What We See, What We Cannot Know- a Neighborhood Narration

I know the house by habit—and, to some extent, by acquaintance.

We visited twice. Once for a family ritual, where the house was full and time moved differently. Another time, casually, in a way I no longer remember clearly. These were not intimate visits. Just enough to turn faces into familiarity.

Every morning now, he walks two children to the corner of the lane. The boy moves ahead, loose-limbed, already leaning into the world beyond this street. The girl stays close, cautious, as though the ground might shift under careless feet. When they turn the corner, the lane resumes its ordinary business.

For some time, there was another adult in that house.

She was visible in ways neighborhoods notice—on the terrace, phone held up, moving to music that drifted into other people’s mornings. Some called her expressive. Some called her careless. Most watched and said nothing to her directly.

During those visits, I noticed things I did not know how to interpret. The children played often on the roadside. The little girl’s clothes were sometimes untidy, not always suited to the weather. The boy spent long hours outside with friends. None of this proves anything. Parenting reveals itself only in fragments to outsiders, and fragments are easily misunderstood.

Still, the impressions stayed with me.

Then, one day, she was no longer there.

There was no explanation. Only a vacuum quickly filled by speculation. In places like this, stories travel faster than facts. I listened, but I never asked him. I still haven’t.

Small changes followed. The children’s school changed. Their days took a new shape. The house adjusted quietly. The older woman in the household began rising earlier. He learned new motions—carrying grocery bags, waking before dawn, speaking gently and often, as if kindness itself were a form of maintenance.

Nearly a year has passed.

Once, I saw him in the courtyard with a bucket of water and a cloth. He washed his motorcycle—the one he rides every day. When he finished, he moved to the scooter that has not been used for months. He wiped it with the same care, straightened it on its stand, rinsed dust from places few people notice.

I remember thinking how strange it is that hands remember responsibilities even when relationships change.

Sometimes I wonder what absence feels like from inside that house.
Does it feel like loss?
Like relief?
Like a conversation paused, not ended?

I think of her—whether leaving was an escape, a failure, a necessity, or simply the only option she could see at the time.

I think of him—whether waiting is a choice, or what remains when life offers no clear instruction.

Most of all, I think of the children.

What do they remember of those early days?
What do they quietly rewrite?
What version of care do they grow up believing is normal?

One morning, he returned from the school run carrying vegetables in a thin plastic bag. At the gate, he paused. Inside the compound, the scooter stood clean, already gathering dust again.

He went inside. The gate closed. The scooter stayed.

I stood there longer than necessary, aware of how easy it is to observe and how difficult it is to understand.

Some lives do not ask to be solved.
They ask only to be noticed.

by
Sannidhya
12/14/2025, Kathmandu, Nepal