Opinion I was raised by my neighbours. Now, I find them everywhere

We have a house opposite ours. The day I was born, the third daughter of my parents, the grandmother who lived in that house, met my father. My father was a happy man. That day he had made good money and believed I brought my parents luck and prosperity. She told this story long after my father had died in a car accident. I smiled. I wept. I treasured that memory.
That is the gift of being raised in a community. People have stories about your family long after they are gone. There is always collective memory. That is the gift of living and growing with the same people for decades.

When I was preparing for my board exams and my mother was at work, the grandmothers of our neighbourhood would stop by to ask if I was okay. That was the safety the women in my neighbourhood provided when I was a teen. Neighbourhoods are supposed to be safe and clean, and mine is, because the same families have lived together for generations.
One afternoon, I came back from school hungry and couldn’t find the key to my house. My neighbourhood grandmother stepped in and gave me lunch. In neighbourhoods like mine, neighbours make sure children are fed and safe. I grew up in the kindness and generosity of many, my neighbours being the foremost.

Another time, we heard a noise in our front yard. We had lost my father just a few years earlier, and it was only my little brother, my mother, and me living in our house. We thought it might be a thief. We called our neighbour, and within minutes, they showed up. That is the kind of neighbourhood where people show up.

Those grandmothers and grandfathers are no more. Time has passed, but the safety, integrity, and togetherness have remained.

When I moved to Delhi for my undergraduate studies at Miranda House, I began living in hostels and later in co-living spaces for quite a long time. There was always a living, breathing human next door. They were my neighbours for the longest time.

For a major part of my life, I have lived with other women. I chose to because it gave me a sense of community. Otherwise, cities can be so lonely. No one can offer the solace that a human presence can. The joy of companionship, laughing at a joke at 3 a.m., going to clubs together, crying over a breakup, sharing meals, that was how I experienced neighbourhood again.

Coming back from work and having that roommate or wall-mate to go on a walk with, or that one girl to share your dreams or frustrations with, age changed the concept of neighbourhood, but the feeling of community stayed. Slowly, the girls got married, moved away, and life happened to all of us. You lose touch with most, that is life. Some become your forever girl gang. But each one gave me comfort on dark nights, celebrated birthdays and promotions, and most importantly, saw me and showed up for me. That is the gift of community living. The abundance it brings is immeasurable.

As I grew older, I started living on my own, meeting friends only on weekends. That is when I discovered digital neighbours, that online friend or long-distance schoolmate you exchange long voice notes with. That feeling of going through life together, failing, falling, and rising again, is irreplaceable.

During the pandemic, many of us sat through nights on Twitter Spaces (now X) and Clubhouse, talking with virtual strangers, sharing the fear and grief we were all experiencing. Those nights, digital neighbours made it easier with random conversations, a song, and a giggle. When we go through collective tragedies together, life feels a little lighter.

Now, wherever I go, I create communities. Online or offline, I create neighbours. The greatest joy of being human is knowing that your life becomes part of someone else’s memory.

Paromita Bardoloi is a writer and storyteller