I’ve given up coffee starting this week. And tea. So cafés are not home to me anymore, which is a shame, because I’ve been enjoying reading and writing in them, and eavesdropping, and watching the occasional odd man or woman. I must work at home, which is a problem because my UK-resident next-door neighbor has engaged a gang for repair for some time now, and from nine until six each weekday men are drilling and sawing and pounding and such. I haven’t asked when their assignment will end.
I’m writing this post at seven at home, after a stroll outside. It is dark, and there’s an äzän going this moment. I don’t know where the mosque is that’s issuing the call, I haven’t seen it, it is not in our enclave. I cannot tell the direction it is coming from. It does not matter — they know, those who need to know. Now as the äzän ends my tinnitus is picking up, rising and falling and swinging around. There’s the drone of an airplane as well, flying low, which reminds me that anytime now the leisurely horn and the long rumble of the faraway evening train will carry till my home and me in my couch. I haven’t lost my love for the sound of trains, although I’ve always indulged an allergy to sound.
These above are the sounds in the evening.
During the night, the dogs. O yes, many dogs, stray, spoiled with leftover burgers and fried chicken and a collar for safety in this dog-loving enclave. They begin barking and yowling and wailing all in a single orchestral performance, each trumpeting its own intense angst, shaking me awake, making me wonder what’s up, how it is that so many kinds of hurts have been heaped in one moment on these mongrels on 2nd Main. Starting around 2:00, they won’t stop until about 3:00. Two hours later I leave home for my morning walk, and at that reasonable hour when their cries could be tolerated they are silent and have disbanded and are in singles, each in its territory, some sleeping and some prowling, some fat and some scrawny.
Doesn’t sound like a silent place, you say?
But I’m not altogether wrong about the quiet about my home that I’ve boasted about in previous posts. No cars are plying on the street as I write. If there are strollers passing my house I cannot hear them. It is possible that soon the Nepali watchman, Balaram, will tune his radio to music from home, and stand in the street for a few minutes holding that umbilical connection of sorts. He does that a couple of times a week. Not today. Today there is not even rain, whereas yesterday and the day before we were lashed soundly by it, making us wonder if we were in Bangalore, or transported by miracle to coastal Mangalore — where rain of such magnitude belongs.
I’m not complaining. This post precedes a holiday week here in South India. I’m leaving for Bhopal tomorrow, to visit the Paleolithic cave paintings at Bhimbetka, and Buddhist stupas, and to read love-notes the great Ashoka ordered carved in stone. I’ll tell you about them.
It was a busy day, and I’m sleepy, and a good night seems assured. Despite those dogs I told you about.