Opinion Who’s my neighbour: Should it matter if your neighbour is Rahul or Farooq, Neha or Shazia?
Neighbours turn an unfamiliar place into a home. But this experience is not the same for everyone. Farooqs and Shazias still need to hide their identity to be accepted by neighbours
Image used for representation only. My father’s job was transferable. We were always moving to new cities, new houses, new neighbourhoods, new settings, and most importantly, to new people. From an early age, we were introduced to our neighbours as our extended family, not strangers. It accompanied me on every move until, with my marriage, I eventually made Delhi my home.
In a large city like Delhi, it is not easy to find a rental home. For many, it starts with optimism and ends with exhaustion. It is physically and psychologically taxing to pack up your entire life into cardboard boxes, arrange for movers, turn off utilities, and start over in a strange place. However, these difficulties become harder for some. They bear an unseen burden of being accepted by the neighbours, precisely, the neighbourhoods.
Every time we moved, we tried to be around the well-known streets of Mayur Vihar Phase 3, and our neighbours’ warmth eased our struggle. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner would be delivered to our door for over a week following each transfer until our kitchen regains its rhythm. These relationships were not merely formalities. We, a small family of three, believed in returning that kindness in every way possible. I offer them similar support when they shift, and curiously wait for the new ones.
The apartment across from us was unoccupied and silent for over three months. One evening, when I got home from work, I noticed workers moving boxes and furniture into it. The excitement of having new neighbours made my heart skip a beat. As I hurried up the steps, I found a young man and greeted him with a smile. He said his name was Rahul. A young woman, barely in her mid-twenties, emerged moments later. “This is Neha, my wife,” he murmured. I immediately offered them dinner as they were visibly exhausted. They reluctantly agreed to it. As per their requirements, I shared some plumber and electrician contact information.
That evening, we sat together — my partner, my daughter, and our new neighbours — sharing a simple meal. Rahul spoke little, but Neha filled the room with warmth.
At one point, I casually asked if they ate non-vegetarian food, as our family loved it. Rahul hesitated, then said softly,
“Didi… bura na lage toh ek baat bataun?”
I smiled. “Zaroor.”
“Neha pregnant hai. Second trimester shuru hua just.”
After a pause, Rahul spoke again, his voice trembling slightly.
“Didi… ek aur baat batana hai. Main Rahul nahi hoon. Main Farooq hoon. Aur Neha… woh Shazia hai.”
For a moment, silence wrapped the room. Their eyes searched our faces, afraid of what might follow.
I gently broke the stillness and said, “Naam badalne se insaan thodi badalta hai. Moreover, Rahul and Neha sound so Filmy”
Rahul breathed a sigh of relief.
That evening, he unfolded painful stories of rejection, of houses slipping away at the last moment, of doors closing before they could even step inside, of neighbours who judged without knowing, and of fear creeping in where friendship should have bloomed. They had been turned down countless times, their names alone becoming reasons for refusal. The weariness etched on their faces was the pain of being made to feel like outsiders in their own city.
A few months later, their home was filled with the soft sobs of young Zaid and laughter that echoed down the corridor. Instead of remaining neighbours, they became family members. Farooq eventually moved to a new city following his promotion, leaving our hearts empty and heavy. They taught me that neighbours turn an unfamiliar place into a home. But this experience is not the same for everyone. Farooqs and Shazias still need to hide their identity to be accepted by neighbours.
The writer teaches at Dr B R Ambedkar college, University of Delhi
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