The paradox of living alone, together

It has been just over four years since I moved out of Delhi to my current home. Yesterday, as I locked the door behind me, I realised my neighbour from the adjacent flat was getting in. We looked at each other, smiled, exchanged a customary hello, and then moved on. Later, turning the episode over in my mind, I realised I don’t know his name. He moved in with family—wife, two children—around 18 months ago. I don’t know the name of the people who lived here before, either. The realisation pulled at something. I didn’t even know the names of the neighbours in the Delhi flat where I lived for nearly a decade.