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Moving houses should come with a warning label. Like: May cause mild hysteria, ruptured friendships, and permanent mistrust of packing tape.
Day 1: I discover I own 37 teaspoons, 12 mismatched socks, and one saucepan with no lid. Important possessions hide in impossible places. The sock that vanished in 2019? It emerges triumphant from under the mattress.
The checklist lies. “Pack essentials” becomes a philosophical debate at 3 am. Essentials = toothbrush, charger, passport, favourite mug. I pack three mugs. The movers pack the favoured mug first. It dies heroically.
My cats, yes, I have two, treat the boxes as new climbing gyms. They stage a rebellion. The smallest box becomes a throne. They refuse the carrier like rebels refusing a last meal. There is dramatic hissing. I bargain with treats. Democracy wins.
Neighbours appear like concerned NGOs. “Do you need help?” translates to “I will watch and comment.” Someone offers chai. Accept. It’s the only sane currency on moving day.
Furniture assembly is a test of faith. The IKEA manual is actually hieroglyphics for impatient adults. Screws remain. There is always one screw that looks like it escaped from a crime scene. The TV doesn’t fit the cabinet. Curtains refuse to be civil. The sofa injures the doorframe and our dignity.
Paperwork is the villain in disguise. Deposit receipts vanish, the landlord’s memory is selective, and the watchman knows everything and reveals nothing. The gas cylinder requires a prayer, a call, another call, and then an uncle who “knows a guy.”
Also Read: MLA Houses Burnt, Internet Shutdown: Why Is Manipur So Violent Again?
By night three, I can identify every tape brand by smell. Boxes are labelled “Kitchen, fragile” but contain a riot of masalas, tangled fairy lights, and the odd Bollywood poster. I realise “fragile” is aspirational.
Finally, in the new flat, a lone lamp refuses to light. The cats explore their new kingdom. I sit on a box and drink instant coffee like a monarch. The place looks like a modern art installation called Post-Move Chaos.
House-shifting is less an adventure and more a rite of passage. You survive. You lose a spoon. You find three socks. You learn how kind strangers can be. And you finally, gloriously, sleep on a mattress that smells faintly of cardboard and victory.
Sources: Blogger’s own opinion
Find the blogger: Katyayani Joshi
This post is tagged under: house shifting struggles, moving house diaries, adulting in india, relocation chaos, moving day madness, rented house life, indian middle class problems, life in boxes, shifting homes, satire blog india, everyday humour, slice of life writing, relatable indian content, urban survival stories, funny personal blog, real life chaos, millennial genz problems, house move stories
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