We live in buildings that block the sun

The sun sets behind another new hotel tower, and I sit in my living room with the AC on full blast. It’s the only way to breathe in this concrete box where the walls sometimes weep with condensation. Outside, the sea breeze tries to find its way through the narrow gaps between buildings, but here, the air is manufactured, the light is electric. We live stacked atop one another, our lives measured in square feet and utility bills. They announce new projects, new partnerships, new capital flowing in from somewhere far away. The numbers sound impressive on the news—thousands of crores, international brands, expansion. Meanwhile, my neighbor’s ceiling leaks whenever it rains, and we share a tired laugh about it. There’s a strange comfort in these small, shared frustrations. They remind us that for all the grand plans and political speeches, some things remain stubbornly, humanly real. I think about the PhDs and the titles, the ministers and the ambassadors. Somewhere, someone worked hard, earned their credentials, and now they shape policies from air-conditioned offices. And here we are, navigating the fallout—the rising costs, the crowded ferries, the sense that opportunity is something that happens to other people, in other places. Education doesn’t guarantee sanity, as my aunt says with a wry smile. People can lose it anytime, especially when the water starts dripping through the light fixture again. Yet, there’s a rhythm to this. The ferry horns at dawn, the call to prayer at dusk, the way we still find reasons to smile at strangers. The sea is constant, even when our fortunes are not. We’ve learned to build our lives in the shadows of bigger things, to find warmth in the spaces between the headlines. It’s not the life we imagined, perhaps, but it’s the one we’re living, together, in all its leaky, ironic glory.