Winterludes - III

der Kuckuck

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(with a humble bow to Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel)

Hello darkness, my old friend... this morning has taken me meandering, and I have come to talk to you again about my childhood hometown where winter enveloped one like an intimate "full" sweater (or a "half" sweater depending on what was handy). It reeked of napthalene balls from its storage chest, with a scratchy scarf wrapped around the neck or a monkey-cap jammed on your head by loving moms or neighborhood maasi's. It would be just a slow opening of eyes, peeping from underneath the covers, nothing abrupt or sudden to disturb the warm cocoon you had built overnight. You were ready to spring into action but the universe wasn't ready yet, was it? The world was like a silent era movie, waiting to be transformed with a soundtrack full of familiar hisses and faint whispers. 

The overnight cold mists may have drifted up and out slowly, lingering on forever. The sun, hesitantly peeking out from behind the fog, slowly made up its mind to grace us with its warmth. The usual small-town noises would start - the creak of compound gates, the low rattle of tin roofs shedding overnight dew, the leaves of eucalyptus trees rustling. Occasional roosters reminded us loudly about the arrival of the day while clucking purposefully, chasing the hens. The tring tring of pedal-pushed carts of street hawkers bringing fresh winter vegetables to your doorsteps, effusively being welcomed by the neighborhood canine sentries who would challenge each other to stay ever vigilant. Just enough to remind you that the day was waking without hurry.

There was the domestic quiet: the whisper of coal glowing in the kitchen stoves started earlier, the large kettles hissing getting ready for chai, the rhythmic scraping of a brooms sweeping courtyards, the soft creaks and loud squeaks of doors with rusty hinges. Every sound felt laid-back, deliberate, painted into the morning fabric, stitched into its core rather than superimposed upon it. These true sounds of silence were punctuated twice a day by an anticipated interruption: the drone of Fokker Friendship engine breaking through the fog, arriving from Calcutta and departing for Delhi with a hop, skip and jump through Patna and Lucknow, the other later in the afternoon on its return route. We would wait for it and discuss how late would it be because of the dense fog and smoke from the cold and open fires from household chulhas and street-corner fire-pits belching smoke from whatever scraps were thrown in. It was the aroma of winter mornings, no one knew what the AQI was. We would watch for that metallic bird's glint, heralded by the flutter of real birds that rose up, startled from their perches. The honk from little air-horns punctuated quiet mornings as solitary rickshaws rode past carrying early commuters on their way to some important mission. Each intrusion vaguely registered and was absorbed back into the morning, leaving silence richer rather than emptier. 

Unlike the stark, reflective hush of the Midwest, that winter silence was warm with presence. It was a quiet that anticipated conversation, shared understanding and the slow unfolding of life. Our laughter lingered on, a reminder that silence here was never emptiness. That Mother Nature was and is the ultimate of the Old Masters, the universe its canvas on which life revealed itself carefully, patiently, relentlessly with no explanation, without apologies. 

Silence on a winter morning in the Midwest is not quite empty either. Mother Nature still writes the script and the sound-track score, layered, textured, alert, the world is still listening to itself. There is the silence of fresh snow, the way it absorbs sound, softening edges, obliterating lanes, ironing the landscape flatter. Footsteps don’t echo; they sink. Distance collapses as a concept, and even familiar landmark and streets feel far away, muffled into anonymity. The absence of highway traffic noise is not felt, nor its gradual build-up. Like a conversation that ended long ago, no one noticed when the last word was spoken between intimate friends but one would pick up the threads exactly where one left off.

Outside, the natural quiet carries its own subtle signals these days. Deciduous trees have shed all their leaves. Evergreens shrug, shifting under the weight of ice and snow. Wind drags the drifting snow across the frozen driveway. Occasionally, a lone cardinal calls out, sharp, brief, almost impolite, cutting through the stillness, making it deeper once it passes. The distant snowplow one cannot yet hear, is busy elsewhere. The click clack of a train miles away whose horn is muffled by the cold. A larger world temporarily muted. Neighbors are getting busy with their shovels, snow blowers. I may have to bundle up and venture out soon. Our felines press their noses against the windows or doors, sniffing disapprovingly at the cold, disdainfully watching the neighborhood canines, who are bundled up like their owners shivering outside, doing their business outdoors.

There is the interior silence, the one that settles in your chest. You feel it. It arrives with the first look out the window, when the light is dim, skies are greyish blue, and sun is undecided about its arrival, and the day hasn’t claimed one yet. This silence isn’t necessarily lonely or peaceful, it’s anticipatory, hopeful. It hums quietly, waiting for motion, for warmth, for someone or something else to speak up and prove that the world is still there.

The coffee pot that started early on a timer has since stopped gurgling after its dutiful brewing is done, awaiting further instructions after the first two steaming mugs of the dark elixir of life. My feline companions are now busy munching their morning chow, purring contentedly. Their zoomies around the living room chasing each other around the house hasn't started yet. Beneath it all lies the mechanical hush. A furnace clicks on in the basement, forcing warmth through the ductwork in the walls, then settles into a low, patient hum. The younger feline finds and sits on each of the vents, as if to ensure proper distribution of warm air. The house contracts and expands with faint pops as wood and pipes adjust to the sub-zero cold, tiny noises feel amplified because nothing competes with them. The clocks, once mechanical that went tick-tock loudly are now all digital, very quiet, and blink from every appliance, each defiantly displaying a different time, never seeming to sync no matter how much you tried. All clocks, except for one.

It’s a large, ornate cuckoo clock - Handgeschnizt Original Schwarzwalder Kuckucksuhr (Hand-carved Original Black Forest Cuckoo Clock) by Hönes, as the original tag says. It was advertised as an 8-day Clock, a Hüsli (little house) style. Three decades ago, it cost us a small fortune. But we loved how it looked in the picture, we wanted it, we got it. Once operational, we observed it more accurately to be a 5-day clock. Other than that, the rest of the claims were fairly accurate. Every half hour, the little attic door popped open, a tiny bird came out, cleared its throat and delivered a piercing cuckoo. Every hour it announced itself more thoroughly: with the appropriate number of cuckoos followed by familiar melodies - Edelweiss or Der Fröhliche Wanderer (The Happy Wanderer) alternatively from its music box. A miniature Tyrolean chalet otherwise only seen in movies. The tunes became part of our household rhythm, alongside the pitter-patter of the little feet, woven into lullabies and naps, toddler tantrums, sibling fights, late night home-works, and the hasty mornings getting ready for school and for work. It has witnessed many noisy birthday parties and family get togethers over the years. Tirelessly ticking, not resting, through the noisy stomping of little feet arriving back from school and the many "witching hours", those evenings when everyone was tired, cranky, hungry, impatient, emotional. It once played the VIP role in its heyday, was the guest of honor when the baby birds were younger. Their friends would assemble to watch with fascination, as the bell-ringer pulled the bell, the Oompah band musicians swung around and played, the dancers rotated to music. And the cuckoo that sprang out from behind the closed door to announce the hour with full-throated warbles was the pièce de résistance, with everyone keeping count with the cuckoo, having learned their numbers recently.

The cuckoo clock has traveled with us all over - packed carefully, unpacked anxiously, surviving several cross-country moves. It has adorned different living room walls, in our different homes, and under different lights. It has endured the thumps and bumps of many toddlers and several kittens racing past, the casual experimentation conducted by small hands, the judgmental swipes of our cats who believed gravity was optional. Through all of it, it has kept faith with time, approximately rather than precisely, needing minor seasonal adjustment to its wooden pendulum due to the expansion and contraction. Physics, it reminds us. The last time it was in a repair shop many years ago, an elderly horologist had listened to its irregular ticks and murmured, "Ve haf vays to mek you toc." He has since retired, his son hasn't picked up the trade that was once passed down from father to son; now we are hunting for a reputed clockmaker locally.

Three plus decades later, der Kuckuck seems... a tad tired these days. It waits patiently in its empty nest, behind its little door, perhaps for the baby birds to come back, at least for a visit, wishful, hoping, expecting. It still ticks, stubborn and dutiful, but the songs often lag, slip, losing steps. The musical notes arrive late, as if catching its breath, sometimes overlap, at other times skip, or repeat. The internals are weary and worn-out, needing repair. Yet even in its faltering state, its rhythmic tick-tock feels honest. Time is still marching forward, but the ornamentation doesn’t always keep up. It has done its job faithfully for years. It doesn’t feel broken, just overdue for a little tender loving care, a caressing touch, a kind word and perhaps the graceful acceptance to keep going imperfectly, still marking the hours as long as it can. Can't quite figure out what this reminds me of, a disquieting déjà vu, as I listen to Paul & Art. And the vision that was planted in my brain... Still remains.. Within the sound of its silence.