We friends built our houses in a cluster

on plots adjacent to each other.

So, we could meet, talk, share sugar, share power-cut woes,

and spend the rest of our lives huddled together.

The discussion came to demarcate our boundaries,

which no one had thought about.

To know our limits,

for the next generation,

for the property papers.

One said,

let there be no fence between us, we’ll step over.

One wanted a hedge,

something green, something soft.

Another wanted a barbed wire fence,

“Just in case.”

One, with a pause, said,

speak to your families first,

before we decide what is proper.

Then came the small things.

Then came the small things - a guest car parked half a meter over,

a festival playlist too loud,

a child’s ball that landed on the wrong side.

Then came the masons,

the measuring tapes,

and disputes over six inches.

“We thought your veranda was this far.”

The first brick was laid,

and with it, the first silence.

No one said anything;

we just smiled tighter,

and the silence between us grew longer

than any plot line on paper.

Over the next six months,

we saw high walls rise separating each of us.

No more borrowing onions,

Now we text from three houses away.

No more shouting “tea’s ready, come over for a talk.”

Sometimes I still stand at my window

and see their rooftops,

So close, I hear their mixer-grinder,

their festival music;

I know which child has exams,

but I don’t know if I should knock.

We had built to be together.

We ended up building walls to be apart

~