Memories of Sounds

Memories of Sounds. The crows start cawing right around 3:45 am. The other birds start around 5:00 am. On the early spring morn as the fog rolls in over the lawn, and the screened porch is still dark, the bleating of the deer flows from the woods. And the early morning horn of the car that invariably blows its horn right in front of my bedroom at 5:45 am. The distant sound of the police car wailing away as the icy patches cause the invariable accidents on the main road duing the morning commute. The distant sound of the aajan (call to prayer) from a mosque whose location is probably across the canal. As I sip the morning coffee on the verandah the sound of the shunting trains at the train junction a couple of miles away resonate in the air. On some rainy mornings as the coffee maker rumbles the rain beats down on the chimney and the sound filter into the quiet living room. A little later the vegetable vendor calls out the ware followed by the voices of the day laborers flows into the drawing room from the park across the street. The silence of the morning is gently broken by the sound of the water flowing down from the bathroom upstairs or the creaking of the wood floor as someone walks upstairs. The used paper person calls out "kagoooj (paper)" urging the householder to see if there is some old newspapers that could be sold for some money and the paper enters the recycling function. The recycle garbage vans tends to back into our driveway with the characteristic beeping warning that it is backing up. The mixed sound of the motorcycle, the autorickshaw, the revving of the cars all drown out the attempt of a WhatsApp call across thousands of kilometers. The chopper is quickly transporting the ill to the hospital. The morning flights from the airport often fly over the house given their flight paths. The mischevous twinkle of the notification that a bondhu is awake and saying "Morning" on WhatsApp. The clatter of the dishes as they are taken out of the dishwasher and put in their appropriate places. The whirring of the water pump is noticed actually when it stops. The phone announces the number of yet another telemarketer attempting to sell a health insurance plan. Another twinkle on the phone: "Bolo (or Bol re, or Bolun sir, the closest English translation would be What's up)." If it would be a Friday, the mechanical noise of the weed cutter or the leaf blower would disturb an otherwise tranquil morning. As the morning draws on the vendor noises are replaced by the chatter of players in the park catching a pick up game. In my hole the different notification sounds of various messages continuously interrupt whatever I might actually want to focus on. The afternoon brings a tranquility as the gentle hum of the air conditioner would lull one to a somber siesta only to be finally woken by the Alexa alarm. Or by the words of Beaver on TV as the family laugh at the antics of the quintessential American boy that made "Leave it to Beaver" an alltime favorite. Walking out to the verandah after the siesta I am greeted by the music wafting from the music system in the community hall. And I would wait to hear the characteristic sound of the engine of the mail delivery vehicle as I would hear it stop and the gentle clunk of the mailbox being shut after the mail is delivered. Only to be followed by the bell ringing and a childhood bondhu, stopping by for a chat and a cup of coffee. The evening rolls in with the sound of the thunder of a spring shower and the stattaco rapid fire sound of the hail hitting the roof. And I would wait for the familiar twinkle, it may or may not come, but one waits, until it is time for the electornic beep of the oven announcing it has been pre-heated to the magic temperature. The sound of laying of plates on the dinner table as the TV sound wafts in from the neighbors house. And the old British comedy "Allo Allo" concludes the dinner as the World goes silent. Except the barking of the street dogs and the sound of the night watchmen waiting for the bird sounds of the morning. In these soundscapes I live, and all of us do. Memories of places, times, people are etched into these sounds. The silencing of any of these is the end of a relationship when the twinkle stops or the plates reduce to only one on the dinner table. These are the sounds that connect us and strech across times and places bringing comfort to lives to know the twinkle opens up possibilites. "Bolo." Indeed much to say as we build memories with the sounds that surround us from the signature tune of "Are you being served" to the haunting voices on Smule. Our memories are as much made of sounds as of all the things we commonly equate with memory. Let the sounds never die because then you have to invoke Simon and Garfunkel with "People writing songs that voices never share/No one dared/Disturb the sound of silence." Let there never be silence. Let there always be the notification sound of WhatsApp.