A neighbourhood is supposed to be more than just a collection of houses. It’s meant to be a place of belonging, where trust flows naturally, where people watch out for one another. But in recent years, I’ve noticed a worrying shift; our neighbourhoods are slowly turning into commercial playgrounds for opportunists.
Why Do We Buy a Flat in a Residential Area?
Buying a flat isn’t just about owning four walls and a roof. It’s about choosing a community and a way of life. Whether it’s a gated complex or an open residential layout, our expectations usually go beyond the brick and mortar. When we invest in a home, we also invest in trust, harmony, and continuity. That’s the promise of a residential neighbourhood.
Back in the early 1980s, when the Housing Board of West Bengal constructed this urban complex in South Kolkata, my father decided to buy a small studio apartment, just 250 sq ft, for the three of us to call home.
The complex is divided into seven distinct phases, each phase designed with its own character and rhythm. Together, they formed a miniature township within the city. Each phase contained flats of different area types, some modest and compact, meant for nuclear families starting out; others were larger and more spacious, designed for bigger households. This mix created a unique social fabric, where people from varied backgrounds and family sizes coexisted harmoniously.
I grew up in this residential urban complex, one that many Kolkatans still consider for its charm. Spread across a wide expanse of land, it was not just a housing colony but a living, breathing ecosystem. The place was well-known for its lush greenery, age-old trees, wide parks, and open playgrounds that echoed with the laughter of children every evening.
What tied all of it together was the sense of community. Walking through the leafy lanes of the complex, you could feel how thoughtfully it was built - residential yet breathable, organised yet free-spirited. The playgrounds weren’t just stretches of land; they were meeting points where friendships were formed, and memories etched. The parks weren’t just green zones; they were everyday reminders of balance in a busy city.
What went wrong in our complex?
The Administrative System
To understand what came later, one must first know how our complex functioned. Each phase was managed by its own Apartment Owners’ Association (AOA). These associations weren’t just symbolic bodies - they were the backbone of our community.
They raised monthly maintenance, ensured cleanliness of the common areas, paid sweeper salaries, took care of staircase lighting and electricity bills, maintained the pump house, and paid the pumpman. From everyday upkeep to long-term development, the elected board members were responsible for keeping life smooth within each phase.
Then came the so-called Type Committee. To this day, I’ve never quite understood its exact function, apart from meeting once a year and announcing an increase in maintenance charges. After that came the Block-Level Committee, made up of representatives from each building. Their role was to collect maintenance fees and hand them over to the AOA, while also handling building-level needs such as repairs and colouring.
This system, in practice, often created problems. If the representatives were sincere, buildings were well-maintained, and transparency was ensured in collecting and spending funds. But when they were not, or when residents themselves were careless, things quickly went downhill. Non-residents often skipped paying their share of maintenance altogether, creating a shortage. To cover the gap, the burden inevitably shifted onto the diligent payers.
The cracks became most visible during repair works. Suddenly, there would be a shortfall in funds, and those of us who paid regularly were asked to contribute extra. It was frustrating because instead of fairness, we saw inefficiency and a lack of accountability.
Slowly, a group of neighbours began banding together to run what I can only call mini-syndicates. They had their own set of ‘referenced’ contractors, plumbers, and electricians. Even pumpmen, originally hired just to manage the water supply, were rebranded as designated plumbers, taking up jobs they were never really trained for. The outcome was predictable: sloppy work paired with inflated charges. Contractors, too, often fell into the same pattern, delivering substandard quality at high costs, while the network behind them ensured they kept getting work.
Amidst all these disadvantages, we lived in this complex for over two decades before I eventually moved out to pursue my studies and career. Then, in 2015, came news that our small flats would be extended - a redevelopment initiative led by a local councillor who also lived in the complex. Naturally, everyone was excited. After all, who wouldn’t welcome a little more space?
The Rise of the Syndicates
When the extension work finally started, a familiar pattern emerged. The so-called Extension Committee was essentially made up of the same old Block Committee members—only now they were unofficially donning new titles like ‘Treasurer’ or ‘President.’ They took charge of raising lakhs of rupees from residents and owners, selecting vendors, issuing work orders, and maintaining records. In other words, the same network that once oversaw routine building matters was now handling large sums of money and major contracts, with very little external accountability.
Like most residents, we diligently paid whenever contributions were demanded. But when we began to delve deeper, uncomfortable truths came to light. The committees often ignored proper accounting procedures, prioritised work according to their own convenience, and rarely responded to queries about expenditures. Details were hidden, and contribution demands were inconsistent; different residents were asked for different amounts.
Those who couldn’t see through the pattern, especially elderly residents and non-resident owners, were the worst affected. Favourite contractors were repeatedly hired, sloppy work was delivered, and commissions were quietly cut from the funds. At one point, many of us even began to doubt whether the committee members themselves were contributing at all, or whether they were simply cutting from our pockets to line their own.
Over time, it became clear that this was no longer just about community service. Even Apartment Owners’ Association (AOA) members and local councillors seemed to have a stake. Their trusted ‘right-hand’ and ‘left-hand’ men, our very own neighbours, began to act less like fellow residents and more like brokers of greed. They didn’t see us as people to live alongside; they saw us as milch cows, a steady source of contributions and commissions.
Behaviour changed, too. Cordiality gave way to arrogance. Queries about funds were brushed aside, genuine concerns silenced. Some of the very neighbours who were engaged in contracting businesses became the main beneficiaries, securing most of the work. Others, tempted by the easy lure of ‘cut money,’ quickly joined the syndicate-like system.
The Rise of the Brokerage Business
Another troubling trait soon surfaced—these groups weren’t content with just extensions and maintenance. They quietly ventured into the brokerage business. Non-resident owners were often pressured to sell their flats, or ‘assisted’ in finding customers, always through the same network, always for a commission.
Information became their greatest weapon. Local Bihari sweepers, ironing shop owners from Bihar, and other service providers were drawn into the web, feeding the syndicate with details about which flats were locked, who the absentee owners were, and who might be looking to rent or sell. The greed-fuelled network grew stronger with every deal.
Before long, we began noticing a steady inflow of non-Bengali tenants, many of whom had little idea about the culture or ethos of our residential complex. Flats were swiftly being sold or let out, often through these unofficial channels.
And who benefited? The same faces again- AOA members, co-operative members, building committee representatives, all aligned in a system that did nothing but extract commissions.
It was no longer neighbourhood living. It was a brokerage, disguised as community service.
When greed enters through the back door, trust quietly leaves through the front.
When my father bought that tiny 250 sq ft flat in 1983, he was not just investing in a roof over our heads; he was investing in a community. Back then, neighbours meant trust, festivals meant togetherness, and committees meant collective responsibility. Over the decades, I have watched that promise erode. What was once a neighbourhood slowly transformed into a marketplace, run not on values but on commissions.
Many of those who were once friends and companions now treat fellow residents as opportunities to exploit through inflated contracts, cut-money practices, and brokerage deals. The very committees meant to protect community interest have often become syndicates of greed.
My parents, like many others, were jubilant when the extension plan was announced. They had looked forward to a little more space, a little more comfort, after decades of modest living. But what should have been a blessing soon turned into the shock of their lives. The constant pressure, mismanagement, and syndicate-style greed stripped away their sense of belonging. Today, instead of enjoying the home they once cherished, they quietly dream of leaving it behind.
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