I've been racking my brains for the
English equivalent of 'sannaata'. More precisely, to try and
translate the idea of 'sannaata' on the sadak, or the streets.
Silence and solitude do not convey the
same meaning. Nor does emptiness. Nor does desolation. Some
dictionaries define the word as a 'lull', or a place lacking in
sound, or lacking in people. This last, or perhaps a combination of
these definitions, serves to explain the emotional meaning carried by
'sannaata'.
It can be a silent moment in a place
devoid of people. Or a sannaata can descend upon a roomful of people.
In either case, it is a hush burdened by the sense of a lull, a pause
before something else happens. It is the sort of silence that's
uncanny rather than peaceful. It makes you nervous. If you are
walking, you feel an unreasonable urge to quicken your step. If you
are in a car, you glance about right and left, looking for – what?
This sannaata is what defines certain
streets at night. Think of sannaata in an urban context and you can
imagine yourself on a dark street. Perhaps there is a lamp or two,
but the light spills down the road, leaving either side untouched. In
the crevices of the pavements, between the shadows cast by narrow
lanes is – what?
You can hear your own feet, either
tick-tocking or flop-flopping. You can hear the faint rurr of a
distant engine and you try to guage whether it it coming your way or
moving further. You aren't sure which you prefer. Sometimes you hear
shuffling steps around the corner. That those feet keep moving is
your safest bet. If they pause, the lull deepens. If the silence is
broken now – what?
In every small and big town, such a
sannaata routinely falls upon dozens of wide and narrow streets. Some
places, it arrives as early as nine. All windows are shut, all blinds
are down and cars locked.
Sometimes it waits as late as two o'
clock in the night before it shows up and it slinks away before dawn.
Mumbai is perhaps the only city in India where this is evident, and
not just in the heart of town but even in its most distant suburbs.
There is a reason it is called 'the city that never sleeps'. People
sleep, of course. But trains, auto-rickshaws and cabs keep at least a
handful of people on the move until nearly two in the night. There
are a couple of hours after, nothing and nobody seems to move. At
this time, every movement seems fraught. At this time, you aren't
sure you want to be out on the streets on your own.
Then, there's one golden hour before
dawn. A cycle bell starts tinkling. Some animal – dog or cow or
goat – responds to the shift of time. Some woman with her head
covered, barefoot, walks somewhere with purpose. You hear a temple
bell or the azaan from a mosque. The sannaata lifts.
There are also certain towns and
suburbs where it never seems to lift. Even in bright daylight, in the
middle of a weekday, with dozens of people in sight and car-wheels
crunching past at regular intervals, you feel it – the silence, the
lull. The very air seems stretched, as if waiting for something to go
wrong. You can't wait to get off the streets and into a safe room,
and then fill up that room with sound – television, music, or the
ping-ping-ping of back and forth texts. There are few places like
this in India, but if you've visited a gated community, you might
know what I'm talking about.
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