Muslim call for prayers

I live in a locality that has four mosques within a 2 sq. km area. Of the five calls to prayer during the day, it’s the early morning Azaan — around 30 minutes before sunrise — that stands out the most.

All four mosques begin their call simultaneously, often with loudspeakers turned up far beyond what they can handle. The sound distorts, and what should be a spiritual summons often becomes a jarring burst of volume.

The words “Allahu Akbar” — God is Great — carry deep meaning. When delivered in harmony, at the right pitch and volume, they can be hauntingly beautiful.
I experienced this beauty during my trips to Leh over the past two years. The mosque in the main market had its sound system perfectly tuned. The Maulvi sahab’s voice — calm, melodic, almost meditative — made the Azaan sound like a spiritual invitation. It reminded me of the Pied Piper's tune — impossible to ignore, gently pulling your attention inward.

By contrast, my experience in Delhi is different. The call begins abruptly, sometimes startling. It feels like an outburst, not an invitation. It made me wonder: what if there was a little training — not in faith, but in voice and acoustics?

What if the four mosques coordinated a single, shared call to prayer? Not only would it reduce noise, but it could also amplify the impact — a unified voice that gently wakes a sleeping neighborhood, instead of four competing ones straining their equipment.

This isn’t just about one religion. The same applies to Hindu temples, where bhajans are often sung without formal musical training. Volume replaces harmony, and the idea of devotion sometimes drowns out the need for listening experience. The intent is pure — to sing in praise of the divine — but the execution often misses the mark.

Sikh gurdwaras stand out in contrast. The singers are often formally trained, the sound systems well-calibrated, and the kirtan (spiritual singing) happens at designated times with restraint. It shows what’s possible when reverence and rhythm come together.

Let me be clear: this isn’t about comparing faiths or favouring the one I was born into. It’s about the shared soundscape of India’s religious life — and how, in a country as diverse as ours, even sound can be a bridge or a barrier.

I’ve learned that the Azaan — especially the morning and evening ones — coincides with the most auspicious moments to remember the divine. You don’t need a clock to know when the sun is rising or setting — the Azaan reminds you.

I was hesitant to write this — religion and sound are sensitive topics. But this reflection comes from a place of respect, not criticism. I miss the soulful Azaan of Leh. And I hope one day, more cities find a way to make the sound of prayer feel like music to the soul.