Why are Indian celebrations so loud?

It happened at the Sethis’ wedding reception last week, that glittering battlefield of rustling silk, shaguns, and plastic smiles. I was headed for the bar with dignified nonchalance—thirst, after all, being the only emotion at such gatherings that requires no pretence—when a vision in sequins and shimmer glided towards me. She beamed with the radiant certainty of someone who had just won the lottery, received a marriage proposal, or perhaps both.

I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to discover a more worthy object of such unbridled delight—a taller, wealthier, or at least better-dressed suitor. But there was no one. Just me, in all the rumpled glory of my five-year old suit. Panic seized my soul. Why was this dazzling creature smiling at me with such familiarity? More pressingly, did we even know her? And if not, would the missus subject me to a thorough cross-examination later?

She drew closer, lips parting to speak. At that precise merciful moment, the DJ unleashed deafening music! Music exploded across the hall—loud, proud and vengeful. The sound swallowed her words whole, leaving her like a goldfish, her mouth opening and closing in silent eloquence. I nodded vigorously, flashed what I hoped was a knowing grin, and made my escape.

If ever a man was saved by decibels, it was I.

The next morning, over coffee and mild domestic interrogation, my wife delivered the coup de grace: the mysterious belle was none other than Mrs Bose from the floor below. The same lady with whom I have shared the lift umpteen times. Plain, pleasant, almost dowdy, in her everyday avatar. Yet, last night, armed with professional makeup, favourable lighting, and enough jewellery to buy a house, she was transformed like beautiful Cinderella!

My narrow escape prompted deeper reflection on our nation’s fervent, almost obsessive-compulsive love affair with noise. In our country, no festival, wedding, political rally, or religious observance feels legitimate without deafening noise in some form. The nagaras, the dholaks, the dhols are all capable of producing noise totally disproportionate to their humble sizes. The nadaswarams, shehnais, and tangmuris add their own insistent, often piercing notes. Above all, it is the modern electronic amplification systems that have raised our cultural fixation to truly epic heights.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the grand marriage processions that snake through city streets, blissfully indifferent to the traffic chaos they leave in their wake. Every barat, especially in north India, must necessarily have brass bands, firecrackers and DJ sets loud enough to rouse the dead.

My friend Gopu, a self-styled cultural anthropologist with a penchant for defending the indefensible, explained in his scholarly manner: “Arre, it’s tradition! The groom must announce his arrival with fanfare, lest someone later accuse him of sneaking off in an Uber at midnight like a common coward.”

“Fair enough,” I countered, “But must they notify the entire municipal area? Couldn’t they just WhatsApp the jealous neighbours of the bride instead?”

“And look what they have done to the sangeet,” I continued, “It used to be a sweet family affair. Ladies sitting in a circle with just a dholak, singing folk songs—some sweet, some gloriously bawdy—teasing the bride and groom. The sangeet, these days, resembles a cheap nightclub with strobe lights. The music is so loud that conversation is impossible and your heart goes boompity-boompity-boom-boom-boom!”

Gopu waved his hand dismissively. “Times have changed! Modern sangeet needs ‘vibe’. It needs glitz! It needs oomph! It needs power to shake the building foundations!”

He wasn’t entirely mistaken. Across our social landscape, volume has become the ultimate emblem of status and success. Holi, Diwali, Durga Puja—none are safe. Our communication with the divine needs a sonic boom. Where silence once invited transcendence and inner stillness, we now address the heavens at volumes suitable for addressing stadium crowds. Temple loudspeakers blare bhajans from dawn. Home pujas in high-rises are amplified “for the neighbours’ benefit”. Modest mohalla celebrations feature DJs who think God is deaf.

The automotive world has made its own inspired contributions to the national cacophony. Few sights are as surreal as a humble Maruti Alto or diminutive Nano thumping down the highway as though it has swallowed an entire discotheque. The car seems to dance the bhangra of its own accord—hopping, skipping, and swaying—while the driver rocks to the music, unmindful of the traffic. It is not just the tiny cars that overcompensate through amplifiers. Rumour has it that one Bollywood luminary equipped his Rs5.2 crore Cadillac with 42 speakers. 42! It should now be described as a mobile disco with, maybe, excellent air-conditioning.

Our obsession with noise, I have concluded, stems from a peculiar discomfort with quietude. We are downright uncomfortable with meaningful conversations which demand presence, listening, and the vulnerability of genuine connection. Far safer, then, to drown potential awkwardness in waves of decibels. Loud music serves as the protective umbrella against making the effort of truly listening to someone else.

As I grow older, I grow wiser. I no longer rail against the inevitable. I have made my peace with nagaras and blaring horns, with screaming crowds and throbbing woofers. I smile vacuously, nod appreciatively, and allow the music to speak for me. In any case, these days I often have little notion of what to say to whom.

K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com