Bhubaneswar is still half-asleep under the blanket of the dawn. The city is still half-drugged, tucked up tight against the chill of the morning breeze.
But even as the whisper of sleep lingers, another song begins to sing. It is the song of the brooms on stone. It is the rhythmic whisper of the brooms in the deserted streets.
The municipal corporation workers, the unsung heroes of the city’s cleanliness, are at work, cleaning the city one door at a time. The sound of the brooms and the whisper of the workers mingle with the music of the Odia.
It is a melody of dedication woven into the very fabric of the morning. Every dustpan that clinks, every broom that swooshes creates a symphony of duty. The unseen hands that keep the city shining even when it yawns awake. That is the true sound of the morning in Bhubaneswar, my friend.