My House in Marine Drive

Of harmless whims and sea-facing reveries

My iPad is so old, it belongs in the hands of an old lady with old children living abroad, used strictly for weekly FaceTimes. My Instagram hasn’t been updated in over a year. So the algorithm it runs on is clearly well past retirement. Naturally, it gets things wrong—but every now and then, in its regressive wisdom, it shows me something unexpectedly beautiful.

Lately, it’s been throwing up slivers of culture from my city and around the world, making my daily scrolls feel oddly fulfilling. I didn’t expect to say that about Instagram, but here we are.

The other day, I stumbled upon a short video showing the inside of an apartment in Marine Drive. I’ve spent a lifetime admiring those Art Deco buildings from the outside, but here, at last, was a peek within. And it didn’t disappoint. The interiors carried the same Art Deco spirit (which I didn’t expect)—simple, elegant, and gloriously spacious (which, unsurprisingly, I did). Best of all, the house faced the sea. That’s when the reverie began.

I imagined myself living there. What would life be like?

First things first, I’d hire a gentle, soft-spoken Catholic gentleman—let’s call him Frederick. He would manage my modest needs with quiet efficiency and uncanny intuition. Frederick would divine from my silences exactly what I’d like to eat and prepare it just the way I like it. He’d clean the house daily with the discreetness of a ghost. His orange juice would be to die for. But more on Frederick later.

I think I’d take up smoking again. It seems only fair to those high ceilings and that wide, dignified balcony. They deserve the company of a thoughtful smoke while I reflect on the unending waves in an attempt to extract some meaning from them. Resulting, of course, in some average poetry no one will read. I’d also drink tea every evening—specifically at twilight. Frederick would, naturally, remind me when it’s time. I briefly considered sunrise teas, until I remembered Marine Drive faces west. I learnt this the hard way once, sitting there after an all-nighter, waiting for the sun to rise.

Some of the other rooms would face the sea too. My bedroom, for sure. I want to fall asleep to the sound of the waves. Do the waves lash at Marine Drive, or do they just bob about gently? Let’s say they lash—for the sake of the mood. The sound of the sea soothes me. It feels present even with my eyes closed. It’s like having a lullaby for the soul. And my soul could use some serious lullabying.

The furniture in my Marine Drive apartment would be strictly functional. There was a time I was obsessed with Scandinavian design (either before or after my Louis XIV phase—I forget). I’ve moved past that now. But I do relate to the minimalism. I’ve made peace with the idea that my taste doesn’t need to be understood or admired. It should just work. I can’t remember when this belief took root, but it’s now my wife and rules me like an unshakeable queen.

As for paintings—unlikely. I feel I’d tire of seeing the same ones daily. I have this idea of rotating them every two months, like a revolving gallery-slash-social experiment. But that’s for another post. Besides, I can’t decide what kind of people to involve in this experiment, considering painting people are almost always pretentious.

One of the bedrooms would be my study. Needless to say, it would also face the sea, maybe from a slightly different angle. But unlike you people, I won’t have too many books in my study. Not because I don’t like reading but because I just have the use of one hand. You need two to read a book: one to hold the book, one to turn the page. So what would my shelves hold? Not sculptures or foreign souvenirs from other people’s holidays, that’s for sure. I think they’d house my past. Knick-knacks I was too lazy to throw away and now have emotional value. Like what, you ask? Hold your horses. You’ll know when you visit.

I’d invest in good music, a solid desk, a decent chair, and an easy chair for those long, lazy stretches of thinking and crafting poetry. Imagine coming out of your thoughts to, well, the sea.

Thinking, in fact, would be the house’s true theme. That’s what happens when dreams come true just a little too late. You don’t get fireworks—you get reflection. Still, better late than never. There was a time I wanted my parties to be the talk of the town. The time came, the people came—and went. The parties never happened. Maybe Marine Drive will revive that dream. Though now I have a new dilemma—whom to invite? My childhood friends are a bit old and drab now.

Anyway, if you’re visiting, a few rules. No stock market talk. No politics. No nostalgia rants about how things were better in your day. If you think you’re from a “glorious time” that’s not now, please check that attitude with Frederick at the door. Also, don’t speak of single malts in the age of agave. And I’ll cook. My Le Creusets will finally be put to use.

I won’t invite more than ten people at a time. Or is that too many? Ten feels right—it allows for two groups, each having a coherent conversation. I will aim to seamlessly weave from one conversation to the next, like any good host would.

Because conversation is key. Conversation is what keeps the world spinning—at least for me. Thoughtful words, kindly offered, are among the finest things humans can do for one another. In my Marine Drive home, we’ll talk till the early hours about everything that makes the world beautiful—and the few things that might keep it that way. We’ll speak of food, of faraway places, and always, always, of Japan.

When there are no parties, I’ll be alone—reading, writing, thinking, or simply staring at the sea with gratitude. The sea, for all that it is, does something rare: it humbles you in the best possible way. It reminds you of your smallness, but also your belonging. It puts you on equal footing with the ants below—from Jharkhand or Berlin. But more than anything, for me, the sea carries hope.

After distributing my gratitude evenly across all I have and all that is, I’d return to my favorite chair and doze off contentedly. Knowing that Frederick will wake me for dinner when it’s time.

And hoping that when he does, I’m still in Marine Drive. Not here. Anywhere but here.