A Call that Keeps me Grounded

By Vani Viswanathan, New Delhi, India

I’m from Chennai, but I live in Delhi. I’ve been here for seven years now. I live close to the Nizamuddin Dargah, a beautiful centuries-old shrine and place of worship, which allows people of all faiths to enter.

We were lucky to have a relatively long spring this year, small mercy during a lockdown. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I could go for hours without a fan on, at home. That's a big deal for April in Delhi, when the summers arrive with hot blasts of air, brutal and dry.

In my home, when you aren’t surrounded by sounds – the hum of ACs, blaring horns and vehicles roaring past – you can hear all kinds of other things. During my first winter in this home, two years ago, I was shocked when I first heard the ‘ting-ting-ting’ that precedes an announcement at a railway station. The closest railway station is at Nizamuddin, 2.5 kilometers away. Sound travels ridiculously long distances.

The lockdown has brought down noise levels, and so like others across India, I find myself catching unique birdcalls. But what has been most special has been the Muslim call to prayer, the azaan, several times a day. A few days into the lockdown, my partner and I figured out that there was a syncing of our routines with the azaan. He pointed it out first.

When we sat down for lunch at 1, there it was.

And again at 4:45, when we took a break from work for chai.

And then at 8, when we lay out our dinner and settled to eat.

This lockdown, I’ve seen my work increase manifold (as it has for millions). One of my projects, which I only used to do for a few hours every week, is suddenly extremely active. I hear, as part of work, stories of distress from across India due to the pandemic. And then, of course, there is the exhaustion that accompanies the cooking-and-cleaning and listening to stories from family and friends who are, like me, going through a tough time.

Amidst all of it, the momentary calm that comes when I listen to the azaan is blissful. Somehow, hearing that call to prayer has been a beautiful way of telling me that life still goes on. It reminds me of a time in Istanbul when my friend walked around the Blue Mosque recording the sound. And of my first year in Bombay, when I’d occasionally wake up to the azaan.

A few evenings ago, I was wrapping up my yoga practice, which usually ends by chanting Om three times. Just as I was about to start chanting, the azaan started, and I had a wide smile on my face. “That’s good enough,” I thought.

Religions blend, and faiths are harmonious, in the larger scheme of things. In Delhi, where communal tensions often run high, this is as much a part of an urban experience as anything else. It’s only going to be a few more days until the ACs are back. I’ve already noticed that the azaan timings have shifted slightly, and soon I might not be able to hear them well. But if there is a sound that will, years later, instantly bring me back to these days of being locked in, in Delhi, it will be the azaan.