HORN PLEASE

God, Vishnu, Buddha, Allah or Henry Ford put the horn on the steering column for a purpose. Raucous music, maybe. Big, white HORN PLEASE signs, prominently displayed on the backs of trucks, cars, and autorickshaws in Delhi’s streets, invite everyone to join up, to play in the street band … blow, blast, squawk, beep, toot and hoot. Anyone can play. No talent or musical direction needed, just enthusiastic participation.

Street life adds to the orchestration. Eggwallas, foodsellers, kiosk owners, beggars call their wares or needs in a dozen dialects, the iron wheels of carts rumbling a deep bass accompaniment. Radios blast from cars and shops, guards hail each other, ladies in brilliantly colored saris haggle over the price of an orange – no one has heard of noise pollution, couldn’t hear for the noise.

Over all, like some prehistoric beast comes the long, mournful and deep cry of a train. And, late in the night, after the day’s orchestra has exhausted itself, the great, winding sounds of passing trains still rise above the city, reminding of the long, spiraling horns that once sounded from city walls, heralding the approach of kings.