February 17th, 2008White Noise
“Be still or make some noise; just don’t be indifferent, that’s all.”
~ the Wise Fool
The scent of naked earth grips my nostrils this morning. The sounds and smells are so sensual that I’m instantly seized by images of peacocks dancing to the anticipation of rains. And all it took was a fleeting morning storm leaving behind monsoon-like showers in its wake. The storm blackened the skies and caused a power-outage, plunging the suburban condo into darkness. The house-maids, who showed up only moments ago, are unable to function in the darkness; so they idle around with the two-year old. The only ones thrilled about the morning chaos are the two-year old and me. The maids coddle the child while my sister digs around in the darkness for candles. Candles lit, they resume their house-sweeping chores. The two year old tries to get his fingers burnt playing around with the numerous flames, ignoring the admonitions of his grandparents. Both the morning showers and what they wrought are unexpected. It’s a reminder of what I like about India, a land where everyday moments are mystic moments. Something about India fosters greater intimacy with the world we live in. Every waking moment here is an intensely personal one — especially if you’re not used to this sort of thing.
The winter showers are unseasonal but not unheard of. Rain in February may be unusual, but the power-outage is not. Frequent power-outages are the reason UPS (uninterrupted power supply) systems are a booming business in India. As for the maids, they are a godsend. In India, if you’ve to choose between power and maid-service, you’d be smart to go with the latter. Life without electricity would be inconvenient, but life without the maids would be unbearable. The maids at my folks’ home show up each morning after milk and papers. They sweep and mop the marble floors every day. While this sounds like luxury, it is an absolute necessity. There is so much dust here that something fresh out of a box will look dirty overnight.
At lunch I ask my dad about the rains in Winter. He shakes his head with a worried look and groans, “This will cause the Chilli farmers a lot of damage.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Winter is when they put out the Chillies to dry in the sun before they take them to the market,” my mother answers. “Rains are their worst fear. But they’re used to it. So they take due precautions; they cover the Chillies with plastic sheets at the smallest hint of rain. They sleep with the Chillies in the fields to guard them. We did it too when we were kids. We would protect the crops not just from the rains, but all the Chilli thieves. And if we saw Coyotes we’d light bonfires to scare them off.”
“Really? Who were the Chilli thieves?” I ask amused.
“They were little kids who stole our Chillies and sold them to merchants for money to buy candy with.”
My home State, Andhra Pradesh, the Rice Bowl of India, is also the largest producer of Mangoes, Chillies, Turmeric and Oil Palm.
How would I describe life in India? Three words: Noisy; Colorful; Chaotic. There is no telling what will happen next. For the first few days, my western mind did not care for the higher ambient noise. But before I knew it, it sucked me inside and left me feeling alive and human again. In India, the line that separates you from life is a very thin one. It does not shield you from good or bad — but shows you everything “as is.” It’s as if someone just yanked out the carpet of insulation beneath your feet, and suddenly you’re walking on ground again.
Not only did the morning storm cause a power outage, it also cut off my access to the internet; no telling when I’ll get back on again. As I work at my laptop, I hear the voice of man on a loudspeaker from the street below. He drives around in a vehicle making an announcement: “You must pay your water bill or the city of Hyderabad will cut off your water connection.” He repeats his message in both Telugu (the state language of Andhra Pradesh) and Hindi (the national language.) Last night I was jolted by loud fireworks, which were in celebration of India’s victory over Australia in Sunday’s one-day Cricket match. As the explostions rang through the neighborhood late at night, the powerful blasts caused buildings to tremor and left my bones vibrating in their sockets. The fireworks express the sentiments of a cricket-obsessed nation. Yesterday afternoon, a family in the neighborhood felt like sharing their religious devotion with everyone; they installed a loudspeaker to blare devotional songs in Telugu all day long. No one seemed to mind the noisy intrusion. The night before, there was a long drawn-out marriage procession that snaked through the streets. Replete with street dancing and live music, it caused curious faces to pop out of windows and balconies. Temples and mosques in the neighborhood routinely share their prayers with everyone. The mosques do it over a loudspeaker several times a day; the temples do it less often but for longer spells.
I’m a morning person used to waking up to an alarm. But ever since coming here, I have not needed an alarm clock. I wake up to the predictable sound of gargling, nose-blowing and other personal grooming rituals that come from outside. In those tender waking moments, it feels as if the culprit is right outside my window. I still don’t know who it is or where the sounds come from, but his rituals are like clockwork. The air is so still in the wee hours that you can hear the faintest whisper from the street below. As dawn arrives, the unmistakable sound of a rickety auto-rickshaw (auto for short) will puncture the morning silence, causing something of ripple in the pond of stillness. This will then be followed by more solitary autos causing a stream of ripples. Then you’ll hear footsteps, creaky bicycles, people talking, laughing, or shouting insults at each other. Shopkeepers will crank open their heavy metal doors, sweep and wash their steps. Then the floodgates will open all at once: The sounds of autos, scooters, 100cc motorcycles and itty-bitty cars will fill the air. Within an hour the ambient noise level will go up by several decibels and the entire city will get enveloped in a blanket of sound. Vehicle horns range from gentle toots to ones loud enough to wake up the dead, and they ride over and through the traffic noise like mischievous dolphins. By the way, if you had to choose between a working engine and a working horn in India, I suggest you go with the horn; that’s because you can get further without an engine than you can without a horn.
Mid-morning is when you’ll hear the familiar songs of hawkers as they go around hawking their wares. Of all the sounds that swim through the noise, I find the chants of street hawkers the most pleasing. Every hawker has his own signature sound; no two sound alike even if they’re selling the same thing. Mostly they sell fruits and vegetables. My favorite is the sustained, piercing cry of a man offering to buy old newspapers. It gets even better when he’s accompanied by another man and together they chant in call-and-response. “He’s a swindler,” my mom says of the paper-wallah (paper man), adding, “He pays less than what you can get at the store.” Thief he may be, but I like his song.
People here seem oblivious to the noise. I can see why; it’s the sound of a city alive and well. Besides, it’s the sound of life. Not much different from the din of ocean waves or children playing in a park. Back when I used to live in Dallas, Texas, my fondest memories of the city were when I lived next to a park. Cities in the U.S. tend to be clean ‘n quiet while the ones in India tend to be dirty ‘n noisy. As much as I love neatness and silence, they can also be cold and inhuman. In the U.S., we frown upon drivers who blow their horns. The A/C, TV and the backyard drove the previous generation of Americans inside their homes and kept them from interacting with their neighbors. Now the iPods, cell-phones and laptops accomplish the same thing with the younger, more mobile generation. In America, we’ve chosen to banish street noise along with the germs — resulting in a silent, germophobic culture. As pleasant as silence is, it can also be brutal to our emotions. We humans come from monkeys, did we forget? Watch the monkeys, and you’ll see that their social space is filled with chatter. In the human sphere we call it “white noise.” While random noise is disturbing and no one wants noise pollution, white noise can be soothing and comforting. So transplants in America like me wind up creating their own white noise. For instance, I always leave my radio on at home in the U.S., usually tuned to NPR. The only time I turn it up is when I’m actually listening. Why do I do it? It is a desperate attempt to fill our desolate silence with the comforting noise of life. Not only is it easier to function in white noise, it is also easier to meditate in.
While India learns to bring order and sanity to its booming cities, we in the west need to do the opposite: Kick up some primitive dirt and made some joyful noise. Our humanity beckons us.
Namaste, the Wise Fool
