True silence outdoors is as rare as it is inside, especially in a place like Mumbai, fizzing with people and traffic and movement. Even in the very rare instance of there being no road or aircraft noise, there are the susurrations of trees, leaves, grasses, birds, insects — the sounds of life in the process of living. These are the sounds that are probably most endangered and least listened to. It isn’t that we can’t hear them; it’s just that, so often, they’re hidden by the white noise of our own thoughts.
And yet, Mumbai has that one element that is never too far from you wherever you go – the sea, fringing the city. 9, the patter of the bhel wala and the pani puri wala and the cold drink wala. A sea-salty celebration of the city.
But Mumbai is never silent. Even deep in the night, the churning air-conditioners shudder and thrum. Beyond, there are the sounds of shunting trains, a midnight volley of barks, the yowl of a hungry cat, the continuous rumble of the road, the da-dunk of a loose manhole cover as a car rides over it. In the distance, the gong of an old church bell, although this grows rarer and rarer, the tinny sounds of a party floating over the buildings.
The rumble of the early morning bus wakes the city. The slow exhalation of a truck as it brakes, the squeal of its tires. A klaxon of impatient horns. A local train chortles past. The gentle urgency of the pigeon, the rare chirp of the sparrow as it hops onto your sill. A crow cocks its head and caws at the kitchen window, calling for its breakfast. The egg vendor pedals past on his bicycle, bell clinking, the pao vendor sends up his unmistakeable call, the fisherwoman makes her rounds. Dawn is seeping into day. A plane whooshes overhead, helicopters go chup-chup-chup.
A city’s soundscape is as fluid and varying as a landscape. It is even more seasonal, because the migratory birds come and go, the rain swooshes and cascades and thrums, the call of the koyal rents the air just before the rain, at Ganesh Chaturthi, a snaking curlicue of devotees dances their way down the road accompanied by loudspeakers blasting music.
But this is a different city in the monsoon. At its very start, in June or perhaps July, a sudden cool wind rushes in through the windows, signaling the beginning of the first downpour of the season. A sudden susurration of leaves. That perennial raucous Mumbai cry of the crow stills. The city hushes. It waits. Then suddenly, a drumming on the roof, silver torrents of water washing the world.
And then there is the call to prayer. The azaan, singing out, waking the faithful. Often, bhajans played slicing the air, while trails of disco bands drum their way down roads at the very hint of a celebration, the clanguor rising to a crescendo at festival time. Diwali comes around, and the city is mantled with smoke and fumes, the air rent with a cascade of crackers.
And then, and then, come Christmas, depending on where in the city you live, the crescendo of a choir singing in the building compound, the gaggle of a crowd released from Mass, colored lights twinkling. Until New Year, when the night sky lights up again with firecrackers and the year is made new again.
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