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Magazine
EXPERIENCE
The silence of suburbia
SADAF SIDDIQUE
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In the suburbs of the U.S., accessories to living include the big house, a bigger home entertainment system, an SUV…and the disquieting silence.
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Still in nearly three months of my stay, I didn’t see a single human being. Everything was orderly, still, neat and very, very quiet. That is, until the day of the garage sale.
Illustration: Surendra
The other striking thing that you notice in the U.S., the first being the lack of bathroom mugs ( http://www.hindu.com/mag-/2008/05/04/stories/2008050450140500.htm), is t
he silence. Well, maybe not if you stay in the city. In that case you are probably privy to your neighbour’s amorous activities pulsating through cardboard walls, listening to the lament of drunken winos in the lobby and footing the light bill for the neon sign outside your window. In the suburbs, however, where the average Joshi (or Jaishankar or Jain) lives, the American dream, complete with big house, bigger home entertainment system and gas-guzzling SUVs, it is strangely, eerily quiet. (Ok, so I’m generalising, but show me Shah, Shriram or Sharma you know who doesn’t have one or all of the above. I rest my case.)
As I was saying, there are no sounds of leaves rustling in the wind, no bird calls and worse, no human sounds. You can go for days without meeting (or hearing) anyone. Think about it. In India, even on a Sunday, you wake up to the sounds of the doodhwala, paperwala, kachrewali, the arrival of the maid. The day progresses with the incessant ringing of the phone, kids playing in the afternoon heat, the buzz of conversation from the neighbour’s house, the thumping sounds as the maid beats the living daylights out of your clothes. You learn to filter out the whistles of the pressure cookers, barking of street dogs and even make your peace with the cawing crows and filmi tunes emerging from reversing vehicles. As evening approaches, the entire neighbourhood reverberates with the signature tunes and dialogues from the never-ending serials.
Not welcome
You’d think that silence was a welcome relief. Not really. After a while, it can really begin to creep you out. Coming from the land of a billion people, I didn’t think I’d miss the swelling crowds and the din of it all. But you do, you really do. You miss the human interaction. (And no, TV doesn’t count.). It almost feels surreal. It got so bad, I was thrilled when some construction work started close by. I ran to the window when the generators sprung to life, whistled a tune as the wrecking ball demolished the old structure, smiled to myself as someone mistakenly struck the water pipe and sprouted a leak. It sounded just like home.
Still in nearly three months of my stay, I didn’t see a single human being. Everything was orderly, still, neat and very, very quiet. That is, until the day of the garage sale. The garage sale, also known as the rummage sale, yard sale or jumble sale, is a uniquely American concept. After all, who else would think of making money by getting rid of stuff you used, abused and probably misused? Capitalism 101 anyone? Anyway, so the family goes though its possessions, decides what they can put up for sale, puts on a price tag and displays the goods for the grabbing. It’s sort of like when you grow out of your old clothes; your mother gives it away. Expect that neither you nor your mother make any money. (Or if she does, demand your cut!) The early birds were stalking the yard at the crack of dawn. By eight, suburban SUVs turned the neighbourhood into an auto show. People were crawling out of the wood work and had taken over the lawn like storm troopers on active duty. All to sort through someone else’s cast offs. I mean there were old shoes, disfigured lamps, dog-eared books, clothes, figurines and other odds and ends. Sure, most people look for treasures and that unique find, but if you really don’t want that psychedelic caftan left over from the 1970s, why would anyone else? If you have to purge your space and presumably your soul, why can’t you just trash your junk or give it away-for free?
There were young men, young women, older ladies, children and a certain person of unidentifiable gender. I even spotted a pair of desis. You could hear smatterings of Greek, Spanish, Gujarati, and Australian-accented English. I had no idea I lived in such a cosmopolitan neighbourhood! Two old ladies in loud flower print dresses were haggling over a 50 cent wallet. The Australians were discussing the aesthetic merits (if any) of a mannequin with a lampshade on its head. Some kids were trying to break apart a pen set. And the desis were actually eying the caftan. All in all, it looked like one big party. You know, the kind where the host nervously eyes the guests praying that they leave while the guests’ brats are tromping all over the place and others are talking about better parties they have been to.
So why anyone would want to lose a wonderful day to wake up at dawn, cajole strangers to buy their junk and deal with kids crushing your delicate herb garden? I haven’t the foggiest idea.
I guess bargain hunters can really smell a bargain. Even on a balmy weekday afternoon in the silent suburbs.
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