The Pinterest Pipe Dream
The Woman from Madras Musings is currently in a state of suspended animation. Her new home – under construction for the past few years – is finally entering the finishing phase. The walls are up, the wiring is almost done, and every time she visits the site, workers are either drilling things, welding other things, or measuring each other’s head sizes with tape and collapsing into giggles. (They had wanted to buy helmets.)
For her part, WMM has turned her attention to interior design – that delicate art of dreaming in Pinterest while budgeting in rupees. WMM’s vision is clear; the home would be minimalist, elegant, and easy to clean. The Better Half’s vision is also clear, and unfortunately features a home theatre with ‘reclining seats and surround sound’ and a bar unit inspired by a Goa shack he once saw online.
“Let’s make the terrace a party deck,” he declared one evening.
“What about rain?” WMM asked.
“We’ll get one of those… sloping things.”
“You mean a roof.”
“Yes, that.”
Thinking it would be easier to plan if ideas were organized, WMM put together a spreadsheet and titled it ‘New House Design Plan’. Neat and colour-coded, it had a tab for each room, with distinct sections to record the ‘Estimated Cost (Realistic)’ for wall finishes, furniture, furnishings and decor. By day 3, it mutated into a creature of chaos with merged cells, frantic question marks, and a new column titled ‘Cheaper Alternatives’.
In the meantime, design ideas are pouring in from all directions. Her friend (who is very proud of his modular kitchen) sent photos of his entire house at golden hour, filtered and annotated with laminate brand names. Neighbour aunty suggests having “at least one Chettinad pillar with carving – for tradition and beauty.” An aunt dropped off a catalogue for a brand WMM’s never heard of. “German wardrobes,” she said. “Full shutter. Lifetime warranty. Just go see.”
And then there is the contractor, who tends to grunt disapprovingly at every idea WMM offers.
“You want wall-mounted toilet, madam? Trouble later. Pipe will burst and all this nice tile will go.”
“You want solar water heater for the kitchen sinks, madam? Pipe will burst and everything will go.”
“You want false ceiling, madam? It will fall on your head only and you will go.”
WMM has resorted to routing requests through the architect.
Meanwhile, a new, unexpected design element has emerged. The workers – presumably the plumbers, electricians and tile layers – are drawing doodles on the unpainted walls. Small charcoal sketches have appeared of flowers, puppies, and bald grandpas. In one corner, someone has written (in painstaking, curling Tamil script): “Respect all gods. Allah, Jesus, Murugan – all same if heart is good.” On another wall, a matching slogan in Hindi urges everyone to “Love all, serve all.” WMM will feel sorry to paint over these when the time comes, she thinks.
After much ado, WMM has settled for prioritizing the practical over Pinterest. She’s decided on a simple black granite for the kitchen and bathrooms, laminated shutters instead of duco paint for the cabinets and wardrobes, and double curtain rods in place of hidden pelmets. She’s also vetoed B.H’s bar unit (now relegated to the party deck on the terrace) and has allowed him to choose three pieces of decor from a pre-approved shortlist.
There is, of course, the matter of the guest room, which is currently functioning as a mental landfill of ideas: Murphy bed? Study desk? Second TV? Meditation space? For now, it remains TBD.
In her quieter moments – usually at 3 am while scrolling through lighting options – WMM allows herself a little joy. She’s getting herself a dedicated library for her books. A comfortably sized dining table. A puja room that is clutter-free and relatively private. A home that increasingly feels like her – imperfect but evolving, and her very own.
The case of the vanishing messages
The Woman from Madras Musings has long held the belief that apartment WhatsApp groups are society’s greatest experiment in controlled chaos. Where else, after all, can one find birthday wishes, tiffin photos, blood donation requests, dog complaints, and urgent plumbing emergencies – all within the same ten-minute window?
But nothing could have prepared her for the latest invention in her current building – a WhatsApp group called ‘Watchman Time,’ so that the building watchman (a.k.a Big Brother) can keep residents informed about his schedule. In short, if BB needs to step away for tea, lunch, or mysterious errands, he is to simply drop a message in the group.
A good idea in theory, except for the fact that BB is the group admin. The day the group was created, he immediately changed the icon to a photo of himself posing by the building gate, and added a few stars and hearts to the group name.
The same day, a voice note appeared from F201. WMM never got to hear it though – BB deleted it as soon as it appeared. F101 posted a message. Deleted. BB then put up a stern text – ‘Use only for my timings. Don’t misuse. Thank you.’ He proceeded to delete this too, albeit after a few minutes. The only messages surviving in the group are those from BB announcing his tea breaks for the day.
In the beginning, a few residents thought friendly messages would help break the ice.
“Tea good today?” asked Mrs D once.
Deleted.
Now no one dares post anything on the group except for BB, whose updates have taken on a tinge of flair. “Lunch going. Don’t leave gate open. Dog comes. Peace goes.” “Tea break from 11.54 to 12.21. Day is hot. Mind is cool.”
WMM reads BB’s updates with the respect one gives haiku – the messages are cryptic, emotional, and on occasion, oddly meditative. The man has evolved from watchman to philosopher-moderator, silently guarding not just our gate but the integrity of digital communication.
She sometimes wonders what would happen if she simply typed “Good morning.” But she doesn’t dare.
Detour tour
The Woman from Madras Musings woke up one day and decided to go to the bank. It is only fifteen minutes away, a simple enough drive. But that was when the city used to follow straight roads and predictable turns.
WMM set off cheerfully enough, only to be redirected down an unfamiliar road. Google Maps blinked. ‘Turn left,’ it said. WMM did, and reached a dead end. She had to make a U-turn in that narrow lane, amongst an audience comprising two boys eating lollipops, a lady with a water pot and an uncle leaning interestedly over his gate. When she reached the main road once again, she sought the policeman’s help. He waved her in another direction altogether, and WMM obeyed without question. Three minutes later, she found herself at a large wedding hall that she had never seen before.
By the time WMM reached the bank, she had developed a philosophical acceptance of Chennai’s traffic destiny. There is no ‘route’ anymore – every drive is henceforth a quest.
– WMM