Storage is the thing every Pune flat runs out of and the thing every quote treats as an afterthought. Ours is cut to your walls, floor to ceiling, because that's where the space actually is.
In a 750 sq ft Wakad flat, the difference between a fitted wardrobe and a modular one is roughly a cupboard. Standard modules come in fixed widths; your wall doesn't, so the gap gets filled with a panel you're paying for and can't put anything in. Cut to the room, the same wall gives you the full run — and the top 400mm, which almost every modular system abandons, becomes the place the suitcases live.
Hinges and runners, every time. A wardrobe door opens perhaps four thousand times in a decade, and the cheap hinge that felt fine in the showroom starts sagging in year two — which is when the door stops sitting flush and the whole thing starts to look bought rather than made. We spend on the hardware and the carcass because those are the parts you can't fix, and we're straight about where you can spend less: the inside of a wardrobe nobody sees does not need a premium finish.
Most wardrobes are drawn as a picture and then filled in. We ask a duller and more useful question first: how many long hangs, how many shorts, do you fold or hang your shirts, where do the bedsheets go, is there a suitcase. It's a fifteen-minute conversation that determines whether you like the thing for ten years.
Questions
Roughly ₹1,100–1,900 per square foot of wardrobe face, depending on core, finish and hardware. A typical 8ft × 7ft master wardrobe lands around ₹65,000–1,10,000. It's usually about a quarter of a full-home budget, alongside the kitchen.
Hinged, unless the room is too tight to open one. Sliding doors cost more, give you access to only half the wardrobe at a time, and the bottom track collects everything. Where the bed is close to the wardrobe, sliding wins by default — but it's a compromise, not an upgrade.
