"SHUT UP!” The sound of her agitated scream, the crash of the coffee mug against the window glass, the resonant tail of the piano note, everything filled up the room, drowning out the high-pitched chatter of the birds outside.
“Phoooo…”, she let out a long, deep exhale, closing her eyes, to bring herself back to equanimity. The last three days––the time that she had moved to the quiet one-bedroom space in the hills––had been tough, contrary to how she had imagined they would be. She had been going through a creative block. In fact, that was the reason for her to make the move - to find inspiration in the quietude of nature.
The lush greenery around the house, no sounds of drills and hammers, the coolness in the air, everything had lifted her spirits when she first landed at the place. The rush of joy was so severe, in fact, that she had even managed to push away the physical (and mental) agony of lugging her piano - with help, of course - up a flight of stairs. A few dozen - or hundred - huffs and puffs and she was ready to dig in.
The joy had slowly started to fade away with each consequent morning and its high-pitched patterns––sometimes different, most times, familiar––echoing over the trees and piercing through the windows of the room. The joy of arrival slowly getting replaced with unexplained irritability and a clawing sensation that was gradually increasing in intensity. On that particular morning, the short, irregularly timed tweets from a tiny body on the window sill had triggered an uncharacteristically violent reaction, which not only left her feeling helpless, but also very confused.
It wasn’t as if she was hearing bird sounds for the first time. Her city apartment got its fair share of winged visitors. Maybe it’s the frustration of not being able to come up with good ideas, she thought to herself, even as her brain was frantically searching for quick, viable solutions. The drop cloth in the kitchen might help.
A few rough cuts with a kitchen knife, a day-long struggle to jam it inside the window frames, and the outside world was shut to her eyes. And hopefully her ears, but only the next morning would tell. She hoped the drop cloth was thick enough to dampen the chitter-chatter of the outside. She hadn’t managed to get anything done for another full day.
“Argghhhhhhh!”, she woke up with both her hands on her ears, screaming in agony. It was 5 in the morning, much earlier than her usual waking hours. Short bursts of squeaking, which sounded like metal to her ears, had woken her up with a jolt of gnawing exasperation. On the verge of tears, she banged her fists on the window glass through the drop fabric in a bid to quieten the metallic piping. It worked. The sound stopped and then came from a distance far away enough to not ring inside her head. But the damage was done. She had to fix this before she could get down to making music again; which meant biding her time till proper sunrise so she could go out in the neighborhood and look for some “real” solutions.
She could see the sun about to set outside as she went to work with the hammer. A few more hits and the piece of plywood was in place, covering the window. She had asked the landlord for permission, and he was okay with it. So there was now the glass window, covered with plywood, covered with drop cloth. This should work!
Exhaustion, no music done, but the hope of getting to it the next day––she went to bed again, half certain that tomorrow would be a peaceful day.
“Ahhhhhhhhh”, she sat up in bed, howling, tears running down her cheeks. It was 5 in the morning. The incessant chitter-chatter was there again, like an insidious alarm inside her head that was constantly getting louder.
She sprang up from bed in a fit of rage, and began to pull at the plywood. She wanted to kill those birds. Maybe that would solve it. Except, the plywood was hammered too well and her groggy, underslept, and lithe body couldn’t pry it out from the window frame. So, she ran out, down the stairs, and stood underneath the tree outside the house, the same tree that had lifted her spirits when she first came to the place.
She picked up a small stone and threw it at the tree, aiming for the birds that were somewhere among the foliage. The tweeting stopped, but it came back shortly after. And then she threw another, and then another, and kept at it, until her arms failed her. Sobbing, exhausted, and still in a rage, she went back upstairs. No bird sounds in the bedroom. Just the sound of her footsteps on the stone floor, her bumping her leg against the bedpost, and collapsing into the mattress.
She stood there, the evening of the same day, a hammer in hand again, a lone light bulb illuminating the small room. She was frantically hammering another plywood on top of the existing one and hammering thick, black curtains on top of them. So now, there was the glass window covered with two pieces of plywood, a thick black curtain, and a drop cloth.
The room sounded dead, except for her own breath, the sound of her bare feet on the stone floor, and the ruffling of the bedsheet as she struggled to stay awake.
Banging at the plywood, shouting at where the glass window must be, she was up. Another morning, the same incessant sounds: high-pitched, piercing, sometimes metallic, ringing inside her head. She would have to kill them. She must kill them. Barefoot, she stomped her way to the main door, bumping into her piano stool on the way - half on account of rage, and the rest due to her unrested state. The latter, despite her having slept most of the last three days.
But before she could pull open the main door, there was a knock. It was the landlord.
“Hello, good morning. I just came to check if everything is okay,” he said, as he made his way inside and to the bedroom. He noticed her disheveled state, but didn’t think much of it. It was still 8 in the morning, which is early for most city folks, he thought.
“Yes, except…”, she couldn’t complete her sentence.
“Wow. So quiet here. I see the plywoods. You installed two. Ha!”, he said with genuine surprise.
“Yes, except the birds won’t shut up.”
“You mean in the morning?”
“All the time, really. Even now. You can hear them, see”, she said, pointing towards the plywoods.
He strained towards the plywoods to listen more carefully. Nothing. No sound from outside could get through all the layers in front of the glass window.
“You can’t hear them?” her eyebrows scrunched, her voice rising in pitch slightly. His posture straightened involuntarily, trying to put more space between them. “It’s there. See. Listen. Eeeee-eee-eeee”, she mimicked a bird melody.
“It is going like this”, she said as she opened the hood of her piano and sat down to play the melody––one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, the same three high-pitched notes playing over and over again. Accompanied by her voice mimicking the notes.
“I think you need some rest. I can come back later”, he said, taking a few steps towards where she was sitting, his hands a couple of metres from her shoulders, almost in a comforting bid, but uncertain. Paying no heed to his words, she continued to play the melody, the same three keys, in a loop, over and over again. Each loop louder than the previous one, as her hands hit the keys harder. The resonant tails - she was a good pianist, after all - ringing through the room, her voice a faint accompaniment. Eeeeee-eee-eeeee. Eeeeeee-eee-eeeee.
“Madam, I am leaving. I will come back later”, he said, raising his voice to be heard over the reverberating piano. His body, however, betrayed him. It couldn’t bring itself to move towards the door and out through the main door. He was unsure of what the right thing to do was. Should he hold her to calm her down? Should he jolt her back to the present? Any of those options seemed inappropriate to him. So his body hesitated between wanting to reach out to her and keeping a distance. He looked around the small room, searching for an answer in the still air. Turning his back towards her, he reached into his pants’ pocket for his phone, hurried, fumbling. Before he could find the number to call in his contact list, the piano grew dissonant, the rhythm changed, accompanied by a low thud.
He quickly turned back and his eyes widened. Her fingers were still on the piano, but it was her head that was playing it––hitting the piano frame, and whatever keys it landed on, back and forth, back and forth. One, two. One, two. One, two.
He rushed towards her, grabbing her by her shoulders to bring her back to her senses. “MADAM!”
She stopped. A small amount of blood was beginning to trickle from her forehead, making a small line that separated it into two equal parts. She turned her head towards him, her eyes looking through him. The deep red made his stomach churn. Her parted mouth widened into a half-smile, cheekbones raised, eyes narrowed, brows slightly raised, a small sound left from the back of her throat, “Eeeeeeee-eee-eeeee”, her face between a cry and a smile, the blood leaving a trail down her nose and into her mouth, staining the front teeth on its way.
Her arms reached out and around his shoulders, and suddenly, a long shriek left her mouth. Eyes widened, mouth agape, her head came forward with full force and met his––once, twice. His grip on her loosened, but hers tightened.
Back and forth. Back and forth. One, two. One, two. One, two. Against the slackened head.
About the Author
Vaibhav Batra is an improviser, educator, and sound designer known for his versatile sets and unusual collaborations. From working with a local hip-hop collective to sharing the stage with a mridangam player and a daastango, his practice moves fluidly across genres and formats. A regular in Delhi's underground circuit, he has performed at reputed festivals and platforms in the country, including Magnetic Fields and Blr Hubba.