New Digs

That oh-so-perfect pad I wrote about last month? I moved out.

My new digs are cheaper and more comfortable. I share a three-bedroom apartment with Ben and Nathan, an Aussie and Brit I met at the Krishnamacharya Yoga Mandiram. I wasn’t looking to move when they offered me their third room. At first I said no. Then I remembered the pancake brunches.

Almost every Sunday of my last semester in college, I woke up early to prepare the batter. One bowl for plain pancakes. Another for chocolate chip. I’d ladle the batter onto hot pans, wait for bubbles, then flip. The pancakes were almost as big as Frisbees, and one or two were enough for most guests.

My friends brought orange juice, milk and backpacks stuffed with books. Accommodating a dozen guests wasn’t a problem. My roommates and I had an assortment of hand-me-down chairs and a couch we’d rescued from the streets. The brunches made Sundays a little easier to bear; most of us had all-day dates with a desk.

I was dreaming about pancakes while eating a spectacularly crappy breakfast not far from Auroville. That got me thinking about the brunches. My next thought was: “Dude. I should have pancake brunches for my friends in Chennai.” And then I thought about my apartment in Chennai, which had exactly one chair.

I called Nathan that afternoon and told him I’d take the room.

Our dining room table seats 14 comfortably. Nathan had it custom-made. It’s perfect for pancake brunches. Also for table tennis. Nathan strung a net across the middle, and fierce matches are held daily.

There are other toys: speakers for our iPods, a hammock, a punching bag and boxing gloves, a chess set, and a sling for hanging upside down, which no home is complete without. When Alex was here, I snapped a picture of him trying it out -- just before he nearly passed out.


The apartment also has a washing machine (though no dryer). Washing machines are a rarity in India, even among the affluent, because maids are much cheaper than major appliances. At my old apartment, a maid washed my laundry in a bucket of cloudy water spiked with my sweat and hers. It never came out as clean and fragrant as laundry washed in a machine.

I have less privacy, but that’s OK. My recluse phase was short-lived. I’m leaving my door open. I’m digging out my social calendar. I’m ready to whip up some batter.