The Song of the Cicada

It is mid-summer here, and due to the La Nina effect, the otherwise arid and dry summer blitz has been gently tamed by mild weather, pleasantly interspersed by pensive clouds, sprinkling rains and a citrus sun. Yes, summer has been kind, especially after last year’s unprecedented bush fires.

The vagaries of the weather have had one new impact on me – it has forced me to become more mindful of the world around. I now wake up every day and part the curtains of my bedroom, anticipating the surprise I will get to see – will it be a blistering sun staring right back, or will it be a brooding grey day? As the day passes by, and I go about on a walk, I feel myself more immersed with nature: the magpie larks are easily distinguished from their slightly larger cousins - the magpies, the breath of the hot earth alternating with the cool breeze is more easily perceived, and the shimmering play of light and shadow on the grasses makes me feel as if the earth is more alive than ever. But it is I, not the earth that has become more alive perhaps.

In this state of heightened awareness, there is one brush stroke on the canvas, that stands out far above the others – no, not the komorebi (the Japanese expression for sunlight as it filter through the trees, a recent learning for me), not the avian burst of colours, nor the rains that are normally my most intimate muse. This summer seems to have belonged to a noisy bug – the cicada. Perhaps they were always here, I just happened to listen to them more intently this time, or perhaps they have found a stronger urge to sing in this fabulous weather. Whatever the cause, the effect is that I walk more slowly around my house, trying to catch the shrill chorus that feels so ubiquitous that no surround-sound system can match this spectacular orchestra.

As if in a staccato, the shrills of one cicada seem to reach a deafening crescendo only to come to an abrupt halt, by which time, the next tree has already begun its symphony, and then the next, and so on. In the meanwhile, there is a background score – the same shrills from faraway but sounding much softer, creating a fantastic all day long audio. I spend long hours in my balcony or in a nearby park, reading, walking or whatever, one ear always tuned, fascinated by these creatures.

It is then not a surprise to learn that the cicadas are the loudest insects on earth – male cicadas produce this symphony for courtship, through a special membrane on their abdomen called tymbals. When their abdominal muscles contract, the tymbals collapse inwards producing a sound. Incredibly, the cicadas pulsate their abdomens a few hundred times per second to create their symphony, which is no mean feat. Their equivalent of an ear – the tympana – also seems to close with their abdomens as if to protect the bugs from their own noisy decibels.

Whatever be the science, I feel there is something romantic in the call of the cicada, just like in the coo of the dove, or the nocturnal rasp of the cricket. Is it just the reminder of balmy summer days that create this warmth within? I would say, not just so. The sounds take me back in time. Having grown up in crowded cities devoid of large green covers, I had never heard the cicada in the city before (cicada population is used as an indicator of forest health) – I did hear these bugs though in the salubrious hills, which are so integral to the happy memories of my homeland. They have therefore become a Pavlovian reminder of the lush green hills in the Himalaya - Tall deodar forests with wildflowers running awry in the cool green grass, an endangered gryphon vulture perambulating in the skies, and a teal coloured rivulet carrying icy cold melt-water not far-away. And above all these, the shrill songs of the cicada, rising, ebbing in resonance with the breathing of the soul and the happy humming of the mind.

For the ever-nostalgic me, the song of the cicada is perhaps then, not just a reconnection with nature, on a warm summer day. It is a reconnection that takes me back in time, all the way back home - to the hills, the highlands, the Himalaya. Despite the shrillness, the sound seems euphonic. For no matter how far you travel, home or even its distant memories, offers shelter like no other.

We have all heard this in so many forms - Noise to some is music to others. The sound of music, then, lies in the ears of the listener…

Summer's cicadas, 

Sing a winter's song,

As distant memories seem to ask,

Where have you been so long....

5th February

(Artwork by writer)