The Next Door

The Next Door 

It was nice to observe that flutter of life gleaming through the blurred glass window one fine Monday morning. The window wasn't open. Blurred movement beyond it suggested that someone was finally breathing life into the house, making it a home. 

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The Next Door, had been empty ever since the pandemic struck. Nobody knew where our neighbours went. Or what happened. It wasn't that we interacted with them. We didn't even know their faces. Yet, their sudden absence seemed to allow this virus to make another point - score another goal - against humanity.

May led to July. July ushered in September. The empty Next Door didn't get our mindspace for most part. Yet there were those boring weekends -during the multiple lockdowns- when we looked out of our window into the now closed kitchen windows of the Next Door, sipping our evening coffee - and wondered what had become of the family. 

And then ruminate about the fifteen years we had spent as neighbours to multiple families. A family in which a woman my Ajji's age used to wait for Ajji to come down every summer from Mandya and then spend hours chatting through the windows. (Weirdly, they never invited each other home). When it used to be an office and I loudly (and jokingly) threatened my parents that I'd burn myself if I didn't pass Class 10 - only to attract an hour of friendly advice from the employees.. Then this family, where the lady of the home seemed to have struck a rapport with Amma, visited us once and never spoke to us again. We never got to see anyone from the last family that resided in the Next Door. The mystery continued when the house suddenly seemed vacant, one Sunday morning. 

The year turned a corner. We celebrated the New Year with whatever limited fervour the Virus bestowed on us. The Next Door continued to be empty. The Bengalurean summer which has now started announcing itself in mid-February, meant that my brother and I had to change the setting of our room quite a bit. My workstation now had a direct view of the living room window of the Next Door. A couple of pigeons played on the ledges of the window, finding some respite from the summer heat. And as day turned to night, the pigeons stood still, as still as the empty house.

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It was a welcome change to notice the living room windows of the Next Door open. There was some hustle in the house as people brought in a fridge, a television, some cupboards and carton boxes  - all indications that someone was definitely moving in. In the evening, the lights in the living room were switched on for the first time in months. And the social life starved souls in our home, felt this small excitement of finally becoming neighbours again, to a new family.

We huddled every evening at coffee time to sneak a peek into their kitchen from our living room. The incandescent bulb lit up every evening at precisely the same time, but the kitchen window never opened. Our olfactory system craved for the aroma of the food that would escape at some point, giving us important insight into their food habits, from which Amma vowed to find out where they were from.

The family did begin to announce itself in subtle ways. Their terrace, that had been empty for multiple months now had shirts and sarees hanging out to dry every day. The living room window was more or less open through the day. And when I broke away from looking into the monitor to gaze at their living room window, there was an elderly woman who seemed to be sitting at the same place throughout the day. In the evenings, a couple of banian clad men sat around the elderly woman and there was small talk and laughter. 

Our terrace was Amma's favourite hangout for fresh air, as the second wave seemed imminent. From her vantage point she gathered that the family had two middle aged women - who came to their terrace to dry clothes and spices. Apparently there was a couple of times they made eye contact, but the two women didn't seem too eager to smile. "It's only a matter of time" Mother said, as we sipped our evening coffee. "See..their kitchen window is open today!" 

It was indeed. The bulb was on and the window wide open. And a few minutes later, the splash of spices into the Tava and the hiss of cooking oil was unmistakable. As our neighbours fried ginger and garlic, the tangy aroma wafted into our home. "North Indian Curry!" my brother and I exclaimed. We were as delighted as though they'd invited us to dine with them. May be that would be a reality at some point! We just had to make sure they were vegetarian!

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Slowly but surely, we grew accustomed to their presence. There were no smiles or greetings yet. But there was an unspoken familiarity that brewed as tacitly as the second wave. The younger of the two men seemed to be well versed with the Dholak. During the weekends, we would unexpectedly hear a couple of rhythms and our feet tapped the floor in silent appreciation. In the evenings, they would switch on the television and Bollywood melodies from the nineties and the early millennium would provide a good break from the monotony of work related calls. Though we never spoke to each other, it was now mutual knowledge that we would casually look at each other's windows, as though acknowledging the presence of the other family. I rather looked forward to the evenings, when their kitchen got active and the spices got frying. The aroma was a welcome appetizer. For some reason, their living room light remained switched on throughout the night. I would realise a couple of months later, that the light radiated the warmth of company and presence and I had grown rather used to it.

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It came as a bit of a surprise to see that their windows were still bolted tight, one Wednesday afternoon. The situation in Bengaluru had started going south again. The increasing frequency of ambulance sirens and the increasing intensity in the cacophony of news anchors meant that the Virus was pulling the system down all over again - albeit more resolutely than last time. The silence at the Next Door was not a welcome sign at all. We were not friends. We didn't know their names or their town or anything that would make us their acquaintances. Yet, they were our neighbours. A part of us started working all on possible theories as to why the windows were boarded up and all signs of life vanished overnight. A part of us was disappointed that their disappearance now meant that even the pretence of a social life now ceased to exist for us. 

Our evening coffee was again full of speculation. Amma walked the terrace, always looking for some sign that would betray why the family went missing. If only I had acquainted myself with the Dholak guy who seemed my age, we could have shared numbers and he would probably be just a call away. My call of concern would probably pave way to a lasting friendship between the families. We would eventually exchange BisiBele Bath and Paneer curry through the windows.

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The Friday morning a week later put an end to our speculation. The windows of the Next Door were wide open. Something was amiss though. The elderly lady wasn't seen at her usual place, staring at our room. The television wasn't switched on. The kitchen windows were open too. Yet there was no hissing garlic and ginger spice. The ladies seemed to be hurrying from the kitchen to the living room and back. 

And sometime in the afternoon, I saw the older of the two men sitting near the window. His head bald. His eyes tired and a little empty. He didn't seem to mind my staring at him at all. It was a while before one of the women pulled him away from the window and closed the window in a hurry - lest we notice their collective sadness. Amma came back from her terrace walk in the evening and told us that the family had perhaps washed all clothes they had and hung them out to dry. All of it pointed to only one event. 

For some reason, we felt sombre. Throughout the next day, we spoke in hushed voices. Our television was on only at minimal volume. We wanted to know more about what had happened, understand how the elderly woman had passed. Be of some support to our neighbours. But we only knew them...and we didn't know them. As I went to bed that night, I could see that their living room light was switched off around eleven. It was probably kept on throughout the night in earlier times, because the elderly woman had wanted it to be that way.

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We woke up Sunday morning to find the windows boarded up all over again. In the television and newspapers was news of the impending lock down that would kick in from Monday. Visuals of people scrambling for beds and oxygen brought back last year's anxiety all over again. Images of people leaving the garden city in hordes left us speechless. Perhaps amongst the latter were our neighbours. 

When I went to bed that night, I stood by the window of our room and looked at the living room windows of the Next Door. The closed windows and the darkness beyond was definitely a void -a void from the loss of company. And weirdly, company that we never completely acknowledged. 

The pigeons came back to spend their night on the ledges. I would initiate a conversation with the family once they returned.

                                                                                                          - 19th May 2021