Each time I visit Mumbai, I make a pilgrimage to an old five-story building with crumbling balconies on Nepean Sea Road. It’s where I lived during the ’60s and ’70s — the first two decades of my life. I went back a few weeks ago. Standing outside, I thought about the diverse, cosmopolitan city I knew, and how it has changed.

We lived in a single room. Our flat was shared by four families: We were Hindu, the other three Muslim. Our landlord, who lived in the room next to ours, had a kitchen in common with us; down the hall were two communal toilets. Muslim families lived on the two floors above us, but the top floor family was Hindu, as were the shopkeepers below.

Our differing religions almost never caused friction. Once in a while, my mother might complain about the smell of beef being cooked by the landlady. We’d occasionally grill tiny pork sausages over the toaster in our room, in secret retaliation. Usually, though, religion came up only in the context of festivals: The neighbors gave us fresh meat each time they slaughtered a lamb for Eid; we invited their children to light firecrackers with us to celebrate Diwali.

Which is not to say we lived in blissful harmony. There were frequent (often spectacular) altercations — over kitchen counter space, the limited water supply in the flat’s storage tanks, a common electricity bill, a shared doorbell. Surprises left unflushed in the toilets elicited particular rancor. Ashamed, I never invited classmates over.