19 April, Goa

She hears the dogs before she hears the car. They live on the abandoned property at the end of the lane and they have decided, without being asked, to take responsibility for the silence.

Before that, birds. Not the ones there used to be — the singing ones, who arrived at six as though they had somewhere to be. These days it is crows. She lies in bed listening. There is nothing to do with crows except wait them out.

The household wakes slowly and finds its rhythm. Footsteps in the kitchen. The iron moving across cotton. The washing machine at spin. None of it is loud. All of it means she is not alone in the house, which is its own kind of thing.

Five times a day the temple bells ring — breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, and before sleep. She doesn't always ring them herself. Sometimes it's Nanda, sometimes Ram. That's the point, she thinks. The offering arrives whether or not she remembered to reach for it.

Somewhere underneath everything, the fan. She doesn't notice it — and then, in a pause between thoughts, she does. It has been there all along.

The keyboard is the sound she hears most now. This year more than any other year. She doesn't always love it. But there it is again.

The phone has been on silent since July.

I don't miss it.