks and hideous polyesters. We borrowed a sewing machine from Mona’s mother and my mother taught me how to operate it.

I did feel twinges of pain cutting up the silk saris (of course we didn’t take the polyesters) but was immensely happy when I held up my first cushion cover. I stitched up a storm and in two days we had cushion covers and curtains.

The housewarming party was a success. We’d got some decent furniture and accessories by that time, shopping at our favourite stores – Wal-Mart, Zellers and the nearby 24-hour Home Depot.
Special trips to Gerrard St. took care of other essentials such as a pressure cooker and deities for our mini-temple.

Our thoughtful friends brought us some great gifts: A bookcase from Ikea, which now carries Mona’s computer books and my collection of novels; a stainless-steel cutlery set, which was opened at the party itself.

Since that party almost a year ago, we’ve accumulated many more things.

Every other day Mona barges in with a “Look what I got!” As a result, 3-D jigsaw puzzles vie for space alongside elaborate wrought-iron candle stands. Laptops and a desktop computer (which are regularly dismantled and reassembled by Mona) often become bookends or weights for piles of art magazines.

And Mona and I are still great friends. In fact, some mistake us for sisters. Chores divvy themselves up nicely. I cook, she cleans. I sew, she builds water fountains. But there are always Bollywood tunes playing in the background.

As for the apartment – it’s become our home away from home.