Two Lives. Part 1. Two Homes

I live in near-equal part in two cities. One luxurious, the other spartan. One the family home, the other mostly mine alone.

Apparently, I live two lives.

To me, it doesn’t feel like that. But others find it strange enough that I’ve decided to write it down; perhaps to explain, perhaps to understand it myself.

Life 1: We live in a five-bedroom apartment in Gurgaon, on the 7th floor of a high-rise with a lovely view. We've been here since 2007. The flat is large enough that we need a support system. We have full-time help (an outstanding housekeeper), someone for “topwork” (a term that sounds oddly glamorous for what it is), and a driver. Life here is smooth, comfortable, some might say luxurious.

Life 2: We also have a small two-bedroom apartment in Kolkata, on the 13th floor of a high-rise with a spectacular view. Been there for the past 3 years. No help, no staff. Just me. Spartan by comparison, though the dishwasher, washing machine, and robot floor cleaner are all excellent support staff.

A little background. I’m a privileged Indian man. After 40 years of work, I have enough money for a reasonably comfortable life. I work part-time, from home. My wife runs a company and needs to be in Gurgaon most of the time, so I split my time between the two cities. When our now-grown-up kids visit, they fly into Gurgaon. It's our headquarters, our family home.

Gurgaon life is easy to describe. Our housekeeper is also a fabulous cook. She makes the meals, the bed, and ensures the clothes are always washed, ironed, and returned to their exact original position. My wife, who is both the CEO of her company and the household, runs everything; the menu, the bills, the groceries. Since she needs the car more, the occasional “slumming it” for me means calling an Uber. I have a quiet workspace with a view, and in the evenings and weekends, I have her company, which is both stimulating and entertaining. There’s no pressure to do anything. I cook occasionally, because I enjoy it. A dream life, by most standards.

And yet…! In Kolkata, I do everything. I shop, cook, clean (though my machines do most of the actual work), pay bills, and generally keep the ship afloat. I’ve fallen ill a couple of times there with no help around. And yet, not once have I wished myself back in Gurgaon.

Maybe a little colour will help.

A typical day begins with a walk to a beautiful lake just outside the building. On the way, I stop by a woman who sells fish; we’re now on friendly terms. I tell her what I want, and it’s ready when I return. I may have a tender coconut, pick up some vegetables, or buy fruits from the vendors outside the lake entrance. Most of them now know me. Some days, I go for breakfast at a nearby coffee shop where the servers smile with recognition. On other days, I return home to the smell of freshly baked bread; my breadmaker works while I walk.

The day moves along with some work, some cooking, some cleaning, and a little television. In the evening, I listen to music or chat with my wife, my kids, my sister, and friends. If you were to visit me in Kolkata, you wouldn’t need my flat number. The guard will escort you to the lift, and the liftman will walk you to my door.

Sometimes I stroll to the main market, or visit a relative, and sometimes indulge in a scoop of Naturals ice cream. Kolkata is a walking city, and in our area, everything is just close enough to never need wheels.

And most morning, just outside my balcony, a kite perches on the railing. A solitary bird, sharp-eyed and still. Some days it is already there when I wake up, other days it joins later. It sits facing the wind, surveying the world as if it owns the sky. I don’t feed it. We have no arrangement. It comes and goes. But in some quiet way, I feel its presence marking my time in Kolkata. It reminds me of something — freedom, perhaps. Or the still dignity of simply belonging to a place without fuss.

In contrast, I’ve never quite engaged with Gurgaon. Not because I couldn’t, but because I never really got around to it. No one recognises me there, even though I’ve lived in that building for 18 years. It’s not a walking city. Everything requires a car, and somewhere in that distance between places, the possibility of belonging gets diluted.

In Kolkata, I speak in Bengali. Maybe that adds a layer of nostalgia. Or maybe it’s just that when you speak in your first language, you’re less on guard. In Kolkata, I feel welcome. In Gurgaon, I mostly feel... accommodated.

It’s not that I’m happier in Kolkata. Happiness is a loud word. I feel something quieter - contentment. A sense that life fits better. That I’m not waiting for something else to begin. Like the Kite. Every morning it sits there, free, with no expectations and somehow content.

Between the cloistered dispassion of Gurgaon and the unchanging acceptance of Kolkata, I live in two different worlds. Strangely, both feel like home.