I am at a little resort in Saphale, two and a half hours from Mumbai, and for once the alarm clock has competition. At six thirty in the morning, before the tea kettle has even considered whistling, the birds have begun their choir practice.
Not one bird. Two.
And then I hear others joining in.
An entire feathered orchestra. Sopranos on the treetops, baritones in the bushes, and one enthusiastic fellow who clearly believes he is Pavarotti reincarnated.
They seem to be lifting their tiny chests in praise to their Maker, and I, not to be outdone by creatures weighing less than my spectacles, lift my own mind in silent thanksgiving.
Mine is less melodious and more like an old scooter starting up, but I am sure God understands accents.
There is something about those early hours. The air is cool, the sky undecided between night and day, and for a brief sacred moment, nobody is checking their phone. In that hush, through leaves and light and birdsong, I sense something else. A whisper. Not dramatic. Not thunder and lightning. Just a gentle nudge.
‘Be still, Bob.’
Now being still is not my natural talent. I am better at being loud, opinionated and hungry. But in that moment I try. I sit. I breathe. I listen. And in that stillness there is peace, the kind that does not need WiFi.
Then humanity wakes up.
From below rises the sound of doors banging, slippers slapping against tiles, someone loudly debating whether the buffet opens at seven or seven fifteen as though the fate of the nation depends on it.
A gentleman is already on his phone discussing shares. A daughter is explaining her blood pressure to her old mother who clearly did not ask.
The birds pause.
It is almost comical. The very creatures who were singing as though auditioning for heaven fall silent at the arrival of our species. We, who claim to be the most intelligent beings on the planet, manage to frighten away sparrows chirping to the divine, with our commentary on the mundane.
I feel like leaning over the balcony and announcing, ‘Be still, ladies and gentlemen. God is whispering.’ But they are busy searching for the Divine in motivational podcasts and forwarded messages, while the Creator is attempting a quiet conversation between two gulmohar trees.
Perhaps that is our problem. We expect God to arrive with a microphone. We want announcements. We want trending hashtags. Meanwhile He prefers the soft background music of wind and wing.
As I sip my coffee and the sun stretches lazily into the sky, I make a small resolution. Before I add to the noise of the world, I will try to listen. Because sometimes the holiest sound is not a sermon, not a speech, not even a song.
Sometimes it is a duet between the birds…!
bobsbanter@gmail.com
