Time, they say, is precious. But to me, silence is precious-er.

As I rubbed sleep off my eyes early in the morning (in July 9), I wondered whether I was tele-transported into some distant land. My hands instinctively moved to check the familiar bulge of my phone and I realised no, I was not. So what had changed?

I went through my usual paces of a Sunday. Turning on the shower in anticipation of a long cool-off, I realised that I could hear the finer notes of the Mozart symphony playing on my phone much more clearly. And hey, were there omelettes being made for breakfast? I could hear the oil sizzle in the pan even though my bedroom is some rooms away from the kitchen.

Stepping out of the bathroom, it seemed Mozart was in full flow. Or was it that I could hear the genius better today? As I strolled into the dining room, I could sense that the maid was super- happy despite her usually grumpy self as she sang her way towards the sink.

So what had changed?

Flipping on the television, I had to instinctively lower the volume because suddenly the room cracked up and the family looked at me as if to say, "Are you mad? Lower the volume!"

Watching a news show, I felt to be an active part of a debate as a motley group parried to and fro. Was it what they said all of a sudden enlightening or was it that I was just hearing them better? As I now attacked the omelette, the noise of the fork-knife-plate fight was more audible. Or was it?

So what had changed?

As I strolled back to the waiting William Dalrymple that was lying by my bedside, I thought of particularly revisiting that phrase whose explanation had evaded me for long. As I re-read the words more carefully this time, yes, Mr. Dalrymple, I now get what you say, thank you very much!

I breezed through the book and completed the rest of the pending quarter in no time. By this hour, I could feel the fruity flavour of coffee wafting into the room and I obediently let it lead the way through to the kitchen where I swear I could also smell the fragrance of the flowers on the tree just by the kitchen window. Odd, I felt.

So what had changed?

Having a leisurely lunch, I could turn-off the microwave just when the preset numbers died out, could skip to the washing machine just when it had whistled that it had completed its chore and thought I could almost holler to the pan-wallah below to rush up some thanda. And voila, he could hear and up came my drink! Swaggering back into the room, I lay on the bed, preparing for the siesta ahead and drifted to sleep - not counting sheep, but the number of times the child living above bounced his plastic ball off the floor.

So what had changed?

Waking up late evening, I knew there was something wrong. But what was it? Getting ready to visit friends, I dreaded taking the car out of the box garage because other vehicles would have been parked across, oblivious to the 'No parking' sign pasted on the gates. Should I just cab it? I decided to take a chance, grabbed the keys and took out the car in a swish. But wait, what was happening?

As I drove out into Brabourne Road, what?! What was this? The roads were empty! The roads that groaned with traffic and moaned with the surge of the masses every day were smiling back in what was most un-Brabourne Road like.

Ah, wasn't today the day when the tunnel-boring machine preparing the ground below for the ambitious East-West Metro project snake its way through is shutting off Brabourne Road? As my Utopian world now made sense, I knew what had changed.

Brabourne Road has fallen silent.

(Brabourne Road was closed around Friday midnight. It is set to be opened to traffic again at 6am on Tuesday.)