Why nobody drops in anymore

There was a time when you could ring someone’s doorbell without knowing whether they were home, whether the house was tidy or whether there was enough food for you. You simply rang. If the door opened, you went in. If tea appeared, you drank it. If lunch was being cooked, you ate it. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t. And if the host happened to be in the middle of doing something, well, you were there now.

Nobody needed a WhatsApp message saying Are you home? Followed by Can I come over? Followed, quite possibly, by Now?

The unannounced visit was not an intrusion. It was a form of social life.

That, increasingly, seems to belong to another era.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Rosie and I arrived at a friend’s house at about 8.25pm for a dinner party. We were, as it turned out, the first guests. The dinner had been organised to bid farewell and bon voyage to a dear friend leaving the country for a longish trip. The menu had been discussed, seating arranged, the car pool coordinated and little gifts bought. Everything had been planned with the precision of a minor diplomatic summit.

We rang the bell. Once. Twice.

We couldn’t hear it because a pair of excited dogs inside were barking loudly enough to drown out both the bell and the sound of our hostess, Amna, opening the smaller side entrance.

The gate swung open and Amna beamed at us.

“Kaisay ana hua? I’m thrilled to see you guys drop by,” she said, greeting us with warm hugs and air kisses.

It took about thirty seconds for all three of us to realise the absurdity of what she had said.

We were not dropping by.

We were invited.

And yet the joke struck a nerve. Because when was the last time any of us had actually dropped by?

Amna put it rather perfectly: “Why don’t people drop in spontaneously anymore, just ring the bell and appear? I think we should have some homes among us where we can just drop by randomly, and casually.”

There was a time when that was exactly what homes were for.

Growing up, Nousheen remembers her parents’ and grandparents’ homes as places that were almost permanently buzzing.

“Relatives, family friends, someone or other. No permission, no appointment, just dropping in whenever you wanted. And long chats invariably.”

Friends did the same. School friends would turn up at each other’s homes. University friends would appear and stay for hours. You could spend an entire afternoon lying around on somebody’s bed, talking nonsense, discussing serious things, eating whatever happened to be available [or what their cook/mother kept producing as top-tier hospitality] and eventually deciding to go somewhere else.

You knew the parents. You knew the siblings. You might wander into the kitchen and talk to someone’s mother. You might find yourself having a conversation with your friend’s father. The boundaries between my house, your house and our social world were considerably blurrier.

Today, the first question is usually not “Where are you?” but “Are you free?” And there is an important distinction. Because increasingly, being at home does not necessarily mean being available. Home has become the one place where people feel entitled to shut the door on the rest of the world.

That has something to do with how exhausting modern life has become. Work stretches into evenings. Commutes eat up hours. Children have schedules of their own. There are errands, appointments, exercise, domestic chores and an endless stream of messages demanding replies. Even leisure has become something that needs to be organised.

There are gym slots to book, restaurants to reserve, films to schedule and weekends to negotiate. Free time itself has become a commodity, carefully protected because there seems to be so little of it. And then there is me-time where everything else is blocked and silenced so we scroll to our hearts' content without being judged or reprimanded.

So when the doorbell rings unexpectedly at 6pm on a Tuesday, the reaction may no longer be delight. It may be panic. “The house is a mess.” “I haven’t showered.” “There’s nothing to serve.” “I have work to finish.” “I was planning to do absolutely nothing.” And perhaps that last reason is the most important. People have become protective of their right to do nothing — privately, uninterrupted and on their own.

The home that was once a social hub is now often a refuge from social demands. After spending the day being available to colleagues, clients, children, customers and strangers, people want somewhere they can switch off. An unexpected visitor, however welcome in theory, can feel like someone has walked into the one space where you were allowed to disappear.

The rise of the mobile phone has made this shift even easier. A decade or two ago, if you wanted to see someone, you had to see them. Or at least call. Now you can maintain an astonishing illusion of intimacy without leaving your sofa. You know what your friend had for lunch because she posted it. You know where your cousin is on holiday. You have seen somebody’s new kitchen, dog, birthday cake and haircut before you have actually sat across from them. The phone has become a strange substitute for presence.

And because we can now ask permission before appearing, we have gradually turned asking into an obligation. “Can I come over?” “Are you busy?” “Is this a good time?” The answer may be “Of course!” But the very question has changed the nature of the encounter.

The spontaneous visit used to operate on a wonderfully low threshold. You didn't have to be invited. You didn't have to arrive looking presentable. The house didn't have to be immaculate. There was no requirement to produce an elaborate meal. You came as you were. That informality may be one of the things we have lost.

Planned socialising often carries an invisible burden. The house must be cleaned. The cushions arranged. The food thought through. The drinks and starters bought. The host must be mentally prepared to entertain.

A drop-in required none of this. If there was leftover biryani, you ate biryani. If there were only biscuits, you ate biscuits. Tea could be stretched. Chairs could be found. Someone could sit on the floor. Nobody was being judged for the state of the living room. Nobody expected an Instagram-worthy afternoon.

The declining culture of casual visiting is also tied to a profound change in who is actually at home during the day. For generations, many households had someone — usually a woman — whose daily life was centred round the home. That did not necessarily mean she had nothing to do; far from it. But there was a greater likelihood that somebody was physically there when a neighbour or relative appeared at the gate.

Today, in many families, both adults work. Children have their own routines. Domestic help may come and go. Houses can sit empty for much of the day. And even when somebody is home, they may be working from there. The old assumption that home means available has disappeared. There is also the city itself. In smaller communities, dropping in was easier because people lived close to one another and knew the rhythms of each other’s lives. In large cities, visiting can involve traffic, parking, security gates, lifts and journeys long enough to require a logistical strategy.

Even neighbours can become strangers. We live in the same apartment building but may not know the person behind the door next to ours. We pass one another in lifts with the polite nod of strangers. We know the cars parked downstairs better than we know the people who own them. We are living closer together and, somehow, further apart.

And then there is money. Sameena offers a different explanation for the decline in visiting, and one that is difficult to dismiss. “For my family anyway it has nothing to do with the pandemicreating social boundaries or social media. The prices of everything is so high and I cannot randomly entertain or host visitors.” There is something wonderfully blunt about this. Perhaps sometimes people don't visit because they are too busy or too digitally connected. And perhaps sometimes they simply don't have the money. Petrol costs money. Taking a family somewhere costs money. Feeding unexpected guests costs money. Even the seemingly insignificant expense of buying something to put on the table has become harder to ignore.

The casual visit was built on an economy of abundance — not necessarily financial abundance, but the assumption that there would always be something to share. That assumption is weaker now. But there is another cost to the disappearance of drop-ins, and it cannot be measured in rupees. We have lost the low-stakes encounter.

The person who comes over for twenty minutes and stays for two hours. The neighbour who happens to be passing. The cousin who arrives because they were “in the area”, even though they clearly weren't. The friend who comes over with no particular purpose and leaves having solved three problems, discussed five others and laughed about something completely irrelevant.

These encounters were inefficient. That was precisely their charm. Not everything had to have a purpose or productivity.

Perhaps we have become too good at optimising our lives. We organise our calendars, our work, our children's activities and our social engagements. We communicate constantly. We are rarely out of touch. Yet there is something curiously lonely about a life in which every human interaction has to be arranged in advance.

The irony is that technology was supposed to make connection easier. In some ways it has. But convenience has also removed the need to make an effort — and effort is sometimes what makes relationships real. A message saying “thinking of you” is lovely. Showing up with samosas is different.

There is, of course, a middle ground. Nobody is suggesting that we return to an era when people could walk into one another's houses without regard for privacy, work or personal boundaries. Some people genuinely need notice. Some homes are not equipped for visitors. Some days are simply bad days. The modern instinct to respect boundaries is not a bad thing.

But perhaps we have taken the principle of asking permission a little too far. Perhaps some relationships need spaces in which nobody has to prepare. Perhaps we need a few homes where the doorbell can still ring unexpectedly. Where the house can be untidy. Where the host can be in old clothes. Where there is no food, but somehow food appears. Where nobody asks how long you will stay. And where “What are you doing here?” is not a complaint but an expression of delight. Because Amna may have been joking when she pretended that Rosie and I had simply dropped by. But her question was serious. Why don't we just show up anymore?

Maybe the answer is that we have become too busy, too careful, too expensive, too scheduled and too accustomed to living behind closed doors. Or maybe we have simply forgotten that friendship does not always need an appointment. Sometimes you just ring the bell. And hope someone opens the door warmly.