Hearing the silence

Rangoli…rangoli...I could hear the shrill voice from the road as a frail woman, on a rickety cycle, shouted while peddling the white powder. Another vocal pitch that reached me was that of the vegetable vendor who hit the street with his cart early in the morning. Are they still on the job? It must be, but I cannot hear them now because I have changed not just the area but the nature of my dwelling.

I am no longer the lord and master of an independent house but now occupy a 2 BHK flat in an apartment complex for the first time in my seven decades of existence. Earlier, I sympathised with my friends living in such a cocooned environment, little knowing that one day I too would be cocooned.

Yes. I am now an apartment vasi, and my home is tucked away in a corner of the second floor of a large housing complex. I am now happily cut off from the noise of the road.

Used to the din all these years and all around the year, I can hear silence now, save for the cooing of the pigeons that flutter about the balcony. No more do I hear the harsh noise of the autos or that of the water tankers that scurried around in a tearing hurry to fill a dry sump.

Thank God, I am away from the temple nearby, which switched on the chanting of the mantras or the melody of the nadaswaram in the wee hours, considered holy by the purohit but disturbing for me.

I miss the man who sharpened my knife. In my former area, he used to drop in. Maybe his kinsmen are doing the rounds here too, but their call doesn’t reach me. I remember him once demanding Rs 400 for sharpening a set of blunt knives when one could buy a new set for that money!
What could have happened to the van from an ashram out to collect anything useful that one can donate and reuse? The staff always preferred cash to kind, and I had a suspicion that the amount never reached the concerned person. I will be happy if I am proved wrong, but the vehicle is not to be seen or heard in these surroundings.

And life is now smooth, as I don’t have to worry about a thousand mundane things like water in the sump or the fickle power supply. The apartment backup springs into action, and I can watch my TV uninterrupted. It’s easy to book autos on apps that drive in no time to pick me up.

The man who carries the key carries the worry, goes an adage.

All these days, the luxury of living in an independent house also meant carrying the key—not one, but five—to the main door, gate, three of the side entrances, and one of the balcony! The silence here, interrupted by the noise of children playing in the evening, is a welcome cacophony. It is not all solitude.