Written by Ambika Aiyadurai
Recently, when I visited an upcoming residential building not far from where I live in Gandhinagar, as a potential buyer, the agent gave me a form. It required me to fill in details including name, phone number, and SC/ST/OBC/General category. When I asked him about the need to fill up caste details, the agent replied, “Ma’am, we don’t have a problem, but the neighbours ask, and they could have an issue later.” My anticipation over buying a new house was immediately tempered because I realised where this conversation was headed. “Tamaari atak sun che?” (What’s your surname?) The question had dogged me when I was trying to rent a house in the city a few years back. It was invariably followed by another query. “Tame maas-machchi khavo cho?” (Do you eat non vegetarian food?)
It’s not just Gandhinagar — or Gujarat. Questions about food preferences and warnings about food taboos are not just a matter of house owners and building contractors trying to acquaint themselves with tenants or prospective buyers. They are also part of a quizzing game played in several parts of the country with a purpose: To identify one’s caste and religion. References to neighbours’ preferences come up even before tenants get introduced to the people who live in the locality. The conversations are framed in this manner for a purpose: To decide if one is suitable to live in a residential complex. The “hypothetical neighbour” had a veto on where I could live, about who is “suitable” to rent or buy a house.
Recently, some friends booked a flat in a neighbourhood close to where I live. However, the booking was cancelled as soon as the owners got to know their caste. The explanation was straight forward: “Neighbours will have a problem.” One of my students found it difficult to rent a place in Ahmedabad. In his case, the “issue” was his religious identity.
In many parts of the world, decisions on where to live are governed, to a large extent, by economic and social circumstances. But in several parts of the country, moving to a new neighbourhood is often accompanied by anxieties around caste and religious identities. Buying or renting a house is not always a simple economic choice. Last year, for instance, a vice president of JP Morgan alleged he faced caste discrimination while trying to purchase a flat in a posh Gandhinagar locality.
The un-neighbourly rejection of a possible neighbour is often conveyed through property dealers. “We don’t have a problem, but you know, the neighbours may not like to have a family that eats non-vegetarian food,” I was often told during my search for a house. A sense of neighbourhood is important to have lasting personal connections with neighbours. But in reality, who can socialise with whom is based on a set of rigid rules centred on caste, food preferences and religion. A friend had to hide that they ate non-vegetarian food and would secretly cook her favourite dishes when the landlords went out of town. At times, she would cook at odd hours — around 5:00 am. Even then, the neighbours got a whiff. My friend was regularly asked: “Kuch smell aa raha tha, kya bana rahe ho?” (There’s a smell. What were you cooking?) Enough is enough, she thought one day, and disclosed her culinary preferences. The result: My friend was forced to move out. Her neighbour was the complainant.
However, it’s not the same everywhere. I have lived in Northeast India for a considerable amount of time. Not many questioned my food preferences or tried to ascertain my caste when I was looking for accommodation. In places where I resided, for example, in Tezpur, Itanagar, Dibang Valley, there were families from Manipur, Nagaland, Assam, Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Bihar, UP and Sikkim. Such diversity is possible. For me, living in Northeast India was freedom from food taboos and restrictions. I am not suggesting that the northeast does not have hierarchical structures, but they are different from the ones in several other parts of the country. In the Northeast, I found a neighbourly connection — non-judgemental solidarity — far from home. As someone who grew up in different parts of the country, from a very small town in Chhattisgarh to cities like Delhi or Ahmedabad, the idea of neighbourhood has changed over time. More than modern amenities and logistics, I now look for a neighbourhood where one can meet families from diverse socio-cultural backgrounds speaking different languages. More importantly, we need a safe, inclusive and vibrant neighbourhood, moving beyond our individual identities.
If the anxiety over identity determines the fate of “possible neighbour”, multiple possibilities of neighbourly solidarities go for a toss. Embracing and celebrating diversity could create strong emotional bonds that might outlive our spatial limits.
The writer teaches at IIT Gandhinagar. Views are personal
