Is god so disappointed with humans that you now have to make a dreadful racket to get his attention? Put differently, why must Ganesh Chaturthi be so noisy?
A troupe of thunder-makers accompany a group of devotees headed for visarjan near Currey Road station. Photo by C Y Gopinath
The elephant god was not far away. I was in one of the winding lanes near Currey Road station, trying to find a place to eat. Someone had told me that Ladu Samrat was famous. But first I had to deal with Ganpati Bappa. It was a small group headed for visarjan — the immersion of the Ganpati idol they were carrying — but they were accompanied by a troupe of thunder-makers. The term, coined by me for this column, describes young, energetic fellows who play the frenzied tattoo on their dhols that is a signature sound of Ganesh Chaturthi in Mumbai.
I tensed as I saw them. I knew they would start any moment now. I quietly slipped out my phone and launched the app I had downloaded the previous day, called Decibel X. I was armed and ready.
A traditional troupe would have used a dhol with animal hide stretched over the drumhead or pudi. The larger left-side pudi produces the deeper bass sound, while the other side delivers the treble. Together, they deliver an immersive and earthy rolling thunder. The modern dhol, like this troupe was carrying, has tight synthetic film, usually Mylar or PVC, stretched over the pudi; the right side produces a bright, sharp, piercing sound.
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It started with a frantic roll. The thunder-makers were frenetic, pounding the dhol as though they were desperately short of time and had lots of drumming to get through. My ears were ringing; my heart was pounding.
I whipped out my decibel app and pointed it directly at the thunder-makers. How loud were they?
112 dB.
Here’s a simple question no one has asked. Why is Ganesh Chaturthi so loud?
Surely not for humans, whose ears were not designed for such babel. We can listen to sounds below 70 dB all day, and sounds up to 85 dB — like heavy traffic or a noisy restaurant — for up to eight hours. A normal conversation is about 60 dB, and air conditioners hum at about 45 dB.
What is dangerous?
Exposure to 95 dB for over an hour.
100 dB for more than 15 minutes.
110 dB can start harming your hearing in under two minutes.
At 120 dB+ you are at the pain threshold. Immediate harm is possible.
The drums of Ganpati thunder at 104-113 decibels even without loudspeakers all day long, touching 120 dB if amplified, the acoustic equivalent of standing next to a chainsaw.
Firecrackers almost always cross the 100 dB mark, and some blow past 125 dB, louder than a jet taking off at close range.
Cars and autorickshaws honk at 107-115 dB. Concrete drills grind at 95-110 dB, and jackhammers spike higher. Mumbaikars in Santacruz and Vile Parle live in the flight path of the world’s busiest single-runway airport, and a plane screaming past can go past your pain threshold.
The suburban train, lifeline and tormentor, thunders past homes at 90-110 dB, regularly drowning conversation.
Wedding bands blare at loving newlyweds, punishing everyone’s ears with discordant music in the 110-120 dB zone.
So once more: why must Ganesh Chaturthi be so noisy? Could it be that god is so disappointed with humans that you now have to make a dreadful racket to get his attention? Does religion tell us to pray loudly?
Every faith has its chants, hymns and mantras, often sung loudly, but their goal is not so much volume as creating an exalted atmosphere of ecstasy and surrender. The Bhagavad Gita stresses bhava — the feeling and intention behind prayer — over performance.
“Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder,” said Rumi, putting devotion over decibels.
But who would call Mumbai’s Ganesh festival a gathering of spiritually fired-up people? It is a time of surging revellers, unmanageable disruption and symbolic ritual. Few remember that although Ganesh Chaturthi is centuries old, today’s mayhem has its origins in 1893, when the British rulers, fearing sedition, had banned gatherings of any kind. However, freedom fighter and nationalist Bal Gangadhar Tilak cannily realised that they would not dare stop a religious procession. He repositioned Ganesh Chaturthi as a week for unifying communities, bringing people together (while covertly discussing colonialism and the need for independence).
The cacophonous, obstructive festival we see today is a distortion of an inspired time of reverence, togetherness, and patriotism.
A Mumbaikar might ask, What’s a little noise for a week? No one’s gone deaf from a festival, surely, and we put up with worse all year. Essa, a 67-year-old chartered accountant in Girgaum, might tell you how a firecracker dramatically changed his life. He was pacing his living room around 1.30 a.m. on November 2 last year. Diwali had ended the previous day, and firecrackers were anyway illegal after 10 pm. But a firecracker bomb went off nearby, deafening Essa and his Persian cat with a shattering 125 dB sonic blast.
The cat panicked, Essa tripped over it and fell, instantly fracturing the tibia and fibula bones of his left leg. It took months but today he is healed. He will never drive a car again, and he will walk with a limp the rest of his life.
That’s what 125 dB can do.
You can reach C Y Gopinath at cygopi@gmail.com
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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