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Just the other night, I woke up for no particular reason. No barking dogs, no drunken rants from next door, no errant cars. As I turned over to resume my repose, it occurred to me just how quiet it actually was. I strained my ears to catch the inevitable interruption. The deep silence remained unbroken. Seconds passed, then minutes. I had no idea what time it was. But no dogs, no cars, no drunks. Absolute, pure silence: the world around me was at rest.
For a few more minutes, I relished the luxury of silence. I knew too well that the beehive of Nepali lives would begin buzzing soon, and would continue to do so throughout the day.
We are so accustomed to noise in our neighbourhoods that we indulge in it as a matter of course ourselves, shouting, tooting and blaring our way through the day. Last week in a microbus, I was forced to listen to a young woman whine along to a medley of English and Hindi pop cheeping from her mobile phone, never mind that the vehicle's speakers were also booming out choice selections. Where's the sense in that, I felt like asking her, (feeling like) slowly throttling her into eternal silence.
What's the big deal, you might say, why make a fuss about noise? Just like the concept of privacy, the right to a little tranquility can too easily be dismissed as an individualistic Western concept. But if we are to embrace specific Western values as good and wholesome, then perhaps we should also consider whether other such values are equally worthy. Pick and choose for a hybrid of Western and Nepali values, sure, but this should be a considered process, not random.