Longkang journeys

The neighbourhood of Terrace houses is so interesting. Unlike slums that are mostly upfront with their predicament and don't give a fuck, or bungalows that are fortresses, a sanctuary that hides all unless you're within its inner sanctums.

 The middle class are familiar with a whole league of masking and identity work that are so intricately juxtaposed.

Their front parts of the houses are all fronts. Gated, showing what they want you to see, some gardener up and gilded, some dark and sullen, some bare, but most consciously hiding what they don't want you to see. Guards up. 

But there are so many things happening at the back lanes, if you slip past the small cleft between two rows, and walk along the longkangs, drains that flow with the living arteries of what actually happens in the houses. The smell of soap from water draining from bathrooms as they shower, the varying scents from their kitchens as they cook. Biryani, ginger, steamed fish, fried rice, curry. 

It's so easy to meander upon overhearing conversations in the kitchen, unhinged arguments where they think they're in a safe place at the back of their house where no one in front can hear, and songs sung at the bathrooms in their most vulnerable psyches.