Home Is Where the Truck Unloads: MES with a Makeover
An ode to the art of homemaking.
They say every new posting brings a new adventure. But for us fauji families it usually begins with temporary MES accommodation, a term that’s fancy for four walls held together by hope, rusted pipes and a whole lot of jugaad.
You walk into that first house - sorry, “house” is a stretch - and you’re greeted by a fan that groans like it’s narrating its own long service story, a tube light that flickers like it’s haunted and bathroom taps that either produce a tsunami or nothing at all.
And yet, standing there with my suitcase in one hand and a roll of newspaper in the other, I did what every fauji wife does. I smiled.
Because I knew - I was about to work my magic.
We Didn’t Wait for Pinterest - We Were Living It Before It Existed
Back then, there was no Pinterest but we didn’t need it. We were already living the aesthetic before it had a name.
Out come the old trunks - our faithful travel buddies. One becomes a centre table another a bookshelf. Bedsheets double as curtains. That lonely steel saucepan? It’s doing chai, daal and steaming vegetables for evening snacks.
Half our belongings, from trunk loads of crockery to Godrej almirahs lying in some deserted barrack near the MT section, stacked in corners, packed tight with tape, dust and quiet determination. But we unpack just enough to live, laugh and keep the paani boil stove system running.
And just as I’d trained myself to ignore the cracked wall behind the bed and the lizard who clearly thought he was a co tenant - it happened. The magical words every fauji wife dreams of: “Permanent accommodation mil gaya hai!” I didn’t just hear it - I felt it. Like a medal on my chest, a thali in my hand and “It’s the time to disco!” playing in the background. Curtain rod placements started forming in my mind before the sentence was even finished.
Marching to the Promised Land
Permanent accommodation, in fauji terms, is the Holy Grail.
You finally get a house with your name on it (figuratively) - and more importantly, you get your trunks back.
Proper unpacking begins. No more guessing which box the pressure cooker is in. No more sharing bathroom space with pigeons. No more frogs playing peekaboo from the drain cover.
Our new house had two bedrooms, a study and the kind of garden that made civilians weep in envy. Trees, real ones! Not nursery pots - but full grown beauties. I even had wooden birdhouses custom made - solid, weathered and charming - soon claimed by owlets and parrots who chirped like they owned the place.
Inside, the transformation began.
From MES Shell to Soulful Sanctuary
Out came the artefacts collected over the years - brass lamps, tribal figurines, embroidered runners. Don’t ask where they’re from - we don’t name drop states. We let the decor speak.
The kitchen exhaled with joy - the spice rack found its rhythm, the belan stood tall. The study turned into a cosy reading nook. The sofa finally had cushions that weren’t serving double duty as packaging for a photo frame.
From a cold MES shell, this house became a warm lived in masterpiece. Not designed by architects - designed by memories.
Every Fauji Wife’s Makeover Masterclass
You think MES accommodation is basic? Give it a month with a fauji wife inside.
What began as faded walls and creaky windows becomes a space with personality, purpose and Pinterest worthy corners.
- Fairy lights? Always.
- A brass bell near the puja nook? But of course.
- Indoor plants? Thriving .
- That one framed quote? “Home is where the Army sends us - naturally.
And not just me. The entire lane was buzzing with the same energy. Tea corners with ceramic kettles. Drawing rooms with Diwali level lighting… in April. Garden fences made from old bottles. Each house a masterpiece of controlled chaos and creative brilliance.
No ordinary ladies here, just graceful, powerhouse army wives with impeccable taste and an unshakable sense of humour.
Cantonment Royalty (With Wildlife Included)
Once in a while we’d get posted to the old cantonment bungalows - high ceilings, giant doors, vast gardens.
You felt like royalty… until you saw the lizard the size of a geometry scale sunbathing on your verandah. Or the frog who thought the commode was his personal jacuzzi.
But we took it in our stride. Of course we did. Because we weren’t living in houses - we were creating homes.
And In the End…
We’ve all lived in MES houses that tested our patience, challenged our creativity and sometimes even scared us a little.
But each one gave us something no luxury flat ever could - stories.
Stories of: • Laughter during power cuts • Late-night furniture rearranging because “yeh sofa wahan zyada suit karega” • Chai on the steps with neighbours who became family • Decorating a dusty room until it sparkled like Diwali morning
Yes, MES accommodation may have evolved - but back in the ’90s and 2000s, it taught us the one thing every fauji wife learns:
How to turn dust into dazzle.
✨ Final Salute ✨
It may have been MES on paper…
…but once an army wife stepped in -
it became a home that looked like a stylist lived there,
and a story unfolded in every corner.