<b>Kishore Singh:</b> The incognito neighbourhood

Having lived the bulk of our lives in a friendly community, discovering life on the outside has had its share of surprises. We've had to get used to employing security, for instance, and the assurance that when something fails you use the intercom to summon a plumber or electrician is no longer there. But more than these adjustments, it's the people - or their lack - that has intrigued us. In a neighbourhood of villas with sprawling gardens, it is a mystery why cars are parked on the road instead of in their huge driveways. "Since you can't drive a Porsche in the city," my son suggested, "you leave it outside for the neighbours to see." There might be merit in what he says. On our street alone, there are Porsches and Range Rovers, Pajeros and Lamborghinis. The chauffeurs use Beemers and Mercs on shopping trips for stocking up on grocery, or collecting the laundry, and one family probably enjoys a loyalty bonus from Audi for having a slip road entirely lined with the same model - each one white, with its own driver, though I've yet to see any being actually driven.

In the five months that we have been living here, we have not glimpsed our neighbours, having never seen them out for a walk, or fraternising at the community centre, or, indeed, shopping in the marketplace, such banal chores being tasked to the domestic staff. For several mornings, my wife, who likes a friendly natter, woke early to accost the walkers in the nearby park, only to learn that they came from far rather than somewhere near.

We might not recognise those who inhabit these cloistered homes but we can tell them from their habits. My daughter's masseuse whom a friend recommended is not above a little gossip, so we know that the resident behind the red gate has had a tummy tuck, that the occupant of the corner house has thinning hair and wears a wig, and that the socialite in the street behind ours has had some, ahem, enhancements. The cook, who's made friends with his peers, smirked that deliveries of chicken happen regularly for a neighbouring household that claims to be vegetarian. And though we may not know the residents of the peeli kothi, some of its goings-on could make you blush.

The house with the tiled roof has an athletic family. Daily it lets in, first, a yoga guru, then a gym trainer, a pilates expert, and, in the evening, someone who teaches Bollywood dancing. There are bouncers outside the house with the blooming azaleas and a police security post across the road from it from where the fragrance of tempered dal is mouth-watering.

Their owners might be invisible but you can count on a pedigree of canines being walked by their trainers or dog-walkers several times a day. Gardeners fuss over hedges and borders that spill on to the road with little picket fences and a profusion of spring flowers. Ahead of the house where a young kid can be seen puttering around on a Harley-Davidson is someone - a family of kids? a household of bachelors? a flutter of sophomores? - partial to junk food if the constant supply of pizzas and Chinese takeaway is anything to go by. I'd like to discover the interiors of the impressive mansion on the main street but the blitz of security cameras has been a deterrent. Meanwhile, like our unseen neighbours, we're in danger of fading into genteel anonymity.