I live in an old-world apartment, where the lift has been creaking since the Bronze Age, and the watchman could put ChatGPT to shame. He moonlights as a caretaker and ‘sunlights’ as a plumber, and occasionally judges youngsters for bringing over their partners. When I first moved into my apartment, I wished my apartment were also posh and cutting-edge. But gradually, I have begun to warm up to the old-worldliness of it. Mine is the kind of apartment where a power cut makes everybody step out and check if their neighbours’ power is gone too!
But when I walk into a posh gated community, I feel like Govinda entering Mumbai in a David Dhawan movie. I stare up at the buildings, make way for zipping RC cars controlled by children, and unsuccessfully try to impress the Siberian huskies with undiagnosed bipolar disorder in Indian summers. Modern gated communities are self-sustaining microcosms by themselves. You will find a supermarket, gym, play schools, and even a temple inside. Which makes them a little bit like Hotel California. You can always check in, but you may never leave. It’s like a country where you don’t need a passport to visit, but they will ask for your Aadhaar card, visitors’ OTP, and (if they don’t trust the way you look) will even click a picture of you for safekeeping.
These gated communities have their hierarchy, too. Right at the top are the richest people. They occupy the penthouses and the apartments with the best views, and where the traffic below looks like marching ants. In Middle-earth, you have the remaining flats. And right at the bottom, you have staff, security and blue-collar jobs on the ground floor. Of course, we all have to visit the nether regions of the world when we go to the basement and question all our life choices just to find our parking spot.
This microcosm has its own governing body. The Ministry of Security – with the security folks with walkie-talkies, even though nobody is walking or talking. Then there is the Ministry of Culture, who handle Deepavali celebrations, New Year bashes, and occasional karaoke terrorism within the gated community. Then there is the Ministry of Propaganda, which is governed by the apartment secretary and president.
The kids who grow up in these communities have friends who all belong to the same socio-economic class. They play posh sports like basketball, tennis, and mind games. The animals are all posh pets, and the language spoken is English – with an American slant. For someone who grew up playing on the streets, fighting off bullies and stray dogs every day just to play a game of cricket, I have mixed feelings about this upbringing. Of course, they live a sheltered, safe life free from any tensions from strangers and external threats. But I also wonder if they’d have benefited from exposure to a world outside their social circles, too.
Of course, as someone who has never been a parent (to a child, pet, or even a plant), I have no right to determine the right way to raise a child. But I wonder if the kids sometimes want to break free from the compound. To run into a Kirana store, pet a stray dog and run around in the sun without SPF 50 protection on their faces.
Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe deep within, I want to live in a community where every birthday is celebrated with fireworks. Where the only real threat is a rogue Zumba instructor. Till then, I shall remain on the outside -– petting stray dogs, dodging potholes, and wondering if I could sneak into the organic mango festival this weekend!
(The writer’s views are personal)