The mundane and the exotic

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?