For a long time, I believed that neighbours were people who lived next door, ones we met at staircases, households we recognised without knowing, and exchanged occasional greetings over hurried mornings. It was only when my surroundings changed that I realised how deeply a neighbourhood shapes one’s everyday life, sense of self, and feeling of belonging.
I was born and brought up in a predominantly Muslim locality of old Delhi. It was not something I consciously noticed as a child; it was simply normal. Our everyday life included the sound of azaan echoing through the lanes, aromas of familiar food during Ramzan, shared greetings of Assalam Alaikum, and a quiet understanding of each other’s routines. In that space, identity did not need explanation. In 2012, when we moved to Paschim Vihar in West Delhi, the change felt unsettling. Though it was a mixed locality, Muslim families were few and scattered, which made the transition harder. In this new place, everything — from festivals to daily routines — felt unfamiliar, and adjustment seemed difficult.
So, while searching for a house to buy, my parents wanted a locality where there were at least a few Muslim families in the neighbourhood. At the time, I did not fully understand why this mattered. Eight years later, I do. It was never just about religion; it was about comfort, safety, and the freedom to live without constantly explaining oneself.
Within a year of us moving into our own house, something began to change — slowly and quietly. We started exchanging sweets during Eid and Diwali with people who were once complete strangers. Festivals became shared occasions rather than private celebrations. Small bonds started forming in unexpected ways. I was good at applying mehendi, and one girl from the neighbourhood was skilled at makeup. Over time, we began calling each other whenever there was a function. What started as a practical exchange turned into a friendship built on trust and mutual support. Similarly, since no one in my family knew how to drape a sari, one aunt who resides just next to us always stepped in to help. She never let us feel the weight of cultural difference, if any. From a stranger, she became an aunt for us and didi for my mother. Even today, she prepares something in advance, knowing that I will visit her on Eid. Similarly, I look forward to her visiting our home on Diwali. These exchanges may seem small, but they carry deep meaning. They represent acceptance that goes beyond tolerance, an acceptance rooted in care.
Living in a “mixed” locality taught me that proximity does not always guarantee connection, but connection is possible when people are open to it. We may not share the same religion, food habits, or traditions, but we share everyday life. We share festivals, emergencies, conversations, and concerns.
I see how homemakers form relationships with one another in the neighbourhood. For many of them, these exchanges are much more than merely social. In a world of mundane household chores, these neighbourhood interactions add value to the ordinary. Conversations on balconies, shared laughter during afternoon breaks, and simple exchanges turn ordinary spaces into living communities. These women also engage in negotiations that happen collectively — with the sabji wale bhaiya and the suit wale bhaiya. Such shared activities create a sense of unity and companionship. Standing on balconies, exchanging updates, or calling each other downstairs might appear insignificant, but these moments are what keep a neighbourhood alive. They transform physical closeness into social connection.
At the same time, neighbourhoods also quietly regulate behaviour. Familiarity can feel protective, but it can also feel intrusive, especially for women. Because neighbours matter so much, their opinions often carry weight within families. For any act that goes against accepted family or social norms, there is a familiar warning: “What would our neighbours say?” Neighbours may not be part of our families, but they are people we see everyday — witnesses to our routines, choices, and changes. Their presence becomes a form of social accountability, shaping how individuals behave, especially in closely-knit communities.
Our neighbourhood determines how safe you feel, how freely you express yourself, and how deeply you feel rooted. Perhaps the most important question is not who our neighbours are, but whether our neighbourhoods allow us to live with dignity — seen, respected, and accepted.
The writer teaches at Sri Venkateswara College, University of Delhi
Our neighbourhood determines how safe you feel, how freely you express yourself, and how deeply you feel rooted (Abhinav Saha) 
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