After six years in the current apartment, I’m moving to a different one, starting March. ( The Boy’s not around for the move so I didn’t say “We’re moving”. )
The apartment I’m moving into is an exact replica of the one I’m currently in – it is in the same tower in the same residential society and rents have fallen approximately INR 9,000 per month. It’s a great time to be a tenant. Except the little niggles, which turn me into a stressed-out control-freak.
This isn’t my first move – I moved from Bombay to Gurgaon in 2008 and then from Gurgaon to Noida in 2010. But then I had Dad to handle the little niggles. Dad’s still around but I’m less inclined to let him handle all the details – as is he. This is the first time I’ve filled the house with so many things though. The mind boggles. I don’t know where to start. I’ve heard of the “mythical” packers and movers who pack up your stuff just the way you’ve st it up at your current residence and move it to the new residence and set it up exactly how it was setup previously. I still have to locate the services of such a vendor and I continue to look.
The family has agreed to pitch in, there are friends who are ready to drop in to move heavy items and there’s a tiny labour force within the residential society that will charge a pittance to move the stuff. That still leaves me in-charge. Leading point. Giving instructions. And I don’t want to. I feel that I’m done with having to take care of all the niggles and that it’s time to bring in the professionals. But this is India and there are “feelings” at stake and everyone wants a piece of the action, even if only to feel helpful. My excuse is that at some point in the future, I don’t want to turn around to the Boy and use this “I moved house alone!” excuse to start an argument. I’m happy to let someone else take point and all the credit. No one’s signed up yet.
The contractor was paid today to procure material for the white-wash and painting. I was enjoying a late-Sunday sleep-in when he rang the doorbell and demanded cash. Luckily I had exactly the amount he was asking for and I sent him on his way, three floors down. In the evening, I dropped by to get his signature on the receipt for the advance payment. He wasn’t available and sounded perplexed on the phone when I told him I needed his signature on the receipt. “What is that madam?”
One of the people working in the apartment told me they’d completed repainting the ceiling, which I checked and confirmed. I asked him what his name is. “Everyone at the village calls me Lamboo.” I told him that is my Dad’s pet name too and has always been because he’s 6’3″. He smiled. I smiled. I walked around in flakes of whitewash and took some photos of the current state of the apartment. I’m going to have to catch hold of the contractor tomorrow. I hope it will be sufficient time for him to create a list of materials he’s supposed to have purchased with the money I’ve already paid him.