Sounds of Kolkata

 Originally published in My Kolkata on June 3, 2024 Read Online

Fading Sounds

[The author shares quickly disappearing memories of the sounds of his youth, some of which are metamorphosed into new audible avatars today. Have fun trying to hear the sounds again in your imagination, while having a little laugh alongside.]

The first inkling I had that I was actually going a little deaf was the kindly doctor who put me through a series of “hear that?” tests and sadly indicated that my hearing was a little less than it could have been. I did not mention the years playing rock music. Of course, as you would guess, there’s an earful  of options available on the market, mostly battery operated and of a greater nuisance than those persistent telecallers selling you insurance or personal loans. My mother was clinically deaf and used a hearing aid - actually a few dozen before she had tried them all.  Her go-to strategy was to switch off when she wasn’t listening actively.  And like all people presumed-deaf, she could tell you exactly what you were saying from across the room with her secret weapon - lip reading. So, what did she miss?  Ambient sounds, the sounds of my youth captured below in ragged text, without sound effects! 

Youth of today, ears firmly plugged into their devices, have to pull the plug when tapped on the head to gain their attention.  With a sharply barked, “What?” or “What now?” they stay disconnected long enough to hear what you have to say and respond with a monosyllable before re-plugging into their own oblivion. So, what is it they cannot hear?  I have a short list and am sure you have many more.

As we walked down the streets of Calcutta 16, aged similarly, on a Sunday afternoon, one didn’t have to carry a portable music system to listen in to Musical Bandbox.  It wafted across the street from every alternate open Anglo-Indian doorway, backed by delectable smells of yellow rice and ball curry. Occasionally a mild family argument carried on the breeze.  And sometimes one would stop in a doorway to hear Jija Bhattacharya announce the names of people to whom the next song was dedicated - in the forlorn hope that one had a “silent admirer”.  The very shy Don Manuel, RJ and later DJ, lived down the street and had both silent and vocal admirers for his programs. We had very modest equipment as I have mentioned elsewhere, not the high powered, ear-shattering, pandal-power equipment that accompanies every festival today. So, the music was just that, music to the ears. 

A little earlier in the day, at noon, we heard the church bells ring the Angelus. Or in the early afternoon, the tolling of the bells indicated either a wedding (joyous) or a funeral (sonorous). The azaans back then were not amplified and could be heard easily over the ambient sound and the low roofs of G+2 houses. The aarati was announced by the tinkling of little hand held bells. Today all calls to prayer have to vie with the noise-cancelling headphones that shield us in our sound cocoons, or climb over or around the high rise buildings to be heard. So they are boosted to the nth degree, with even the powerful shankh taking the help of microphones and ululating still a womens’ domain! 

What I really miss is the little local sounds of the areas in and around Ripon Street. We had trees around our house - some still survive - and birds would arrive, chirping, squawking and occasionally warbling in tune to our old Australian cockatoo who screeched his yellow crest off!  Behind our house the hand-rickshaw factory would get to work. From tapping the tin trimmings into place to banging hot metal “tyres'' onto the wheel rims the workers would whip up rickshaws in sets. One can’t forget the rattling of the rickshaws being tucked into each other. And then the vegetable and fruit vendors with their baskets on their heads started arriving with enticing chants meant to whet your lunchtime appetite. Sounds of the loud neighbour bargaining for that measly buck on a half-kilo of ladyfingers; sounds of doorbells ringing to admit the bhisti, our perennial water supply with his goatskin mashak; sounds of the squeaky hand pump - chapakol - in the street below as local denizens poured out for their morning bath, accompanied by the clanging of buckets laid in lines for booking a spot.

All these sounds changed when we left Calcutta 16 and headed South. Vegetables displayed on open carts were placed in bags lowered from balconies.  Instructions called out from the verandah above, money sent down by the bag and change and vegetables hauled up - an efficient though depersonalised system that avoids bargaining. The growl of the KMC truck disgorging water through hoses. Though the bucket lines are still there, they are not for baths - this water has to last a day or till the next tanker arrives. Battle sounds replace the bonhomie of a public bath, vaguely reminiscent of the Cal-16 gang wars, the language of which is unfit for a family magazine.

Towards tea time the “patty man” or the “cakewalla” would arrive advertising the wares hidden in the inevitable black box. It was all timed well to satisfy a craving for cream roll or more.  Each vendor had  a particular cry which, dear reader, either you recall or will have to imagine in print media!  There was the guy who resurfaced your grinding stone he used to shout “sil kataaaao”, the fellow who fluffed up your cotton mattresses kept his mouth well shut but twanged the cotton beater so that everyone could hear it.  My favourite was the guy who sold rat poison.  His chant went something like this: “Chuha mare, khatmal mare, aadmi nehi maregaaaa” - broadly translated as rats will die, bugs will die, but mankind won’t die. And he was technically advanced, equipped with a battery-operated megaphone which redefined “feedback”. 

Back in my memory was the gunny sack carrying bikriwallah - the cries varied from a simple “BHIK…reee” to “Bikriwallaaaa” - you have to imagine the music. These days they are rare but a new version has arisen.  In a thick regional accent they have upgraded themselves to e-waste collectors going “purono computaar, eu-p-s, monitaar bhikri korben”.  Old cassette players, torches and other items electronic get the sack too.

The trundling garbage barrow of yore is still there - the metal wheels give it away.  But these days, rather than digging out the garbage from overflowing vats, our conservancy man (or woman) wears a fancy, branded apron and carries a whistle.  Whistle podu or Seeti maro gets the attention of the househelp who sashays across with the garbage neatly tied in bio-degradeable bags and dropped into the trolley (okay, so a little stretch of wishful thinking can be forgiven?).

There was even a time when, without too much straining, one could hear the ships' foghorns on the Hooghly, especially at New Year’s Eve and particularly when ships could actually come up the now-silted Hooghly!  Now, without straining, all you can hear are the fog horns on National Television debating whether they are right or whether they are correct!  And this too, wafts through from open doorways as you wend your way home at prime time.

Any wonder my doctor says I’m hard of hearing? The sounds of my youth have been irrevocably replaced on my ear drums and in my memories.