“Boxes, Broomsticks & Broken Mugs: The Great PG to Flat Shift”

If adulthood had an obstacle course, shifting houses would be the ‘final boss level’. And I, armed with my 2 steel dabba boxes, a dying Bluetooth speaker, and dreams of peace, decided to conquer it.

So yes, I’ve finally moved out of my PG. Cue emotional violin music. Goodbye, tiny room with peeling walls, one suspicious window, and a fan that only worked when begged. You were... functional. Barely. Now, I’m in a FLAT. A whole flat. With rooms. Plural. A balcony. A door that doesn’t creak like it’s auditioning for Conjuring 4. Basically, luxury.

But before you romanticize this adulting milestone, allow me to burst the bubble with the utter nonsense that is: MOVING DAY.

📦 The Packing Delusion

The night before shifting, I confidently said, “I don’t have much stuff yaar, just 3 bags and some kitchen items.”

LIE.

Turns out, I’d been living on top of an active junkyard. Every drawer I opened had forgotten memories and forks I never bought. Lipsticks I never wore, single socks, chargers that belong to extinct devices, and 9 different notebooks with only the first 3 pages written.

At 2 AM, my PG room looked like the aftermath of a break-up — boxes, wrappers, tears (mine), and the eternal question: “Why do I have 5 water bottles when I only have one mouth?”

🛻 The Auto Ride of Doom

I finally called an auto. The driver looked at my luggage, looked at me, and asked, “Madam, you shifting your home or opening a kirana shop?”

Ha. Ha. So original.

After strapping my existence onto one auto, I climbed in, only to be violently reminded of Indian roads, every bump tossing my mug collection and my patience out of balance.

Somewhere between Bandra and my new flat, I held a carton of Maggi like it was a baby. Priorities.

🧹 Flat First Impressions: Dust & Disappointment

When I opened the door to my flat, I expected a Pinterest-y fresh start. But what I got was:

• A lonely lizard claiming the wall.

• 3 cobwebs conducting a group meeting.

• And enough dust to start a desert.

Welcome home, Shravani.

I dropped my bags, stood in the middle of the chaos, and whispered the ancient adult mantra: “Chalo, let’s get to work.”

🪣 Cleaning is Cardio

There is no gym session more intense than deep cleaning a flat in Indian humidity. I swept, I swabbed, I cried. I made the tragic mistake of using Harpic on floor tiles and then skated across the hall like a clumsy ballerina.

Every cloth I used turned black. Every corner had secrets. And every time I thought I was done, I’d find another betrayal: a dead insect under the sink, or a cupboard that smelled like regret.

I started naming the broom. His name is Bholu now. We’ve seen things together.

🍽️ Kitchen: The Battlefield

Setting up the kitchen felt like prepping for a war I wasn’t trained for.

Do I put the pressure cooker here? Or here? Wait, why do I own 3 tavas?

By the end of it, all my masala packets had trust issues, and I had lost the will to live.

I put all the cutlery in one drawer, closed it, and called it design.

🛏️ Furniture? In this economy?

The bed arrived after 3 hours of delay. It came in 75 pieces. No one told me IKEA-level trauma was included for free.

After wrestling with nuts, bolts, and my own sanity, I gave up and slept on a mattress on the floor like a heartbreak victim in a 2000s Bollywood movie.

But it was peaceful. My spine? Not so much.

😑 The Final Straw? Wi-Fi Setup

I called the Wi-Fi guy.

Me: “Hello sir, connection chahiye. Jaldi.”

Him: “Madam, kal dekhte hain.”

Kal. That cursed word.

Without Wi-Fi, I stared at walls. I had conversations with my water bottle. I read shampoo ingredients. I considered calling my ex just for drama.

Eventually, I hotspot-ted from my phone and survived.

🌱 The Little Joys

But somewhere in that chaos — in the dust, in the DIY disasters, in the completely crooked wall painting I tried to hang — I felt it.

This was my space.

The khat-khat of the washing machine, the mismatched bedsheets, the balcony with dying plants I’ll probably forget to water... it’s all mine.

And guess what? That first solo cup of chai, made in my new flat, tasted like independence, caffeine, and a mild identity crisis.

🛋️ So, in Conclusion?

Shifting from a PG to your own flat is like switching from training wheels to a unicycle on a highway.

It’s painful, chaotic, expensive, and mildly ridiculous.

But it’s also magical. Messy, but magical.

Because now, when I trip over my own unpacked bags, I do it in my own house. And that, my friend, is peak adulting.