Today, the local Muslim community celebrates Mohammed’s birthday in front of my apartment and right in front of the Hindu temple. There have been repeated parades with a drum band, followed by singers/hand drum players. Earlier, a woman had to be calmed down by her relatives as her dancing had gone into overdrive. Right now, there is a communal meal accompanied by a male singer and some speeches. The open door to my balcony brings the proceedings into my living room. Not that the a closed door would keep the festivities out.
The open back door to my apartment, as always, frames the Swedagon Pagoda. The noise-scape there is dominated by the recorded and amplified goings-on in the nearby monastery. Today the music has a wild gamelan-like tone.
The laundry machine in the kitchen and churns away within the ambit of the Buddha; the laundry lines on my balcony and front room are within the range of Mohammed’s birthday celebration. I shuttle in between as if it is normal, like procession of mostly middle aged men who (re)enter a monastery or a row of nuns going out for ... what?