I can still hear the azan, or Muslim call to prayer, coming at me from all directions in Mumbai. I remember walking to work. Groups of men knelt on their rugs on dirt-covered street corners. Azans poured out from everywhere, sung by men high in the sky yet and invisible to us. The words caromed off the walls of high rises and down canyon-esque roads of Mazagaon. They were foreign to me, those words. Protective as a parent of an infant, they melted away any predispositions, cloaking me in their rapture.
That sight, those songs became etched on my soul like a tattoo.
