As I step out of my room, the heat embraces me. That overwhelming feeling of another hot day, when it will be impossible to escape the searing sun. But wait; isn’t it a little bit cooler today? Didn’t I just feel a breeze that wasn’t there yesterday? I step down the stairs and stop at the first landing. There is no view. The foliage of the green trees hides the source of the noise from Mathura road, the sounds that accompany my sleep. Muffled traffic noise, at times. An ongoing roar most of the time. The trees are like a curtain, drawn, but unable to shut out the world behind.
I retrace my steps and find myself at the upper terrace among the slightly disheveled flowers, tarnished by the heat I suppose. Table and stairs covered in a thin layer of dust. I lean on the barrier and let my eyes wander. My lodging is placed in a quiet, small street. A man is shouting at a distance, some “wallah” I guess. Maybe he is the newspaper wallah who collects used newspapers, or perhaps the bottle wallah? He’s in any case part of the Indian “soundtrack”. A sing-song voice with words drawn out of proportion is echoing down the small street.
I open my book, but close it again. The noise from Mathura road is again attracting my attention, irregular sounds pushing through the foliage. Cars, buses, trucks – a fleet of vehicles from the Tata family – as I like to think about them. Motorcycles meandering through the sea of continuous traffic. And the autos, the green and yellow three-wheelers cutting through the traffic in their rough, edgy way. Impatient honking horns. Screaming breaks. Again… that all too familiar Indian soundtrack. I make another attempt at my book. As I turn a page, I realize my thoughts have been otherwise busy. So I flip the page back. I’m in the shadow, but the heat comes marching along in big strides. Pushing away that pleasant feeling of a seemingly cool early morning.
My mind drifts and so do my ears. A dog is barking. A woman is shouting from a courtyard. I can’t tell what she’s saying, but it’s that special resonance; when somebody is half way inside – half way outside. The clang of a bucket, the bang of a gate. Suddenly the world comes to a standstill, it’s completely quiet. I listen to the unfamiliar silence, I almost hold my breath in loyalty – as if not to disturb. Before the sounds resume. A distant telephone. Music from a radio. A shrilling doorbell cuts the air in two. Homely sounds – yet another language. The neighborhood springs to life. And then comes a breeze sailing, as from nowhere. Lifts a few strands of hair from my chin, I can hear my own sigh of relief…. as the big palm tree rustle its leaves, they are shaking with a dry sound. It’s like music; the wind is like a gentle bow stroking a fiddle. The birds chime in, completes the sudden symphony of sounds. I listen to the variety of birds, admire the beautiful trees, welcomes a familiar crow. I pick up my book and realize I have been busy listening to another story; Morning in Delhi.
(Friend’s Colony, New Delhi 2014)