Ruckus at the restaurant

The nuisance value of noise is relative. Ask any man or woman who has to put up with a snorer who can hit all the notes from the lowest register to the highest. So, it was amusing to read about how one of Maria Sharapova's rivals finds her shriek when she hits the ball "annoying" and "too loud".

In the same newspaper article, another tennis player mentioned the high-pitched hoot of Azarenka. Host broadcaster Channel 7 has what it calls a Whoo Meter, which registered the sound at 91.4 decibels.

On a scale of ten, these annoying habits perhaps rate an eight or nine. But it all depends on who is doing the rating. In other words, if you are kindly disposed towards the person, your tolerance level is that much more.

And if the person is not doing this deliberately, perhaps we should be more forgiving.

Of late I have become even more appreciative of silence as well as of soft-spoken individuals. That's because my patience is tested every night by the workers in a restaurant housed on the ground floor of the building where I live. This eatery is extremely popular and the continuous flow of customers is testament to that fact. But what I dread is the time when the people leave and the workers wind up operations.

Loud voices

They appear to find it impossible to talk softly, oblivious to the fact that their voices carry to the apartments above where people like me are trying to get a good night's sleep.

From the sounds that travel upwards, they seem to be moving around huge industrial-sized containers with scant respect for the durability of the metal or that of the unwilling listeners held hostage. While these vessels are dragged around, the men delight in shouting out to each other in stentorian tones. Whether or not this is by way of encouragement, such as the noises weight lifters make when they try to move what appears to be an immovable immensity, I have no idea.

The repetitive clanging of pots and pans is interspersed by a loud conversation among people who seem to have positioned themselves as far away as possible from one another. Whether they are practising the art of throwing or projecting their voices and are budding thespians I have no way of knowing. All I wish is that they would have their rehearsals somewhere else, preferably a place some miles into the desert.

I hate to admit it but this habit of talking loudly even if the person whom you are addressing is right next to you, is deeply ingrained in many of my compatriots. The din at railway stations, bus stops or even airports is a familiar experience and one that we take in our stride. Perhaps that's why I was so unnerved by the silence on my first train ride in the UK many years ago. It wasn't a short journey so the sight of so many people whiling away the hours in almost complete silence was truly remarkable for one coming from a country where noise is a constant background sound. In fact, it was almost distressing, and I kept wondering if I should start a conversation, even if it was merely to hear my own voice.

Returning to the ruckus at the restaurant, I have tried calming myself by giving a thought to those who are still working while I am snug in bed. I tell myself that when they finally get to call it a day, they know that before they know it, it will be time to wake and start yet another long day at work. I tell myself to count my blessings and empathise with the plight of those less fortunate.

By the time I finish talking to myself, I am tired of hearing my own voice. And so I go to sleep …