A House for Brig Suyash

 

So finally we have moved into our  permanent dwelling at Indore, having led a nomadic life for 47 long years, it was finally time to settle down. Although, in the same breath, there is nothing which is permanent in this world, but still we would like to believe that this is the final destination, or should I say last but one as the final one, we all know takes us beyond the world.

Please don’t get me wrong, this blog is not philosophical, this one is about the trials and tribulations of renovation of the house, which has endured fifteen tears of tyranny of tenants. Let me begin from where the story of House Number 550 actually started. I was posted in Wellington, when this newly constructed four bed room duplex was found by my father, which he found quite suitable for us. I was given two days’ leave to come and sign the title deed, which was managed quite efficiently by the lawyers of course at a price. Parents moved in here along with my younger sibling Sujay’s family who were in Indore during that time. But soon, they moved on to Nagpur and my parents found this too big for the two of them, so moved out into Sujay’s flat in Indore itself. Now the tenants story unfolds, one after the other, this place was ravaged and brutalised by over ten of them, barring the last one who was a retired High Court Judge, ensured that we spent better part of the rent received on its maintenance and upkeep sometimes they left the place infested with termites, sometimes with rats, sometimes with broken doors and windows and sometimes with outstanding rents for months along with unpaid bills for electricity and piped gas connection etc.

Anyway, now that we had finally retired, we decided to renovate it to our tastes and try to undo all the pain which has been inflicted on this poor structure. So it commenced with just the windows to be replaced and a new modular kitchen to be installed but then it gradually took on the complete overhaul of wash rooms, all the doors, windows and installation of a new  railing for the stairs as well. When I realised that I am already spending so much doing it up, I might as well create a small cosy study for myself, where I can seek refuge in the garb of indulging in my favourite pastime from time to time. We thought we could manage it sitting pretty at Mhow without having to get into the pit and getting dirty avoiding the usual duels with the labour with our weekly visits to the site, as it was handed over to a highly recommended architect.

 The work commenced in April and we were expected to be here by mid August, which seemed to be adequate period for it to be completed. But it was end August, we were to vacate the  govt premises allotted and retained as permitted for six months by mid September and the work seemed as good as finished from the outside. So finally we took the plunge on 4th September night, as there were predictions of a heavy spate of rainfall after that. The shifting commenced in the evening and finally culminated at 0400 h in the morning. But the situation seemed overwhelming, as the whole place was piled up with boxes and cartons and the renovation work still seemed to need a couple of days effort.

Now the ordeal began, first the unpacking without our domestic helps and the driver who were with us at Mhow, who had promised to accompany us here, ditched us at the eleventh hour. The fact that the plumber, the electrician, the carpenter and the mason were still around trying to complete their unfinished tasks we were in the pit literally. Each one of them had put in their bit to beautify the place but as we say in the Army, non-adherence to time lines jeopardises the operation. So for the last fifteen days, it is a daily flight of 40 stairs with ten rounds up and down making it quite an exercise in cardio and strengthening of thigh muscles, climbing the tower to check the water tanks on top to descending down to the underground sump, the bourgeois and the proletariat  rolled into one.  My knees are knocking, shoulders are sagging with all the lifting having been caught plumb by the plumber, screwed by the carpenter, the electrician all but electrocuted us in the bargain, it appears as though the architect had her designs on us. This reminds of the cross country runs of the academies, the damn thing just goes on and on, with finish line still not in sight. We are still hopeful that the Glider Dome will soon appear on the horizon, when we can begin sprinting and then savour  the pure bliss of having come out winners. With apologies to Mr  Naipaul for having borrowed and tweaked the title of his  classic “A House for Mr Biswas”, mine can be aptly described as “A House for Brig Suyash”