The Sound of Morning

The alarm buzzed, sharp and relentless. Arjun groaned, reaching for his phone. Another day, another rush. The same crowded train, the same endless meetings, the same noise that filled his head before he even stepped out the door.

He used to love mornings. When he was younger, mornings were soft — sunlight spilling through curtains, his mother humming in the kitchen, the smell of chai and cardamom drifting through the air. But now, mornings were mechanical — phone screens, cold coffee, traffic.

He got ready quickly, hardly noticing the sound of rain tapping on the window. Outside, the city was already awake. Horns blared, people shouted, buses sighed at every stop. Peace felt like something distant, something old-fashioned — something the world had forgotten how to make.

At the train station, Arjun pushed through the crowd. The platform was packed with commuters — everyone glued to their phones, earbuds in, eyes down. A few seats down, an old man sat quietly with a small harmonica in his hand.

He wasn’t playing it — just holding it, turning it slowly between his fingers as if remembering something.

The train arrived with its usual roar. Arjun got on, pressed between strangers, and for a moment, he met the old man’s eyes. The man smiled. Not a forced smile — a real one, gentle and slow, as if it didn’t need a reason.

It lingered in Arjun’s mind for the rest of the day.

That evening, when the sky turned gray, Arjun found himself at the same platform again. The old man was there, sitting on the same bench. This time, he was playing the harmonica softly — just a few notes, barely audible above the city noise.

Something about it stopped Arjun. The tune wasn’t perfect. It rose and fell with small imperfections, but it had warmth — a kind of calm that felt out of place in the chaos around them.

He walked closer and said, “You play well.”

The old man looked up. “I used to,” he said with a chuckle. “Now I just play to remember what quiet feels like.”

Arjun smiled faintly. “Quiet?” he repeated. “Does that even exist here anymore?”

The man nodded. “It does. You just have to listen differently.”

The next morning, Arjun woke before his alarm. It was strange — the city hadn’t yet come alive. For the first time in a long while, he noticed the faint chirp of birds outside, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of water dripping from last night’s rain.

It wasn’t silence, but it was peaceful.

He made tea and sat by the window, watching sunlight spill across rooftops. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t rush. For those few minutes, he just breathed — and realized how much he had been missing that simple act.

Over the next few days, Arjun kept seeing the old man — Ravi, he later learned — at the train station. They started talking. Ravi had once been a music teacher before retirement. “I taught hundreds of children to listen,” he said. “Not just to music, but to life. Everything has rhythm — even the sound of a morning train.”

Arjun laughed. “You make it sound poetic.”

Ravi shrugged. “It is. We just forget to notice.”

One day, when the train was delayed, Ravi began to play his harmonica again. This time, people around them actually listened. A woman closed her eyes. A child tugged his mother’s sleeve and whispered, “It’s pretty.”

For a moment, the platform was still. Not silent, but peaceful. The music floated between strangers, softening the impatience that usually filled the air.

Arjun realized something in that moment: peace isn’t a place — it’s a pause. It’s the space between noise where something human can breathe.

Weeks passed. Arjun started bringing his own little notebook to the station, jotting down thoughts, snippets of overheard conversation, and sounds he noticed — footsteps, wind, laughter, even the whistle of the train.

He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to remember that there was more to life than rushing.

One morning, Ravi wasn’t there. Arjun waited, checking the time, scanning the platform. Days went by, and still no sign of him.

He felt a strange emptiness, as if the city had lost one of its few soft sounds.

Then, one morning, Arjun found an envelope taped to the bench where Ravi used to sit. It had his name on it, written in neat, uneven handwriting. Inside was a small harmonica and a note:

“For when you forget to listen.”

Arjun sat down, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He held the harmonica the same way Ravi had — carefully, reverently. Around him, the city roared on — trains arriving, announcements blaring, people rushing — but inside, he heard something else.

He brought the harmonica to his lips and tried to play. The first few notes were clumsy and broken, but they carried warmth. A man turned. A woman smiled. A child clapped softly.

And for a few moments, peace returned to the platform.

From that day on, Arjun kept the harmonica with him. He didn’t always play it, but he carried it like a reminder — that peace isn’t about escaping noise or finding perfection. It’s about hearing life fully, even when it’s messy.

He started waking earlier, walking slower, greeting people instead of passing them like shadows. He began to notice how peace could grow quietly, like sunlight through clouds — not loud, not dramatic, but steady and kind.

Years later, Arjun taught his own child to listen — to the birds at dawn, to the laughter in the street, to the sound of rain and even the heartbeat of a busy city.

He taught them what Ravi had taught him:

“Peace isn’t something you find far away. It’s something you notice when you finally stop hurrying.”

The city never really got quieter — it still roared, it still rushed — but for those who knew how to listen, it carried a hidden music.

The sound of morning.

The sound of peace