There is something comforting and wholesome about a child's excitement for the song of an ice cream truck. Even as an adult without children in tow, the song will bring a smile to my face. In addition to the joy of a memory, such deliveries mark the passage of time. Growing up the sound of our postman dropping mail in the mailslot meant it was 10am; the ice cream truck's song was 3pm. In my neighborhood in Dushanbe there is a boy who sells bread door to door each morning. Here, it is 7am when the bread seller goes by.
In a world where I'm never quite certain of what time it is and which timezone my brain is currently in, I take the same comfort from a young boy chanting something nearly unintelligible (although perhaps perfectly understandable to someone who knows what he's saying) as he walks through the neighborhood. I only assume he's selling bread based on the size and shape of the neatly wrapped parcel he draws behind himself in something vaguely resembling a wagon. Truth be told, he could just as easily be selling cheese or heroin. I assume it's not the latter based on the lack of enthusiasm or disdain of the rest of the neighborhood - but I digress.
For someone who wakes up at 4am and does not physically report to work until 9, 10, or even 11am, this little soldier of time dutifully chanting his way through the neighborhood announces the morning and ushers in society's start to the day. He is the foreshadowing of social interaction to come; the warning that it is time to focus less on productivity and more on preparing to face the world.
This of course is not everyone's interpretation of his cries. While to me his voice signifies the waking of the world in a near Disney, bird singing, Cinderella-esque fashion, for my colleague it is less of a call to fellowship and more like the incessant buzz of an alarm clock after a very short night. This child both loved and hated interrupts peaceful morning slumber to nag those in earshot reminding them of their daily duties.
Such a lofty and impactful profession this little boy holds, all while imagining he is only a seller of bread (heroin).
In a world where I'm never quite certain of what time it is and which timezone my brain is currently in, I take the same comfort from a young boy chanting something nearly unintelligible (although perhaps perfectly understandable to someone who knows what he's saying) as he walks through the neighborhood. I only assume he's selling bread based on the size and shape of the neatly wrapped parcel he draws behind himself in something vaguely resembling a wagon. Truth be told, he could just as easily be selling cheese or heroin. I assume it's not the latter based on the lack of enthusiasm or disdain of the rest of the neighborhood - but I digress.
For someone who wakes up at 4am and does not physically report to work until 9, 10, or even 11am, this little soldier of time dutifully chanting his way through the neighborhood announces the morning and ushers in society's start to the day. He is the foreshadowing of social interaction to come; the warning that it is time to focus less on productivity and more on preparing to face the world.
This of course is not everyone's interpretation of his cries. While to me his voice signifies the waking of the world in a near Disney, bird singing, Cinderella-esque fashion, for my colleague it is less of a call to fellowship and more like the incessant buzz of an alarm clock after a very short night. This child both loved and hated interrupts peaceful morning slumber to nag those in earshot reminding them of their daily duties.
Such a lofty and impactful profession this little boy holds, all while imagining he is only a seller of bread (heroin).
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