In my first house, I was too short to look outside. The balcony was tall. My memories remain of running around in corridors, waddling in and out of doorways, unaware of anything beyond.

The house I lived in between the ages of 5 and 13 had a bedroom window that faced other bedroom windows at a 90-degree angle. Almost every window had a kid. On days it was raining or too hot, we sat next to our AC vents and chatted. When my mother would start shutting windows, it was either time for mosquitoes or a scolding. Our living room window overlooked the building lobby. When the clock struck nine, I would look down and locate my mother. She would be talking to other mothers in the lobby. I would loudly scream and ask her for dinner.

Mumbai homes mostly face other people’s windows. People draw their curtains at all times. Because bored kids and uncles peek. Sometimes, I would look into homes and see what they were watching on TV. Or I would watch a mother cook a meal in the kitchen. I would stare at windows with curtains drawn, in case someone was hiding behind them. Sometimes, confident people would wave. I would quickly look away.

When I first moved to Bangalore, I realised there was not much to see from any window. The buildings in Bangalore were much further apart. And I never saw anyone on the balconies. The only time I realised there were people living around me was when everyone banged their utensils during COVID. My next house in Bangalore was a terrace flat facing a building which every landlord on the street used to call ‘Rahul Dravid’s house’. Whether it was the truth or it helped rent prices I am not sure but I never saw him there. I looked.