Written by Shreya Gupta
Having spent most of my summer in Indonesia, I have been asked on many occasions what the highlight of my trip was. Usually, my answer is a generic ‘snorkelling with sea turtles’ or ‘meeting new people’. But recently, I have been considering what I actually got out of those two months, immersed in a completely different habitat and culture. Maybe it was learning how to take more risks or be more spontaneous — however, my most honest answer hit me on the London tube a few days after returning. Crowded as always, in front of me sat five people, heads buried in phones. No-one was smiling, everyone had earbuds in, and at least three of them were scrolling. I carried this thought as I got off at Notting Hill Gate Station, finding myself observing those on the escalator, once again thoughts overtaken by a bright screen and, most likely, music blasting in their ears. And that is when I caught myself without a phone in my hand, airpods still in their case, tucked away in my bag — I had left my most frequent habit behind in Indonesia.
I am almost always the type of person to drown out stress, thoughts and noise with music, whether commuting or doing any menial task or chore by myself. Somehow, being in Indonesia forced me to start listening to and observing my surroundings, and, most importantly, learning how to be undividedly present in my own company.
One of the villages I stayed in was surrounded by vast rice fields, organic farms and wild animals. As a city girl at heart, being able to hear subtle yet omnipresent sounds became something of a privilege. One morning I woke up early for a short walk. Two minutes in, I was glad I’d forgotten my airpods back at the accommodation. Usually, I would have gone straight back for them, but instead I found myself enjoying the quiet — the trees rustling, the water flowing in the creek beside my path. I ambled past local farmers on the rice paddies, preparing for harvest season; I found myself chatting to an artist perched on bamboo, painting fish scales in blue and green acrylic, showing me his work; and I overheard conversations in Bahasa Indonesia, realising the language shares striking similarities with my own, Hindi.
My short walk turned into three hours exploring the village, reaching isolated forests and local residential homes. I observed more during those three hours than I did in all my deliberate attempts to immerse myself in Indonesian culture through food or tourist activities. That wasn’t down to the location, or the friendliness of the locals I spoke with. It was that I was perceived as approachable and respectful when I had nothing in my ears and was actively taking in my surroundings. I’ve come to realise that while music doesn’t explicitly stop us from observing, it pushes us past the subtle moments that deserve to be noticed.
As university students, reaching automatically for noise-cancelling headphones on the commute to lectures or the supermarket is understandable. It blocks out the weight of our workload, gives our brains somewhere to switch off – honestly, I’ve never appreciated music more than as a student. And of course, some things don’t translate neatly back into your own culture; London remains a fast-paced, noisy city that quite literally never sleeps. But perhaps busy lives are exactly the reason to walk out of our flats sometimes without anything in our ears or eyes on a screen. We rarely get the chance to simply be with ourselves, in the present — and that’s when the most creative thoughts tend to arrive. I haven’t stopped listening to music; I’m listening to it right now, writing this. But I’ve come to believe creativity flows when we observe what’s around us — I got the idea for this piece the moment I noticed a newspaper rack stacked with Evening Standard copies, walking into the tube station.
