India, April 4 -- A few months ago, I shifted my writing desk toward the window, unaware that my solitary work would soon be graced by the silent company of my neighbours. Now, as I pause to ponder a sentence, I find myself indulged in their everyday rituals. I have become their unofficial watchman, their quiet guard, and certainly their secret observer.

The window overlooks a grand garden, a green oasis skirted by a cluster of houses. Every morning, a gardener tends to the large vegetable patch that, during spring, bursts into a riot of colour. Along the marble path that cuts through the greenery, the daughter of the house-a diplomat on a long sabbatical-takes her slow, rhythmic walks. She never misses a session, morning or evening. By ...