We arrived in India to the sound of a distant drum,
The beginning of a six-week long soundtrack.
The airport doors parted and the beat steadily grew
Trumpets joined in;
As did the horns of taxi cars;
And the shrill of a whistle of the traffic conductor;
Dogs barking; phones ringing; people laughing
A cacophony of life
An orchestra of chaos
A beautiful serenade
Welcoming us to India
We’re thrusted into rickshaws,
The engine screeches into motion,
Cursing under our combined weight,
Our driver hums a little ditty as he weaves us in and out of traffic,
But he’s interrupted by the shrill of the brake.
We’ve nearly rammed a motorbike.
Not a moment to pause or a second of reflection occurs before the driver hits the accelerator again-
The engine revs back into life, the driver resumes his ditty.
We start to understand why people use words like “sensory overload”.
We’re taken to spiritual centres:
Ashrams and communes
Havens for meditation and reflection
Purpose built vacuums
Where they covet absolute silence.
But even still the sound seeps in:
The wheeze of a woman as she holds in a cough;
The half-snore of a man as he drifts in and out of consciousness;
The click of a girl’s neck, as she double-checks she’s doing the right thing;
The sound of your own heart pounding against your ribs,
alerting you how out-of-place you feel.
And now I sit on the river’s edge,
The Ganges surging beneath me
To my left I hear a faint voice.
A man, probably in his eighties, singing to himself.
Tapping his feet.
He lowers a flower into the water and says a prayer.
He smiles in my direction.
He looks totally at peace.
The surge of the Ganges,
The clamour of construction work,
The rustling of monkeys rummaging through your rubbish,
The call of a shopkeeper enticing you to inspect his wares.
There’s always something to listen out for.
There is a pulse in India
Slowly growing under the surface
A rising heartbeat
Calling you to action
Compelling you into motion
It’s intoxicating.
It’s infectious.
