The old gramophone that Baba constantly plays at an ear-splitting volume represents stagnation, historical continuity, and the power of silence. It originally belongs to Hyder Ali’s daughter Benazir, but Baba finds it while checking on Hyder Ali’s house with Bim shortly after the Partition. Even though Baba usually just follows Bim and does not take much interest in his surroundings, he actually leaves her side to go get the abandoned gramophone and take it home. He gives it a new lease on life and starts playing Benazir’s old records—mostly American and British songs from the 1940s, which reflect the global cultural influences that arrived in India on the eve of its independence. In fact, he becomes entirely fixated on the gramophone, which starts occupying his time, to the point of serving as a symbolic replacement for his late caretaker Aunt Mira and even driving him apart from his siblings.
By 1980, more than three decades later, Baba is still doing exactly the same thing all day, every day. Bim learns to ignore the noise, but everyone else finds it maddening. Baba refuses to listen to new records or use the new gramophone that Raja brings him, and he feels severe anxiety whenever his own stops working (like during Part I, when his needle wears out and he has a panic attack and runs into the street). In this way, the gramophone becomes a symbol of Baba’s arrested development and need to control his environment—which he has, in a way, passed on to Bim. As Baba cannot speak, the gramophone also becomes something of a substitute voice for him: the family knows that all is well when it plays, but the family worries when it falls silent.
Baba’s Gramophone Quotes in Clear Light of Day
[Tara] was prevented from explaining herself by the approach of a monstrous body of noise that seemed to be pushing its way out through a tight tunnel, rustily grinding through, and then emerged into full brassy volume, making the pigeons that lived on the ledge under the veranda ceiling throw up their wings and depart as if at a shot.
The ice-cream did have, she had to admit, a beneficial effect all round: in a little while, as the students began to leave the house, prettily covering their heads against the sun with coloured veils and squealing as the heat of the earth burnt through their slippers, the gramophone in Baba’s room stirred and rumbled into life again. Tara was grateful for it. She wished Bakul could see them now—her family.
She needed protection. She wanted help. She reached out for the hand that would help her, protect her …
… Here it was. Here, in this tall, slim coolness just by her hand, at the tips of her fingers. If she got her fingers around it, its slender pale glassiness, and then drew it closer, close to her mouth, she could close her lips about it and suck, suck little, little sips, with little, little juicy sounds, and it would be so sweet, so sweet again, just as when they were little babies, little babies for her to feed, herself a little baby sucking, sucking at the little trickle of juice that came hurrying in, sliding in …
And she sucked and laughed and sucked and cried.