11/17/2013

NOISES IN THE DORM

One of the first sounds that enters my ears and excites my auditory senses comes as early as the breaking of the dawn itself, from under the pillow. It’s the latest Rihanna pop song set as alarm tone by myself which only succeeds in irking me rather than waking me up. A satirical note! - One’s own blunder disturbs oneself from sleeping. A job not well done. Ultimately and unfortunately, the song turns out to be a discordant one; noisy song; utterably a fine oxymoron!

Sequentially, the zooming of the restless automobiles plying on the road would keep me from sleeping. Irritated, I would try to comply and give in to sleep in the chilly morning. Just then, the knock on the door- an increasingly louder banging- would shatter the entire beauty of the morning. Spare weekend, these two incoherent sounds haunt every morning though it is me at the end, to whom the ‘noises’ benefit. Somehow, this has become the trend. A morning ritual.

Sometimes, while running to the class, I come across either Rajesh or Sanjeet or both, either mopping the hostel floors and stairs or dragging the piling garbage in a big dustbin. This is how they eke out their living. Given a chance, both won’t prefer to take up the occupation of sweeping. Obviously, none likes this profession. In spite of the condition they are in, I am sure both despise the job. Sadly, their choices have no alternatives since both seem to have seen little face of literacy or none at all. When Sanjeet mops the floor lethargically and Rajesh wipes the broad path clean and drags the bin, I hate the sounds produced then- it’s the sound from the tools of the poor-fated men and coerced workers.

This article is of what I hear, particularly displeasing ones, inside the dormitory so carefully, I shall not write of what I hear in the classes though the endless lists of various things occurring there are in queue to be articulated.

At approximately six in the evening, some pious brethren assembled in the mosque nearby would sing a message to the divine God. In good days, the pray contents my congruous senses and the curiosity planted would try to enlarge my inelastic conscience. Natural as it is, bad times also falls on me- particularly when failures offend me and the self-esteem gets low. At such times, even the prayers would be calling an irritating note- unpleasant voice- to be honest. I am a blasphemer? But if there is no religion higher than the truth, certainly I am not (I put up an honest words).

As if the ear-numbing and knocking of the automobiles and bikes on the road are not enough, the incessant yet distinct chattering of the cooks in the kitchen beneath would start. A quarrelsome argument it would be. Wait up for few minutes and witness, the chattering would grow into an even louder and unsettling cacophony unless the mess owner himself comes to interfere and solve the matter. When I lose my temper absolutely and the tolerance runs level zero, I just wish that they take to each other’s throat; if they are damn angry why don’t they just start the duel and finish the problem. However, other times with little Hindi I know, I wonder and try to discover what actually they quarrel for. Perhaps they want to exercise their supremacy and superiority in the cooking skills over others or is it just that they are brought up in the environment of speaking in commanding fashion.

As expected, sometimes a heart soothing music would flow from the neighbouring room. And when the neighbour gets over excited, he would turn the volume to the maximum possible. Exceed the optimum decibel of the music and inevitably it turns out to one loathsome noise. The hatred of course, thrown at the neighbour seems to hurt the beauty of the song as well.

It would be the last noise for every day or rather every night; usually before going to sleep, while being in the corridor either playing ‘Temple Run’ or surfing net; these novice guitarists then trains their fingers on the vibrating strings. It would be a tireless strumming, listless plucking accompanied by accentuating humming. Play and pause. Hum again. When the strumming is all of sudden again, my concentration is diverted, anticipating jerking of finger and ending up feeding the ‘explorer’ to the chasing giant demon monkey. Sometimes even the server would run down. What a power! Still, I consider it a productive and tentative foray to the music world. One day, they shall beat the instrument beautifully to everyone’s pleasure.

Tomorrow is Monday and my rooster crows five days a week. Lest I begin to hate the singer just by my own folly, I remind myself to change my alarm tone. The select should be a fitting one with intimidating code and features that shall pose no regret in letting me to call it a ‘noise.’



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