Every city has a sound that gives it away. You don’t really need directions or street signs. You just need to listen. The pitch of a horn, the rhythm of footsteps, the way voices stretch or snap in public spaces. These sounds settle into you quietly. Years later, they come back without warning. Cities don’t live in just photographs. They live in noise as well.
In Pakistan, sound is never just background. It is memory. It is politics. It is belonging.
A motorbike coughs awake again and again until it finally gives in and moves. A pressure cooker screams from a nearby kitchen, impatient, dramatic. Someone argues with a shopkeeper over five rupees, both voices rising, neither willing to lose. Sound travels differently in narrow streets. It bounces. It returns. It lingers. You hear the same voice twice and think for a moment you imagined it.
Lahore carries its sound like a habit it never broke. The day begins before the sun does. Azaan floats in from different directions, never perfectly aligned, overlapping like unfinished thoughts. Metal shutters scrape upward. Tea glasses clink against saucers. Someone sweeps dust into the street, the broom scratching the ground in steady strokes. Lahore eases into the day.
By afternoon, subtlety disappears. Traffic swells. Rickshaws complain loudly, horns stretched longer than necessary. Bus conductors shout destinations with a confidence that sounds rehearsed. Vendors repeat the same phrases all day, voices trained to survive heat, dust, and indifference. These sounds become so familiar that silence feels suspicious.
Evening changes everything. Outside shrines, the city softens and intensifies at the same time. The dhol begins slowly, then louder, then unstoppable. Qawwali voices rise, raw and uneven, breaking when emotion takes over. People don’t listen quietly. They lean in. They respond. Someone wipes tears without explaining why. Lahore remembers itself here. Through sound, it becomes generous. Open. Unafraid of feeling too much.
Karachi does not pause long enough to remember anything gently. It is loud from the moment you arrive. The sea hums in the distance, steady and distant, while the city shouts closer to you. Trucks roar past, painted with poetry, prayers, jokes, and insults. Horns are constant. Short ones, angry ones, endless ones. Nobody apologises for noise in Karachi. There is no time.
Sound here is about space. Claiming it. Protecting it. You raise your voice, or you disappear. Fishermen listen to the water more than the city. Street vendors know exactly when to shout to be heard over traffic. In Lyari, music spills into the street: old songs, new beats, grief, and pride mixed together. Sometimes a sudden gunshot cuts through everything, sharp and unforgettable. It stays with you even when you leave.
But Karachi answers its own violence. Weddings are louder than fear. Political rallies tend to turn the streets into echo chambers of chants and slogans. People shout because they believe silence is surrender. In Karachi, noise is proof you’re still here.
Peshawar speaks differently. Slower. Heavier. The city doesn’t rush its sounds. In Qissa Khwani Bazaar, footsteps echo against stone floors polished by centuries of walking. Tea is poured from a height into cups, the liquid striking ceramic with confidence. Conversations are low and deliberate. Words carry weight. You hear respect in the pauses.
The azaan in Peshawar feels closer and fuller, as if it settles in your chest instead of passing through the air. Even silence means something here. During tense days, when news tightens and borders feel fragile, the city grows quieter. Shops are still open. People still talk. Laughter still escapes courtyards. That quiet is not fear. It is endurance.
Across Lahore, Karachi, and Peshawar, sound becomes a personal archive. People remember places through noise. The ice cream cart bell from childhood. The train whistle meant goodbye. The chant from a protest that made you feel brave for the first time. When people leave, it is not the skyline they miss. It is the noise. The wrong kind of quiet in another country feels heavier than traffic ever did.
Sound is political because it is controlled. Curfews silence streets. Music bans try to erase joy. Protests are measured by how loud they become. The process of deciding who has the right to speak and who doesn’t exposes the true nature of power. Yet cities resist. Someone always finds a way to be heard. A drum beats. A slogan rises. A song leaks through a closed window.
Belonging is learnt by listening. You learn when to honk and when to wait. When to lower your voice. When to raise it. You learn which sounds mean danger and which mean home. Over time, these sounds settle into the body. They become instinct.
Close your eyes in any of these cities. Lahore will hum. Karachi will shout. Peshawar will breathe. And somehow, you will know exactly where you are.