Right before sun-up, the wind blusters one more icy gust on the commuters at the bus stop. Then it's calm. Not warm -- not any less cold. Just calm. The sunlight, pale and shrouded with clouds, lends a little hope of change. Last week the sun didn't rise until we were almost into the city. It has been a cold winter in Delaware.
In India, the morning begins with the call to prayer from the muezzin (before the last bluster). On the train, the bearers offer the first tea for the early risers. By then I've had enough of trying to rest on the hard berth and I sit on my bedding cross legged; even before I wash my face I savor my tea, and the sound of the wheels clacking as we speed towards our rendezvous with the school party traveling in big noisy groups up the mountain to the hill station school, protected from the crushing heat of the the plains.
In the old days, the first lesson of the day was music, and we had to come to school before everyone else to practice our instruments or rehearse with our ensembles. We called them the cells because that's what they were: three levels of tiny practice rooms built off the side of the hill, guarded by Mrs Biswas who could somehow hear if I wasn't practicing. The cacophony of so many aspiring musicians created our own call to the day. I would steal a minute to listen to the bells on the first mule train bringing milk in to the town dwellers from the farms. Now, a jeep loaded with fresh produce for market roars or sputters or clunks by, noisily shifting gears around the narrow curves.
Music is not the first lesson at school anymore. But in the amphitheater of the hills we can hear all the sounds of the morning: school bells donging to wake boarders, whistles directing early morning exercises, voices of young students in neat rows in neat uniforms intoning the national anthem standing straight and unmoving as required by law, and finally the Hindu prayer service broadcast over loud speakers.
In India, the morning begins with the call to prayer from the muezzin (before the last bluster). On the train, the bearers offer the first tea for the early risers. By then I've had enough of trying to rest on the hard berth and I sit on my bedding cross legged; even before I wash my face I savor my tea, and the sound of the wheels clacking as we speed towards our rendezvous with the school party traveling in big noisy groups up the mountain to the hill station school, protected from the crushing heat of the the plains.
In the old days, the first lesson of the day was music, and we had to come to school before everyone else to practice our instruments or rehearse with our ensembles. We called them the cells because that's what they were: three levels of tiny practice rooms built off the side of the hill, guarded by Mrs Biswas who could somehow hear if I wasn't practicing. The cacophony of so many aspiring musicians created our own call to the day. I would steal a minute to listen to the bells on the first mule train bringing milk in to the town dwellers from the farms. Now, a jeep loaded with fresh produce for market roars or sputters or clunks by, noisily shifting gears around the narrow curves.
Music is not the first lesson at school anymore. But in the amphitheater of the hills we can hear all the sounds of the morning: school bells donging to wake boarders, whistles directing early morning exercises, voices of young students in neat rows in neat uniforms intoning the national anthem standing straight and unmoving as required by law, and finally the Hindu prayer service broadcast over loud speakers.
