The Mandrake’s Head and the Mandate: Apartment Life Under the Shadow of the Judicial Capital

 

Apartment living was never a choice for me. I was instead pulled by the city that holds Kerala's judicial capital—a non-negotiable professional backdrop to my own domestic migration. The philosophy of migration, even within a state, held true: the pursuit of better professional ground. It began in the late nineties, manifesting as a frantic, daily commute on the Coimbatore Superfast, courtesy KSRTC, departing Kollam at 5 AM. That 'day's caller' routine gradually softened, progressing from a single lodge room to a one-bedroom apartment, then two, and culminating in our current space: a three-bedroom apartment complex.  

The expansion of this new life accelerated recently: I purchased my apartment in 2021, amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, while my son and daughter-in-law acquired the adjacent unit in early 2024. These purchases were driven by strong commercial considerations—easy access to highways and a major super-specialty hospital—all while being located in a quiet, suburban village just north of the city proper.

This northern location is key, reflecting the city's distinct North-South divide, a contrast easily viewed from the High Court's eighth floor. To the south and east, the city explodes with high-rises and its most 'happening' places. But to the north and west, the landscape is defined by the serene beauty of the backwaters and small pockets of forest (save for the stretch along Queen's Way). For us, the choice to reside in the north was obvious: proximity to the High Court topped the list, with lesser financial interference being a close second.

When I made the purchase in 2021, the building was eleven years old; now, it stands in its peak teens—still young and energetic, with an estimated lifespan of 70 to 75 years, subject to local regulations. I have always considered that the promoter’s very inexperience inadvertently contributed to its greatest assets: truly spacious living areas and an expansive extent of common space. Even today, based purely on the criterion of apartment and common area space, this building can confidently contest its two newer neighbors, which were constructed by far more experienced, yet less generous, developers.

Our recent General Body Meeting barely met the minimum quorum, with attendees consisting mostly of the Management Committee members themselves. During the proceedings, the anguish of the Committee was laid bare. The loudest cry, echoing among all the office bearers, was the perennial issue: the non-contribution of common expenses. It felt as if they desperately wanted to hand over the Mandrake’s head—this curse of responsibility—to any willing attendee. Personally, I found it staggering that the absentees didn't seem to realize their 'little child' in its early teens was dying prematurely, or perhaps, that this profound lack of interest was capable of slowly killing this magnificent asset.

Yet, despite these daunting challenges, many individuals—fully aware they were boarding a sinking ship, a Titanic of management issues—courageously joined hands to help address the situation. The entire system, however, is based on a precarious foundation of voluntarism. A resident, for instance, is capable of defaulting on a common expense contribution of ₹2,000 dating back to 2015 without facing any immediate penalty. While penal consequences have often been suggested, they are ineffective, as the association is essentially structured as a charitable society dependent on voluntary subscription. More practically, it acts merely as a service provider without a written contract, meaning any recourse to general law for debt recovery would involve litigation where the cost significantly exceeds the subject matter itself. Considering the immense expenditure of time and energy, pursuing litigation, absent a personal vendetta, is simply not an option.

As a former office bearer, I must confess that I do not wish to paint the entire community grey; I have personally experienced their generosity in voluntarily contributing to many common causes. The true problem is not with the residents themselves, but with the underlying system. The State Government has been perpetually brooding over apartment ownership laws without establishing proper regulations—whether this delay is willful or negligent, only time will tell. Regardless, an immediate cure is necessary. This is a matter where the judicial capital cannot afford to wait for the state capital to act.

The debilitating concept of voluntarism must end and be replaced by mandatorism. All essential repairs must be treated as specific projects, each requiring a proper budget and the dispassionate application of a 'carrot and stick' approach for the collection of common expenses. Despite the government's delay in regulation, the existing apartment ownership laws can still be leveraged to transform the association of allottees into a statutory body. This would grant the association the power to create a legal charge (or lien) over the apartments of defaulters without costly and protracted litigation. By establishing such an enforced system, the early birds who pay their common expenses diligently will finally have the last laugh, securing the value and future of their magnificent asset.

Ultimately, the story of my apartment complex mirrors the larger socio-legal challenges facing Kochi's urban landscape. This necessary transition from a life of daily migration to a life of settlement—from a lodge room to a three-bedroom asset—is currently jeopardized not by the lack of community spirit, but by regulatory inertia. Only by embracing mandatory, statutory enforcement can the residents secure the future of this splendid asset, ensuring that the relentless journey that brought us here was not in vain. This systemic critique provides the necessary context, but the true essence of this domestic migration lies within the walls of this suburban village, and it is there we must now turn our focus.