the sound of connection

A month ago, a bunch of young Indian men moved into the townhouse across from ours.

We didn't know what to expect but at first glance they appeared to be a hugely welcome change from the previous family that was renting that unit — a father who was a drug addict, a son the same age as D and who we thought would be a very good friend but turned out to be a bully instead, and the mother who was pregnant when they moved in.

Throughout the week, the house is quiet. The three Indian boys who live there go about their days quietly, heading out to work, stepping out into the yard for an occasional smoke, etc.

On weekends, the place transforms into a lively hub. Their friends — more young Indian men — come from wherever they come on Friday evening/Saturday morning.

They all get together and pack coolers and beach umbrellas and cricket bats into the boots of their cars, their laughter and conversations replete with the ma-behen gaalis (swear words) that young Indian men can't seem to converse without.

It took them two hours this morning to finish their prep and set out to wherever they've planned to spend their day.

Oh, what joy it brings to my heart to hear their laughter and indecipherable conversations. I can only hear the sounds but can't tell the words apart except for the swear words, haha.

I write often about how lonely I feel here in Canada. Even when I go to hang out with a group of friends, it doesn't assuage that loneliness. There are a couple of school mums I love and who are close friends to me; but other than them, it's mostly small talk with the others.

I've always thought that having a large group of friends is what I need. But after a couple of hours spent in a group, I'm usually dying to head back home for some peace and quiet. In fact, it takes my brain several hours to calm down from the din of hanging out in a group.

But the slightly distant melody of my neighbours' connection with each other has turned out to be the balm I had been seeking.

This realization hit me this morning, and I said to KrA, "It's not that I want to talk to a lot of people. But I just love hearing the sound of joyful camaraderie around me. Even better that it's in Hindi!"

It also helps that I don't know these people, so there's none of that FOMO that usually rears its head when we see, whether in pictures or in real life, a group of our friends hanging out without us.

When I was growing up in India, I spent part of my childhood, from when I was 6 years old until I turned 13, in a gated colony in Thane in front of Upvan Lake at the base of Yeoor Hills. That colony was reserved for employees of Voltas and their families.

It was an idyllic place to grow up in, barring the constant dramas surrounding friendships that's bound to happen when a large group of children of different ages and temperaments are thrown together.

Two of the six buildings in that colony were reserved for use by young men — bachelors, as they were called, being unmarried — and there was also one woman among them.

I still remember her name — Parul — and her birthdate — 6 November, exactly two weeks before mine. She was really cool and friendly and very approachable. Quite like an elder sister I didn't have. I have an older cousin sister whom I adore and am a big fan of to this date!

Anyhoo, the reason I mention those bachelors living in the vicinity of my brief childhood home is that a few months before we were scheduled to move out of Thane and to Baroda, I had a huge crush on one of those young unmarried men.

Sanjay Gupta. Funny, how one still remembers these details. And it's a common enough name that I can mention it here without worrying about inadvertently identifying anyone in particular.

He was such a decent man. Looking back now, I can see how easy it was for him to take advantage of me, and he didn't.

A few months ago, I was texting a dear friend and bringer-of-all-good-things-into-my-life, H, about D's first crush and how it all went down at school.

In that context, I wrote to her:
"And since when did 9-year-olds start having crushes? I had my first crush at the age of 12, I think. Head over heels with a man twice my age! He was so nice about it, though. I remember my mum being stark raving mad about it though."

In her reply to me, dear H wrote:
"Oh yeah — one more thing! I want to hear that story of your first crush one day! How absolutely badass were you, that it was a man!!!"

I was stunned. I had never looked at my crush that way. All I remember about it is the shame of it all.

But my exchange with H got me thinking more about that episode, and I remember how having that crush also brought me closer to another girl of my age, Pallavi — we used to go from being best friends to being sworn enemies and back to being best friends again, in that way that adolescent friendships constantly oscillate and dangerously veer off the rails at breakneck speed.

I wrote back to H:
"And just like that, in one fell swoop, you erased 34 years of shame for me! Your words are golden, dear H! Thank you!

Looking back now, I can see why I was attracted to him. He was such a steady, good guy. ... This man was such a dignified contrast to the chaos my home was. And was so nice about my crush too. He could say, "No, this is not appropriate" so kindly."

Coming back to the young Indian men who are my nameless neighbours now, hearing the melody of their camaraderie in the absence of having a large group of friends myself is like listening to a piece of classical piano without actually having to practise the scales and eventually learning to play the notes myself.

And that's alright if I'm deriving delight vicariously. In some areas of my life I'm active; in some others, I'm passive. And that's quite alright.

The funny thing is my neighbours have absolutely no idea how much their mere presence has been filling my life with joy and delight.

Sometimes, I catch myself wishing this would last forever. And the wise self part of me hugs my wishing self and says, "You are here now. This is here now. And that is all that matters now."