They placed the loudspeaker , strategically .
Right above the tea shop . On top of the building . Facing the bazaar .
Early mornings , when the dust was being swept from the front porch of every shop . The religious hymns began .
Like the swirl of dust , it rose from the ground , beaten off the ground by jogger’s shoes , rickshaw tyres and the tea wala’s chappals .
It slowly became an ominous , heavy , invisible cloud , invading conversations , jarring chain of thoughts , derailing the trains of ideas , and bleating , booming , banging into the collective psyche of the people .
Slowly , like a heavy cloud it settled on people’s brows , where it clouded judgement ;, it could be tasted on chapped lips , where it dictated the words and it got into everyone’s eyes, and coloured everyone’s views .
Soon, when people , from other parts of the city came here , they were aghast to hear such dusty words . Forgotten hymns , long discarded ideas . If they began living here , they began speaking the same language . Older , archaic , ancient , long forgotten .
