The bathroom floor tiles needed replacing. There were plenty of promises when we first bought them: dust-free, stain-free—of course, the tiles weren’t free. When we raised concerns, the pat response was, "They’re 14 years old. At some point, you have to replace them." "I hope we don’t have to replace the doors and walls as well, since they’re 14 years old too?" I wondered aloud. The silent reply was a look that said, "What a fool." If houses become like disposable items, where would we go to bang our heads? Anyway, it’s our house. We decided to repair it and keep it in good condition. After all, why give visitors a chance to comment on it? Where would our pride go?

Next came the question of choice. Which tiles should we go for? The architect/engineer recommended a new type of tile that had recently been introduced. "These will last long," he assured us. "Isn’t that what you said about the tiles we’re now replacing?" I countered. He gave me that same "you fool" look again. "You can choose whatever you like, but don’t ask me if there are issues later," he replied, subtly twisting our arm. We bowed to his expertise and agreed.

Flame-finished granite was the suggestion this time—or something along those lines. Non-slippery and easy to maintain. We nodded in agreement, and the work began.

Of course, this meant relocating to another room. The bathroom would be unusable for three to four days, and the WC would be removed.

We migrated to the first floor, most importantly, myself. What about my wife? She had the engaging job of not only cooking but also supervising the workers and keeping an eye on our valuables.

My migration wasn’t entirely painless. More than two years ago, we had done the same thing when we had the house painted. That’s another interesting story I could write about. A few things are inseparable from me: my iPad, and more importantly, my iPad stand, my suitcase of medicines, my keyboard, and my two pairs of glasses. Remembering the move from two years ago, I foolishly attempted to carry the iPad stand up the stairs—21 in total. My wife warned me, but, as usual, I didn’t listen. After the first step, I was already struggling. I’m two years older now, and isn’t it true that after a certain point, aging seems to accelerate? Plus, I had had a heart attack. Inch by inch, I lugged it up, with my wife watching, concerned, and helping as much as she could. After half an hour, I reached the allotted room, which would be my reading, sleeping, and dreaming place for the next three to four days. Totally exhausted and panting, I collapsed onto the welcoming bed. It took me nearly a full day to recover the lost energy. The stand weighed 15 kg—not light at all.

Despite it being my own house, which I had designed and supervised the construction of, I had to get used to this new room all over again. I had to feel my way around. And...

Continued in 172. Minor and Major - Part 2