Those Who Make Unfamiliar Places Home, A Story of Names, Neighbours, and the Search for Belonging
My father’s job was transferable. We were always moving and from an early age, we were introduced to our neighbours as one extended family. This belief stayed with me, even after my marriage, when I made Delhi my home.
In a large city like Delhi, it is not easy to find a rental home. It is physically and psychologically taxing to pack up your entire life into cardboard boxes and start over in a strange place. However, these difficulties become harder for some.
The Kindness of Strangers
Every time we moved, our neighbours’ warmth eased our struggle. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner would be delivered to us for over a week following each move until our kitchen regained its rhythm. We, a small family of three, returned that kindness in every way possible.
This was my understanding of neighbourhood—a reciprocal relationship, a mutual easing of life’s burdens. Strangers became friends; friends became family. The city, for all its anonymity, could also be a place of connection.
The New Neighbours
The apartment across from us was unoccupied for over three months. One evening, when I got home from work, I noticed workers moving boxes and furniture into it. As I hurried up the steps, I found a young man and greeted him with a smile. He said his name was Rahul. A young woman emerged moments later. “This is Neha, my wife,” he murmured.
I immediately offered them dinner as they were visibly exhausted. They reluctantly agreed to it. This was how it had always been in my experience—a simple offer of food, a small gesture of welcome.
That evening, as we sat together sharing a simple meal, I casually asked if they ate non-vegetarian food, since our family loved it. Rahul hesitated, then said, “Didi… buru na lage toh ek baat bataun (If you don’t mind, may I say something)?”
I smiled. “Zaroor (Sure).”
“Neha pregnant hai. Second trimester shuru hua just (Neha is pregnant, her second trimester has just begun).”
After a pause, Rahul spoke again, his voice trembling slightly.
“Didi… ek aur baat batana hai. Main Rahul nahi hoon. Main Farooq hoon. Aur Neha… woh Shazia hai (We want to tell you one more thing. I’m not Rahul, but Farooq. She is Shazia, not Neha).”
The Weight of a Name
For a moment, silence wrapped the room. Their eyes searched our faces, afraid of what might follow.
I gently broke the stillness and said, “Naam badalne se insaan thodi badalta hai (Changing our names doesn’t change who we are). Moreover, Rahul and Neha sound so filmi.”
He breathed a sigh of relief.
That evening, he unfolded painstaking stories of rejection, of houses slipping away at the last moment, of doors closing before they could even step inside, of neighbours who judged without knowing, and of fear creeping in where friendship should have bloomed. They had been turned down countless times, their names alone becoming reasons for refusal. The weariness etched on their faces was the pain of being made to feel like outsiders in their own city.
The Invisible Barriers
Farooq and Shazia’s story is not unique. In cities across India, Muslims face discrimination in housing. A name that sounds Muslim can be enough for a landlord to refuse a tenancy, for a broker to stop returning calls, for a door to close before it even opens.
This discrimination is illegal under the Constitution and under laws like the Protection of Civil Rights Act, but it persists. It persists because it is invisible, because it is hard to prove, because it is often denied. The landlord who refuses to rent to a Muslim does not say, “I am discriminating against you because of your religion.” They say, “Sorry, it’s already taken.” Or, “We only rent to families.” Or simply, “No.”
The result is the same: a young couple, expecting a child, forced to hide their identities to find a home. Forced to become “Rahul” and “Neha” to be accepted.
The Fear Behind the Name
What does it do to a person to have to hide their identity to find shelter? What does it do to a young pregnant woman to know that her name could make her homeless? What does it do to a man to have to lie about who he is to protect his family?
The weariness etched on their faces was not just the exhaustion of moving. It was the exhaustion of rejection, of constant vigilance, of never being able to relax into the assumption that you belong.
The Kindness That Overcomes
When I said, “Naam badalne se insaan thodi badalta hai,” I meant it. Changing a name does not change a person. But I also meant something more: your name does not matter to me. Who you are matters.
That simple acceptance, that refusal to see them as anything other than neighbours, friends, fellow humans, was apparently a rare gift. It should not be rare. It should be ordinary. But in a society marked by prejudice, ordinary kindness becomes extraordinary.
The Legacy
A few months later, their home was filled with the soft sobs of young Zaid and laughter that echoed down the corridor. Instead of remaining neighbours, they became family members. They eventually moved to a new city following Farooq’s promotion, leaving our hearts empty and heavy.
They taught me that neighbours turn an unfamiliar place into a home. But this experience is not the same for everyone. Farooqs and Shazias still need to hide their identity to be accepted by neighbours.
Conclusion: The Unfinished Work
The story of Farooq and Shazia is a story of love and courage and the kindness that can exist between strangers. But it is also a story of the work that remains undone. It is a story of a society where names still divide, where prejudice still excludes, where people still have to hide who they are to find a home.
Until every Farooq and Shazia can be themselves without fear, until every landlord sees a person not a name, until every neighbourhood is truly welcoming, the work is unfinished. The story reminds us what is possible—and what remains to be achieved.
Q&A: Unpacking the Story
Q1: What is the central narrative of the article?
The author recounts meeting new neighbours, a young couple who initially introduce themselves as “Rahul” and “Neha.” Later, they reveal their real names—Farooq and Shazia—fearfully, having experienced repeated housing rejection due to their Muslim identities. The author’s acceptance brings relief, and they become close.
Q2: What does the couple’s experience reveal about housing discrimination in India?
Their story illustrates the invisible discrimination Muslims face in rental housing. Despite constitutional protections, landlords often reject tenants based on names perceived as Muslim. This forces couples like Farooq and Shazia to hide their identities, creating constant fear and exhaustion. The discrimination is illegal but persists because it’s hard to prove.
Q3: Why was the couple’s confession so significant?
They had been turned down countless times simply because of their names. Each rejection added to their fear and exhaustion. Confessing to the author was a moment of vulnerability—they were risking yet another rejection. The author’s acceptance was thus not just kindness but a profound relief from years of prejudice.
Q4: What does the author mean by “this experience is not the same for everyone”?
The author’s own experience of neighbourhood was of warmth and acceptance—neighbours who delivered meals, who became family. But Farooq and Shazia’s experience was of rejection and fear. The contrast highlights how one’s identity shapes one’s experience of the same city. A home for some is a place of exclusion for others.
Q5: What broader message does the story convey?
It shows both the possibility of human connection across difference and the persistence of prejudice. The author’s simple acceptance—”changing names doesn’t change who we are”—should be ordinary, but is extraordinary because of societal prejudice. The story reminds us what is possible when we see people rather than labels, and how much work remains to make that ordinary.
