The Alarm Before the Alarm

The world is still asleep. The official alarms—the shrill beeps of phones, the abrupt vibrations of bedside clocks—haven't rung yet. But she is already awake, nudged into consciousness by a subtler orchestra.

Before her family stirs, before the city fully opens its eyes, the day makes its presence known—not with an alarm clock, but with the whispers of routine.

The City’s Prelude

A distant cycle bell. The soft padding of a newspaper vendor’s hurried footsteps. The dull thud of rolled-up news landing on the porch. These are not sounds meant for her alone, yet they reach her first—delivered by the sleeping city in its slow, stretching motions.

Next, the milk bottles clink at the gate. She doesn’t need to check; she knows they’re there. A neighbor’s broom scrapes against the pavement—a steady, practiced rhythm that signals another early riser across the compound.

Through the window, temple bells echo in the distance. The azaan floats in soft waves over the rooftops, mingling with the first calls of crows. The world is waking, but not loudly—not yet.

The Homemaker’s First Calls to Action

From the kitchen next door comes the first whistle—a pressure cooker announcing its authority, as if marking time itself. It is never late. She counts the seconds between each burst of steam, mentally tracking the neighbor's cooking pace.

The water tap runs. A door creaks. Somewhere in the building, the muffled splash of someone washing clothes reminds her that the day has begun, even if her house hasn't yet acknowledged it.

The fridge hums as she pulls out vegetables. The knife’s rhythmic chopping breaks the lingering silence. Outside, the first auto-rickshaw sputters to life, its impatient honk slicing through the morning air.

The doorbell rings—vegetable vendor. The neighbor’s kid shuffles awake, dragging sleepy feet across the floor. The school bus coughs impatiently at the end of the street.

The household alarm finally rings. But she knows—the day has long begun. The alarm is just a formality.

The Silence After the Storm

Later, when the kitchen hum settles, when the hurried footsteps leave the house and the city fully stretches into daylight, a new kind of silence settles.

The pressure cooker is still. The newspapers lie abandoned, read. The milk bottles are emptied, their duty fulfilled. The morning orchestra is done playing.

Now, it is only her, and the echoes of the alarms before the alarm.