Picture this. On the ground floor of the house across the street from your home lives a couple with one child, a son, who is away abroad for most of the year. His parents send him on jaunts to Europe so he may soothe there his manic mind, which bursts to the fore soon as he’s back in town. He screams demands and yells accusations of which their neighbours can hear every bit.
On the first floor of their house live their tenants, where the parents have two daughters, the elder of whom declares war on her father roughly twice monthly, and she is so scathing in her abuse that he can check himself only a short while before he begins his returns, loud but weak, and after a half-hour of taking the overwhelming oral beating he walks out and drives away and you hear only silence from behind the thick foliage where their house is. The silence holds until next time. That father, an artist, has enjoyed years of fame, and though he's out of public view these days, these spats within earshot of so many people would be hard for him to bear. Whether it's the father who suffers more, or the daughter, you cannot tell.
Picture this. The folks in the ivy-clad house six houses down the street live in Europe almost all months of the year, even in winter, and they are very successful doctors, but the bigger success in the family is the daughter, who is a constitutional lawyer, a lawyer making a name in Europe, but she's steeped in acute depression that she manages to keep secret where she works. She has a psychiatrist for a mother. You see the mother when she visits, only the mother not the daughter, and you see the wash of the daughter's suffering over the mother's face.
Also picture this. The daughter of the family on the corner of your street is an accomplished singer who has given classical performances across the nation, but she was brought down by in-laws resentful of her public shows, and she sings no more now, and has returned to her parents and retired at a young age to silence and to days of walking her little boy up and down the street.
That's four families among five that you know on your street, along which stand some thirty other houses each with its own public and private stories. Consider now the man in the other home that you know, some distance up the street, and hold that man who happens to be your age and is holed up in his house, and yourself, to honest light, that lone dull light that is all the light you’ve been able to access lately.
You have considered all six of six, and you have a statistic that is a match with this monsoon morning in June.