Amritsar Calling: The ear-splitting sounds of Amritsar

Soon, everyone opens shop in the locality and beyond. The gurudwara with its soft verses and kirtan amplified to a crescendo by its audio system, the Shivala’s speaker with a high-pitched whistle while tuned-in for the bhajan session. We have our equal share of the rest as well. The Christmas time processions singing “Chalo Khushi Khushi Manao, Bolo Bolo Masih ki jai jai jai”; the Hare Krishna groupings singing, dancing, and making merry with their clutch of percussionists; or the Prabhat pherison gurpurabs with the piercing sounds of a bunch of pious Bibis on high-treble speakers, singing hymns with the repetitive jingle of chaenaas atop chotta hathi vans in a procession. And the Jagratta season takes the cake. One is deeply spiritual, totally secular, silent spectator at such events. But the decibel levels jar.

The Band Baja guys are also part of this growing tribe of din makers. They are a breed apart. Gone are the days of the melodious Lahore Band which actually had a conductor ensuring rhythm. Now we have a motley group of ‘purbiyas’ wearing rented plumes and flaunting untuned trumpets. The sound has to be loud enough to drown the racket of the electric generator that follows the rehri provisioning for the dazzle lighting as well.

God forbid if a perky woman and a snazzy guy or two start dancing, the band goes into a tizzy of Punjabi bhangra tunes. As if on cue, the hired firework expert takes the stationary baarat as an opportunity to ignite his loudest patakaas and a series of his choicest fireworks into the sky.

Hearing the commotion, some step out onto balconies to watch their neighbours make a fool of themselves. They have not been invited you see, so not only are they disturbed, but cynical as well. Others enjoy the revelry; many just shut doors and windows and increase the volume of their television soaps. Kill sound with sound, street drama with loud soap operas.

It is the wedding season. Mercifully Sikh weddings wrap up during the day so the tearjerker dirge “Babul ki duaayen letti jaa” happens when you are awake and hopefully at work, but the havankunds allow a wedding at the appointed hour of mahurat only, usually middle of the night. The bajjawalas who have blasted the path of the groom astride his frazzled mare, await the pheras in the cold with bidis and disposable glasses filled clandestinely by hiccupping waiters. Finally, the doli takes off at 4 am, tipsy tunes and all, waking up avenues and colonies as the procession heads for the bride’s nemesis.

To add to the sonar intrusions, my cook has a TV to himself in the kitchen. He watches his Ramayana and his Mahabharat, at least when we are around. We even exchange views on Dhritarashtra and Draupadi’s plight, wonder about the innate goodness of Lord Ram. Our only lament is his timing, even before our morning cuppa and when we are onto our meals. The other day he shifted programmes to suit us. Just the sounds of a Telugu song at high decibel was enough to make me descend to the ground floor. To my horror, the raucous song picturised this barely clad starlet doing impossibly audacious moves at super speed. Behave yourself, I reprimanded him, as he sheepishly switched back to the Pandavas doing their sensible thing.

Talking about audibles, are we? Whose horn blast is the loudest, is a game all these kiddos learn to play, perhaps in Ambarsari kindergarten! Top that with their Bullet bikes, the choice of macho sardars and wannabes, with souped up noisy exhausts, or the ones sans a silencer, out for action in a vain attempt to excite girls walking on the pedestrian paths.

Well, we all know Punjabis anyway have voices that carry into the ears of the neighbourhood. So, arguments, domestic or public, have a way of carrying across boundaries and fences.

The DJ is another phenomenon that assails my senses. At events where you go to socialise, the DJ is the ultimate conversation breaker who leaves you no real options. The diehards go hoarse trying to shout right into the ears of their acquaintances, who in turn pretend to be able to hear, the others get themselves drunk for the lack of something else to do. Eventually, it shuts up everyone at the venue. All stare like dodos for ages at an empty dancing arena while the guy behind the console churns up hip swingers, jerking up the sound waves till your ears do a salsa.

In this election season, the politicians vie for attention. First the ravens, the autos, set out with their “suno, suno, suno …” on their public address systems, announcing the upcoming mahaan public rally of the leader, building non-existent reputations way before the paid listeners gather up. Then the thousand bhopoos, blaring aluminium speakers are set up, facing 360 degrees for all to hear. The rally usually starts hours before the event, building up momentum with harangue. It begins with eulogising sermons of the santris (the low rung) before beginning with the mantris (the important lot), culminating with the candidate himself and his rehearsed monologue. By this time, the city has had their earful, and the hangers on looking around for the eats they were promised. The chopper takes off, and the show is finally over.

Our hawkers too have become more innovative, taking the assistance of electronic voice boosters to relay repeated messages from recorded devices at high pitch. There is this one that amuses me the most. He seems to be an expert at repairing zippers, another is the updated version of the Radhi Wala. Now he comes atop a freight carrier and asks for scrap, computers, refrigerators, aircons rather than old newspapers. There is this squeaky voiced plastic merchant on four wheels as well, hawking his wares of brooms to cannisters, buckets and wipers. And we just must mention the fruit and vegetable vendors selling sarson ka saag to a truck full of kinnows. It is a whole new world now where doorstep delivery of the erstwhile ubiquitous vendor now loudly competes with Swiggy and the Zomato. Each time one of these guys start their ‘sing song buy my wares’ routine, the dogs in the street match the tunes with howling sessions as if in chorus.

And do not really start me on the dialogues of the canines. We have strays to spare in this city, informally adopted by the residents. Well, that’s for another day.

The writer is an environmentalist, philanthropist and historian who loves all things Ambarsari