The desk in my room overlooks a golden rice field where a herd of cows graze lazily, clothed in rough burlap sacks. They chew slowly, in cadence to some unheard music. Rice sheaves wave rhythmically in tune to some invisible breeze. Snatches of bass and synth drift across from some Hindu village nearby. Even while completing an activity as mundane as writing emails, I am surrounded by music, serenaded. The Lord God is in our midst, I think, recalling the verse in Zephaniah 3:17. He rejoices over us with gladness, he quiets us with his love, he rejoices over us with singing.
I smile, and hum, and head to work.
At the school, the other teachers are incredibly formal, checking that uniforms are crisply ironed, that rows of desks are straight, and that students stand up when speaking. Staff and students alike call me “Ma’am” when I walk into class (still trying to shake that one). Yet there is an undercurrent of joy here, too—music waiting to burst forth.
In the hot, stuffy, humid classroom, overhead fans whir at top speed. My brain is likewise whirring with the effort of translating my English thoughts coherently into the local dialect. Students are attentive, pencils scribbling across paper with intense focus. Suddenly, a new sound breaks their focus. It has begun to rain.
A scant drizzle (I keep on teaching). A steady dribble (I draw on the white board). A rhythmic patter on the tin roof (I raise my voice). Necks crane and eyebrows furrow as students try to hear me, but it’s no use; my words are lost in the pounding crescendo. I stop talking, and then, as if by some secret signal, unanimous shoes hit the floor, and pens and notebooks are flung aside. Students leap to their feet, grinning as they break with formal classroom protocol.
Gloriously, they begin to sing. The melody of the rain song merges with dramatic Bollywood showtunes belted out from bellies full of laughter. Soon, they are dancing, and I delight in their abandonment. What else can one do in a lecture, when you cannot even hear your own voice, much less the teacher’s? We are being serenaded by a rainstorm. His music is everywhere.
