The noise of the Tin Drum

Yes, Gunther Grass. I hear you. I can hear you drumming away beyond the grave. But do I? Is it noise that I hear that overwhelms me?

I sit here in Chennai, India. I work as a content writer. Everyday, I travel for about two hours to get to work. I take a bus. The route is not very exciting. I’ve lived here all my life except for a few years here and there. Drum, drum, drumming away. Drum drum, goes the little heart. Drum drum goes the heart that lingers for that which is more than now. Drum drum goes the lips that lingers for more.

And the Tim Drum freezes me. It does not transport me. No. The bus I travel in transports me. The Tin Drum nails me to the ground with it’s drumming.

What was the noise I kept hearing? Those were the words of the people who knew someone who was reading something about someone who read the Tin Drum. They spoke about the Nazis, the World Wars, the Magic Realism. All words my dear Oscar boy.

Oscar. The protagonist. The midget who refused to grow because man disappoints him exceedingly. But Oscar disappoints you exceedingly. He drums, drums, drums away. He obsesses over the healing touch of nurses. He refuses to comply. He redeems himself occasionally.

Halt. The bus driver hits the break all of a sudden. The lady sitting next to me complains. “Why are you not careful? I need money to mend these wounds you have inflicted!” Some fellow drivers nod along. While others mumble behind her backs “The lady doth protest too much”. These are the adults, Oscar boy. My adults. How do I drum away now?

Oscar would tell me to sculpt tombstones. He will tell me that I need to pose nude for artists. He will ask me why I haven’t found my way down the dark alleyways befriending those whom the adults have abandoned. He will ask me to linger in the graveyards where the dead lie forgotten because they do not speak. The Adult doth protest too much.

And I need to expose myself. To hide nothing. And Raskolnikov, who paints visages of Oskar in the Tin Drum will paint me as well. He will speak of Crime and Punishment. He will paint me with such accuracy and when I look upon myself, I will see the picture of Vanya Rachel. Just has Dorian Gray did his.

Then, Vanya cannot protest too much. Vanya will cease to be an adult. She will become human. She would become naked. As naked as her little puppy named Mulan. They will share unspoken joy in their conversations. “Suffer the little children to come unto me”. I can go then! And then I will have to remain silent. The Nazis, the World Wars, the Magic Realism is the background to the orchestra. What matters are the little children playing silently in the fields. Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. They neither toil or spin.