That first week, I could not sleep. Not because it was a new house, an unfamiliar space, but due to the weight of learning to live alone — again — after building a home with someone. For me, the new house was a place where this shift had to quietly settle in; for the friend sharing this house with me, it was a space to begin afresh after a difficult personal time. We were both shedding old skin, relearning to do things our way.
Looking back, I realise that through most of my 20s, whenever I moved house, my neighbourhood seemed to move with me, except this neighbourhood is not a street or a cluster of buildings. It is the ordinary, vulnerable moments of life unfolding in the space between me and my closest friend from college. In the seven years since we moved to this city, this has grown to be the safest neighbourhood I have known — beginning in Sector 28, Noida, and growing through the old houses of CR Park in Delhi.
For most, the idea of neighbourhood once meant familiar faces, uncles and aunts living next door. There was always someone to borrow sugar from, someone who’d check in when the lights went out. But that closeness also came with watchful eyes. Neighbours quietly shaped how you stepped out, what you wore, and who you were expected to become. They were both community and audience.
Over time, for me, the neighbourhood became a space built slowly through care, trust, and shared thinking. In Delhi, where the traditional idea of neighbourhood often fades into anonymity and hustle, a different kind of neighbourhood, one held together by friendship, feminist care, and a shared sense of freedom, has quietly grown inside the many apartments we have rented.
Mornings here often begin with two cups of coffee, pancakes or garlic toast, and Taylor Swift (our small secret for gathering energy). A sense of comfort wraps the casual activism in thoughts and conversations, without trying hard.
Here, sharing household chores is free of the chaos of conflict. Instead, silent understanding is our norm. We both know, too well, the frustrations of living in a world where women are expected to carry a double burden, and so we hold our neighbourhood together with a solidarity that is difficult to explain. Sometimes that simply means asking, at the right moment, “Tui thik achish?” (All okay?).”
There are small rituals too. Curating a playlist that turns cooking into a recreational activity. Flowers, bought and thoughtfully placed on the table as an act of hope. A dessert baked without prompting. Finding joy in caring for cats. Care flows back and forth without either of us keeping count.
What holds this neighbourhood together is a solidarity that is difficult to explain. It could be part friendship, part love affair, part partnership. A space where, simply by being seen and understood, each of us has slowly become more ourselves.
Sometimes it reminds me of my childhood. After long mornings, mothers would sit on the terrace or stand by the doorway talking to the aunt next door, sharing the weight of the day and spilling secrets. But those conversations would suddenly pause if an elder or a male relative just walked in.
Here, it feels different. The doors only open wider.
Over time, this neighbourhood has grown beyond the two of us. Other friends have stepped into this small refuge where the quiet rage of women can breathe, and found their own corners of calm.
Two women stitched this neighbourhood together between work, exhaustion, laughter, and long conversations. In a way, it reveals what women truly enjoy and who they are when no one is watching. It carries the emotional and political labour that women pour into the idea of home — a place that has changed me as a person and that I will always want to return to.
The writer is a Delhi-based development communication professional
