India, July 20 -- Sometimes, it takes an earthquake in Gurugram to figure out who your neighbours are. The earth shakes, and people rush out in their pyjamas and assemble in an area where their WiFi can't reach - and see people who they sometimes spot in the lift. Reluctant smiles follow. This is a completely unscheduled assembly. Some small talk emerges. "It was really strong," says a middle-aged man, most likely a senior vice-president at an MNC - an open invitation for anyone to respond. I take the bait. "Yeah, the epicentre is somewhere in Haryana, 4.0 magnitude," I read from my phone. He is not interested in more science. He spots the missus. A conversation follows. "Oh, you are the couple who recently moved in?" "Yeah, it's been two years." "We are on the same floor. You guys should come over sometime!" "Sure! Whenever." "Whenever" is a great tool to dodge such societal curveballs. It doesn't commit a date, shows complete intent, and shifts the onus on to the inviting party to propose a time. So it ends there and we wait for the next earthquake. This phenomenon is especially pronounced if you are a tenant. No neighbour wants to build a relationship with a temporary inhabitant; hence, the empty invitations at earthquake meetings. Unless the Zomato delivery person accidentally delivers their tandoori momos to you, there is no reason to knock on each others' doors. Nobody runs out of chaipatti (tea leaves) anymore. They get it in 10 minutes. It is a city where many live in gate community high-rises, scammed by the concept of super built-up area. They work eight to nine hours in a designated cubicle, and then come back home to park their vehicles in a designated spot, sometimes to find someone else's car parked there. They post a picture on the society Whatsapp group, chastising the miscreant. They regret not investing in a higher income society, with people having better civic sense. This income-to-civic sense correlation never holds, though. People keep spending money to chase peers with better civic sense, only to find the guy in the window seat standing up and asking them to give way as soon as the plane lands. Clearly, there is no correlation. But, there are enough benefits of staying in such a society. Most of your needs are taken care of, everything is available at your doorstep. If your door-bell rings, it is most likely the domestic help or a delivery boy - seldom a neighbour. Earlier, neighbourly love was fuelled by scarcity. A shared misery always leads to the best friendships. A few decades ago, my hometown would see a power-cut nearly every evening. As soon as the whirring ceiling fan suddenly lost speed, the immediate neighbours would be asked if their house had lost power too. After a collective misfortune was established, our Neelkamal-brand chairs would be laid out on the porch. There was no mobile, no internet to turn to - only Mr Tiwari who worked in a nationalised bank, in his vest, telling us how tough government jobs had become. "It's not like old times, bhaisahab. Now, you have to work", he would say, sipping tea made by my mother in candle-light. Another scarcity fuelling neighbourly connections was lack of milk for tea, or the chaipatti itself. The doorbell rings, your mother answers - only to see a friend and his entire family at your doorstep, all decked up. "Namaste, bhabhiji, We were passing by and thought of dropping in." "Oh, haan. Sure, sure!" Your mother lets them in pretending a pleasant shock, quickly clearing the nearest bed for them to sit while nervously talking non-stop. She takes stock of items in the kitchen - there is no milk, and Blinkit is 20 years away. You are sent to the neighbour's house, to borrow some. The neighbours understand this Code Red, having been in similar situations. You smuggle back the milk covertly. The day is saved. This sudden scarcity builds neighbourly love so strong that you still get invited to their family weddings decades later. There is no scarcity now. Each high-rise is self sufficient. There is power back-up. There are quick delivery services. And, there are no uninvited guests. There is instead "privacy", a concept that was alien to many Indians like me just two decades ago. But if you discount the nostalgic hangover, condominium life is one of the best examples of how a country should be run. You spot a pothole, you take a picture and send it to a WhatsApp group, shaming the residents' welfare association members. They get to work, and it is fixed. Shaming works in societies with super high self-esteem per sq feet. Even Mr Tiwari, who sold his old house to enjoy the amenities of a condominium post-retirement, knows this. Sometimes, he does miss that chai and that power cut, though....