We’ve all been there. You know the feeling—the one where my best friend builds a house that is so architecturally ambitious to rival a Seven-Star French mansion.

This friend’s family is among that ambitious set of individuals.

For nearly twenty years, our visits to her visit were synonymous with the reliable, if slightly mundane, comfort of the four-star Hotel. It was predictable. It was safe. It didn’t try to be anything other than a place to put your head. But then, my friend decided to disrupt the hospitality industry by building an “American-type glass house.”

Now, when I say “glass house,” I don’t mean a few nice windows. I mean a structure so transparent and modern that even her father-in-law—a man who lives in a traditional, sturdy-as-a-fortress Chettinadu house—vouched for its beauty. And at the crown of this architectural marvel sat the “Seven-Star Guest Room” on the first floor.

Naturally, I did what any self-respecting best friend would do: I bragged about it to everyone. “Oh, the guest room?” I’d say, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s practically a palace. It’s the Seventh Heaven.”

My husband, was equally sold. After testing the mattress for approximately three seconds, he delivered his “super opinion”: “The bed is very comfortable and entices me to lie down for a longer time!” If only we knew that the bed wasn’t just enticing us. It was enticing an entire civilization of friends and family who took the smallest chance to enjoy this modern comfort.

Part 1: The Hanging Floral Ladder of Doom

On our most recent visit for a wedding, we retreated to our “Seven-Star” sanctuary, wishing everyone a regal good night. We climbed into that wonder-bed, ready for the kind of sleep usually reserved for royalty or people who don’t have mortgages.

Narrator voice: They did not sleep.

I couldn’t understand it. This was a premium mattress! Yet, the whole night was a dance of tossing, turning, and a strange, prickly sensation that felt like being poked by a thousand tiny needles. My whole body ached. I assumed it was just the “luxury” settling into my bones.

Morning dawned, and I looked at my husband, he looked like he’d just finished a 12-round boxing match with a cactus. “I couldn’t sleep a wink,” I groaned. “Me neither,” he muttered. “I felt… uncomfortable. Irritated.”

We switched on the lights, expecting to find maybe a stray crumb or a loose thread. What we witnessed was a scene straight out of a National Geographic documentary.

Our super bed was crawling with red ants.

It wasn’t just a few scouts; it was a full-blown “Kumba mela crowd” of ants. My first thought, naturally, was my psoriasis. Was my falling skin the gourmet buffet these ants had been waiting for? Fortunately, my skin was in a “grace period,” behaving itself for once. So, if it wasn’t me, what was the attraction?

Then, light dawned.

In her quest for the “Seven-Star” aesthetic, my friend had draped the bed with an ornate, floor-length bedspread. It was beautiful. It was floral. And, in an ant-infested house (which, let’s be honest, most of these fancy glass houses are), it served as a highly efficient, multi-lane highway directly from the floor to our pillows.

It was a “hanging floral ladder.”

The “Seven-Star” experience quickly shifted to “Seven-Star Manual Labor”. As soon as the sun rose, the heavy mattress was hauled to the terrace. We thrashed that bed left, right, and centre. We showed those ants the meaning of “eviction notice.” From that day on, the ornate bedspread lost its floor-sweeping privileges; it was tucked up humbly on all sides, looking less like a palace and more like a military barracks.

We thought the adventure was over. We were wrong.

Part 2: The Prisoner of the Powder Room

A few days later, I was feeling confident. The ants were gone, and I was ready to master the “Seventh Heaven” once more.

The morning started normally enough:

1. Yoga (to align the chakras for the disaster ahead).
2. Oil pulling (to ensure I couldn’t scream for help effectively later).
3. Oil application (for my rampant skin to placate its irritability to grow at an exponential rate).

By 9:15 AM, my friend and I made a pact: a quick bath, then breakfast. She headed to her ground-floor bathroom, and I ascended to my first-floor fortress.

Now, here is the thing about Seven-Star luxury architecture: sometimes it over-engineers things that don’t need engineering. Case in point: the bathroom door. It was a door that refused to stay put. At the slightest draft of air from the well-ventilated bedroom, it oscillated to a precise measurement of the wind. It irritated me as I was accustomed to absolute privacy in any bathroom.

In a fit of “let’s get this over with” energy, I channelled my inner martial artist skill and with the full strength of my right leg, I gave the door a definitive BANG. Thud. Success! The door stayed shut. I felt powerful. I felt efficient. I had a leisurely shower, humming a little tune, feeling like the queen of the glass house. I finished up, dried off, and reached for the knob with a song still on my lips.

The knob didn’t budge.

I tried again. I turned, I pulled, I pushed. Nothing.

A keen, post-shower observation revealed the truth: the “architectural prowess” of the builder had gifted this door a double-lock system. My heavy-handed (or heavy-footed) bang had caused the loose secondary lock to engage with Swiss-watch precision.

I was locked in.

Part 3: The Sound of Silence (and Hamam Soap)

I started banging on the door in a rhythmic, “Do-Re-Mi” style. Surely, in a glass house, sound travels?

Wrong. The layout of this “luxury” suite was designed for ultimate privacy—and apparently, ultimate isolation. The bathroom led to a dressing room, which led to the bedroom, which led to a reading room, which finally led to the entrance door. Not an iota of noise was escaping that acoustic vacuum.

Inner Monologue: “Where is your cell phone?” Self-Response: “I am not a crazy lady! Who takes a smartphone into a ‘Seven-Star’ shower?” (Note: I am now that crazy lady. I will never pee without a fully charged battery again.)

I sat down on the closed commode seat and began to calculate my odds of survival.

The Odds of Rescue:

• Option A: My hubby. He is a caring man. He will notice I’m late for breakfast. He’ll come up any minute.
• Option B: The “Enthu Cutlet” Theory. Maybe my hubby thinks I’m just being my usual enthusiastic self, staying upstairs to meticulously segregate dirty laundry for tomorrow’s departure.
• Option C: The Siesta. Is he having a morning nap on the comfy sofa downstairs?
• Option D: Medical Emergency. Is he not feeling well? But no, if that were the case, my sister would have rushed up despite her damaged knees.

The silence was deafening. I realized that “any minute” was turning into “any hour.”

Part 4: The Most Well-Groomed Prisoner in India

When life gives you a locked bathroom, you don’t just sit and cry. You look for chores.

I looked down at my feet. My soles are the most unattended, neglected “orphans” of my body. On a normal day, they get a cursory rinse. But today? Today, I had all the time in the world.

I grabbed the Hamam soap. I lathered. I scrubbed. I washed. I wiped. I repeated the process until my soles weren’t just clean; they were glistening

I’m telling you, even the twelve people chosen by the Pope for the Maundy Thursday feet-washing ceremony have never had a “sole” preparation quite like this. My feet were ready for a red carpet. My feet were ready for a high-definition close-up.

Once my feet were sparkling, I considered spiritual enlightenment. “Should I chant ‘OM’?” I wondered. “I could energize my seven chakras!” But then, the practical Indian in me recoiled. Muttering sanctified words in a toilet? Never ever.

Then I thought about a complex Yoga pose I’d seen in The Hindu newspaper a few days prior. I was tempted to try it, but then I envisioned the “Double Whammy”: an accident in a locked bathroom requiring an ambulance, a heavy hammer to break down the door, and me being found in a compromising pretzel shape.

I decided to just become a silent sage instead.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of foot-grooming and silent meditation, I heard a faint sound.

“Are you in there?” It was my loving husband. He was asking after my well-being in a tone so leisurely you’d think we were discussing the weather over tea.

I explained the situation with a level of “calm” that was actually just repressed hysteria. He went down to the key cupboard, found a spare, and finally released the prisoner of the Seventh Heaven.

The Aftermath:

1. The Philosophers: My friend and my husband had become so embroiled in an “intense discussion” downstairs that they had entered a time warp.
2. The Neglect: My friend totally forgot to take her bath. My husband totally forgot I existed.
3. The Brunch: Our breakfast had spontaneously metamorphosed into a brunch.

I emerged from the bathroom, glowing from my Hamam-scrubbed soles but fuelled by a very specific kind of DIY vengeance.

I didn’t call a locksmith. I didn’t call the architect. As a self-appointed “expert engineer,” I went downstairs, grabbed a massive pile of The Hindu newspapers, and stuffed the lock hole with the news of the day.

Lest another guest enjoy the same “Seven-Star” fate as me, they would first have to contend with several layers of editorial commentary and the crossword puzzle blocking the latch.

The Moral of the Story?

Luxury is great, but transparency is overrated. If you ever find yourself in an American-style glass house with a “hanging floral ladder,” tuck in your bedsheets, keep your phone in your bathrobe, and for heaven’s sake, keep a stack of newspapers handy.

Your soles might not end up as clean as mine, but your sanity will thank you.

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