Sometimes on a sleepy afternoon when the world feels quiet within, I look beyond the gaps in the curtained windows from where the dancing motes in the sunbeams stream onto the scarlet covers and the grey ceiling above in distorted rectangles and listen; listen to the sounds of the workmen as they work on the masjid construction beyond; the broken fragments of conversation from passersby as they walk beneath our windows; the occasional scowl of an alley cat, the chirp of a bird in the distance; and embracing all, the balmy calm of a desert city’s winter day siesta. How different, the sounds that places make!

I think back to happy monsoon days with rain dashing onto the panes, pouring water drowning the sounds of everything else. Then as the clouds clear and the rain ceases, you can hear the water dripping from the awnings onto the porch in large puddles and the crows cawing and the homely streets of the little town moving again. Then again, there were nights when I’d wake up from the stifling heat and stillness after a power cut and strain my ears against the oppressive silence within, to the lull of the cool rain pattering against the windows in the darkness.

Then once again, there is the muted hush of a tired nap as you rested your head on the backseat of a suitcase bedecked car or a ponderous bus as it made its way through cacophonous markets and ringing streets and highways to still new places that spoke differently than what you were leaving behind. What novelty will the morning bring? How different, the sounds that places make!