The Ordinary Magic: When Sharing Wasn't Special, It Was Just Normal
The Ordinary Magic: When Sharing Wasn't Special, It Was Just Normal
There is a strange phenomenon that happens when we look back at our childhoods in the chawls and slums. We describe moments of immense generosity and kindness, and yet, to us, they don't feel like sacrifices or grand gestures. They feel... ordinary. Because they were.
Sharing water, food, festivals, and laughter wasn't a "community initiative" or a "charity drive." It was just how Tuesday worked. It was the default setting of life. And perhaps that is the most beautiful part of it all—it felt normal, not special.
The Tap That United Us
In the old chawls, the water tap was a great equalizer. It wasn't a private utility; it was a social hub. We would line up with our buckets, grumbling about the morning chill, but also sharing the latest gossip. If someone's bucket was filled out of turn because they were late for work, nobody called it an "act of kindness." It was just the done thing. Your thirst was my problem. Your rush was my cue to help.
We didn't have mineral water bottles lined up in the fridge. We had a common brass glass kept near the matka (earthen pot). Anyone who entered the house—friend, stranger, postman—was offered water. It wasn't hospitality; it was reflex.
The Roti That Knew No Boundaries
Food in the chawl was a public asset. If you were playing in the corridor and the smell of pav bhaji drifted from a neighbour's house, you simply walked in. There was no need for an invitation, and certainly no need for formality. A plate would appear in front of you as if by magic.
Mothers cooked in quantities that never quite made sense for their own family size, but made perfect sense for the community. "Ek roti extra toh belni hi padti hai" (One must always roll out an extra roti)—this was the unspoken rule. That extra roti was for the friend who was always hungry, for the uncle who dropped by for a chat, or for the old widow next door who had stopped cooking for one.
We never called this "community feeding." We called it dinner.
The Calendar of Shared Joy
Festivals in a diverse neighbourhood were a beautiful blur. We never celebrated "our" festival and ignored the rest. The entire year was a string of opportunities to come together.
The month of Ramzan meant waking up to the sound of the sehr and looking forward to the iftar treats in the evening. Diwali meant the entire building was lit up, and we would burst crackers together, regardless of who was celebrating what. Christmas meant the neighbour's tree was everyone's tree.
It felt normal. It felt like the world was supposed to work this way. We didn't pat ourselves on the back for being "secular." We just ate the malpua and smiled.
The Currency of Laughter
And then there was the laughter. The loud, unbridled, corridor-shaking laughter. It was the cheapest and most abundant commodity in the chawl. We laughed while doing chores, while waiting for the bathroom, while sitting on the stairs during a power cut. This laughter was the glue. It made the sharing effortless. It made the adjustments feel like jokes rather than compromises.
Why It Stings Now
Today, as adults in a world of "playdates" and "planned potlucks," we realize what we've lost. We now have to schedule time to see friends. We have to organize "community dinners." What was once organic now requires orchestration.
We miss the normalcy of it all. We miss the fact that you didn't have to announce your loneliness or your hunger; someone just knew. Sharing wasn't a virtue we aspired to; it was the very air we breathed.
It wasn't special. It was just life. And that's exactly what made it so precious.
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