When I was younger, I knew who my neighbours were. They knew my parents and siblings. We greeted each other at the entrance to our building, exchanged portions of food our mothers had prepared, and fell asleep safe in the knowledge that we could count on each other in the event of an emergency.

But, that was thenu00a0-- a time when few societies had watchmen, fewer still had stringent rules about who could and couldn't live on their premises, and the letters 'CCTV' looked like gibberish.

I no longer know my neighbours. I recognise some of them vaguely, and acknowledge their presence with a nod every other month or so. I have never been invited to their homes, and haven't invited any of them to mine. In the event of an emergency, I intend to call family or hope for the kindness of strangers.

Builders now advertise security measures the way they once discussed views from balconies

Friends of mine who come to Mumbai from other cities speak of the horrifying experience that house-hunting has become. Entire localities have been cut off and reserved for groups on the basis of religion or, bizarrely, food preferences. Single men are frowned upon; single women labelled loose. Credentials and recommendations are demanded, rounds of interviews initiated. In some societies, families with children aren't welcome because of the potential noise their offspring may make. In other societies, families without children aren't welcome because their relationships do not come across as stable.

Builders now advertise security measures the way they once discussed views from balconies. Balconies are, incidentally, on the verge of becoming extinct. New homes come with guards, intercom systems, and video cameras prominently positioned outside doors. The idea of surprising someone is no longer feasible.