The orchestra begins its symphony promptly at 5:30 a.m., summoning the new day. The first movement always starts with bells. Their powerful, metallic clanging resonates through the tropical air from all of the nearby temples. Rhythmic vibrations penetrate the concrete floor, sending pulses up each vertebra of the spine. The waves of sound transmit the secrets of ancient mystics, whispering the ineffable truths of a deeper reality.

The birds soon begin the melody. They pour forth notes, effortlessly gliding through the arpeggios and melisma with expert precision. However, their song is far from mechanical – it is exploding with a passionate eagerness that races through the morning air.

Slowly, the peaceful interlude is joined by the rest of the ensemble: the sputtering diesel engines, the honking automobiles, and the gossiping neighbors. The bells continue their ringing, and the birds continue their music, oblivious to the blaring around them. The song turns into chaos as the eclectic sounds scream in dissonance with one another. The strings of the morning orchestra appear to have gone out of tune. Yet the clashing notes form an enticing pattern, an infectious arrangement of sweet-sounding cacophony. Finally a song emerges – a living, growing song that flourishes in the sunlight.

This is India.

The call of the morning is an instinctive cue to wake up, an alarm programmed into my circadian rhythm. Unconsciously, I straighten my legs and feel an energizing rush of blood. Like a moth attracted to light, I pace toward the elusive rays of sun that pierce the curtains of my grandparents’ third-story apartment. I step onto the balcony and study the metropolis of 8 million people before me.

What unfolds below is like a page from “Where’s Waldo?” The street is a kaleidoscopic whirl of striking colors and constant motion. Boys and girls wearing spotless blue school uniforms race each other down the road, lugging textbooks and lunch containers. They sprint past an elderly lady at the corner, watching over her vegetable stand, a painter’s pallet of colorful, succulent produce. Women clad in flamboyant saris methodically inspect each vegetable with a prudent eye before purchasing. Three-wheeled passenger taxis coated in fluorescent yellow paint whiz past like miniature wind-up toys. Devotees flock to the temples for morning worship, many adorned in the simple, white robes of ascetics. Meanwhile, young men and women in their thirties hastily swerve around the worshipers on motorcycles, making the morning commute to their IT jobs.

Everything moves unbounded by traffic signals or lights. Vehicles surge in an irregular stream of traffic, which the pedestrians adeptly navigate. The people, the motorcycles, the cars, the taxis all seem to defy the laws of mathematics as they travel in nonparallel yet non-intersecting lines. The street is a world of curious contradictions, a microcosm of organized chaos.

Beads of perspiration form on my forehead. Misty vapors rise up from the street, carrying a wild burst of aromas. A gentle ocean breeze sprays its fresh fragrance. Incense wafts from a nearby temple, casting an aura of serenity and introspection. Yet mixed in are the savory, mouthwatering scents of Indian spices and masala from the stove tops of every apartment. The smell is a passionate call to home, a warm invitation to the taste buds, to the heart. And amidst all of this lingers the unmistakable odor of gas fumes and engine exhaust. The thin cloud of pollution serves as a white canvas backdrop for all the other scents of the morning. A multicolored painting of smells and tastes soon emerges, carrying reminders of both the big picture and the small pleasures of life.

The sun assumes its observing throne in the sky, presiding over all the happenings of the city. The black asphalt road, freshly paved, boldly gleams in the sunlight. However, the road gives way to a sidewalk peppered with dirt and debris. Customers bubble in and out of stores, clutching brand-new products as they stroll past rubbish on the ground. Vivid, multicolored signs adorn the stores, transforming the street into a brilliant art gallery.

The patchwork of three-story buildings, squeezed together on either side of the street, tells a compelling history. Old, tired edifices bear the signs of age: black streaks on the walls from decades of monsoon rains, and faded colors washed away by time. Yet interspersed among the crumbling structures is a new generation of glistening apartment complexes, with smooth layers of plaster and resplendent coats of fresh paint. And between the cramped shops and apartment buildings, intricately carved ancient temples stand as silent observers of this new era.

As I watch the scene on the street, I know that I am witnessing something unique. In one glance I see both sides of this country: chaos and harmony, the young and the old, tradition and technology, the past and the future. Before me is an evolving nation, a growing society, a changing India.