Bangalore City Sounds

I woke up in the Koramangula district of Bangalore at five o'clock Thursday morning because my body thought it was afternoon. I got out of bed to open the window then slipped back under the thin cotton sheet which was nearly too much for the heat in the room. As the morning grew lighter the birds began calling back and forth to each other from their perches in the date palms below and the smell of warm dusty air from outside mixed with the manufactured atmosphere of the air conditioned room but it was the sounds of the city that caught my attention.


We’d arrived during the night when the streets were barren and dark, stalls lining the roads with their roll-top covers drawn down like eyelids and no street lights or neon signs for light but now I heard the groan of large motors with heavy loads, brakes squealing to a halt and cars passing as the voices of their engines rose and fell with their accelerations.


As the traffic grew warmer with the sunlight I heard a woman scream for a full second which may not sound long until you count out “One Mississippi” to yourself and realize how long a second can be. It was one long, complete scream, beginning and ending on the same note before disappearing into the start-stop whir of motors.


Punctuating horns spoke to each other in a conversation like a melodic morse code, full of dashes and dots and pauses as the cars said, “I’m coming through,” “Watch out!” or “Yes, I see you.” In other cities horns are angry things but here they sound like an orchestra warming up before the performance and all looking for that true A.


After a cool shower and a breakfast that included a mango that was golden and buttery we headed out to see the city. Sampath drove us because no western driver could have navigated the tangle of streets and mob of vehicles where women in peacock blue chudidaars or yellow sparkling saris would ride side-saddle on the backs of motorcycles, babies in arm, or girls in pleated plaid school uniform skirts would stand at the curbs, ready to step off into the careening cars on their way to school.


In spite of the heat I kept my window rolled down to watch cows and laundry lines and auto rickshaws going by as we sped through the streets, honking regularly and missing other vehicles by one or two inches and feeling sure that no human being could drive so recklessly yet with such precision. It was like an amusement park ride where you just had to trust that you weren't going to die and that most likely you'd walk away just fine so it would be best to sit back and enjoy the ride.


When we came to a stop in traffic I was so close to the motorcyclists on either side that I could have comfortably shaken their hands through the open window or said hello but I was too shy from being stared at most of the day. The entire day on the streets of Bangalore my mother and Andrew were the only pale faces I saw which may be why, as a young boy sped by on the back of his father's bike, he turned to stare at me. I smiled at him and he smiled back just as I snapped his picture.


Friday we're going driving to Pondicherry on the east coast. I think I love driving in India.

Sponsored by Annette Lyon, whose new novel Band of Sisters is now in print.