here was a time when Ramazan in Lahore did not begin with a notification. It began with the beat of a drum.

In the good old 1980s and ’90s —even early 2000s — well, before smartphones took over our pockets, the arrival of sehri was announced by a dedicated group of “sehriwalas” that walked the streets in the quiet hours before dawn. Wrapped in shawls against the lingering chill of early morning, they carried wooden sticks and small drums, calling out their own poetic adaptations of “Uth jao, sehri ka waqt ho gaya hai!”

The voices travelled down narrow lanes and across neighbourhoods across Lahore. From the Walled City to Model Town, families relied on these human reminders, not alarms.

The sehriwala was part timekeeper, part guardian of communal rhythm. His presence stitched the neighbourhood together. There was something profoundly reassuring about that imperfect and uneven, yet human sound. You did not merely wake up; you were awakened gently, collectively.

As the day drew to a close, there was the cannon. The ceremonial firing of a cannon to mark iftar had a symbolic presence in the subcontinent’s Ramazan history. In later years, the tradition carried forward to some places, where a small, ceremonial cannon would be fired at sunset — a sharp, echoing confirmation that it was time to break the fast.

Even where it was no longer regularly practiced, older generations spoke of it with reverence. The idea of the cannon carried weight: it signalled the completion of a shared act of restraint.

The sound of the Maghrib azaan, as it continues today, rose from dozens of mosques at once. Across the city, glasses filled with the nation’s favourite red drink are lifted in unison as the first sip of sweet water quenches parched throats. In yesteryears, there was no need for a time-check or a countdown clock; the city air itself announced the moment.

Ramazan then had texture. I remember how on PTV, there would be one Ramazan transmission — classic, restrained and solemn. A Quran recitation would precede iftar. The dua felt unhurried. There were no flashing banners, no competitive segments, no celebrity hosts distributing prizes. Programming seemed to understand the mood of the month — restraint.

Homes were animated by preparation rather than performance. Kitchens were warm long before sunset. Children were dispatched to fetch samosas or ice from konay wali dukaan (kerbside shop). Fruit chaat was mixed in steel bowls and sharbat was diluted carefully in glass jugs — it never was too sweet.

Perhaps what stands out most in my memory is not the food or the television, it is time. When Ramazan coincided with long summer holidays, it became a transformative experience for the youth. There were no early morning classes demanding alertness after a late night of Taraweeh. The long afternoons, heavy with heat, were slow and unstructured. Boredom, now a rare commodity, nudged many children towards learning more about their religion and reciting the Quran.

Without the pressures of homework and examinations, many of us attempted our first full recitations of the Quran. I remember attending Taraweeh regularly. Mosques were filled with young students standing shoulder to shoulder, some swaying with sleep but refusing to leave. The environment of immersion was particularly pronounced in those summer Ramazans.

After Taraweeh, children would linger outside their homes. Families would go out for sweet treats well into the night, sleep schedules dissolved as street cricket and football became popular. The month felt expansive, generous, almost suspended outside ordinary time.

In earlier decades, prayer times were followed using printed calendars distributed by mosques or local businesses. They hung on kitchen walls or near doorways. One learned to calculate margins intuitively, adding or subtracting minutes based on experience. People read physical copies of the Quran, its pages carrying a faint scent and paper warmed by years of handling or pencil marks. The act of turning a page was deliberate.

Fast forward to today, and Ramazan in Lahore unfolds under a different light, the glow of screens illuminating darkened rooms before dawn. The sehriwala has all but disappeared, replaced by smartphone alarms. Mobile phone apps provide prayer alerts and schedules and Quran recitations in multiple voices, translations, tasbeeh counters and reminders for daily azkaar are now available in your pocket. You can listen to Taraweeh from around the world — live.

Access has expanded dramatically. Knowledge that once required physical proximity is now mobile. Tafseer lectures stream online. Scholars host live question-and-answer sessions. Entire Ramazan lecture series are archived for replay. And yet, the same device that hosts the Quran also hosts distraction. Social media notifications and YouTube ads interrupt recitation. News alerts intrude upon reflection. The discipline once enforced by limitation must now be enforced by intention.

It is tempting to romanticise the past and imagine the ’80s and ’90s as spiritually superior simply because they were quieter; but nostalgia edits memory. Those decades also carried inconvenience, load shedding, heat without reliable cooling and limited access to knowledge. Technology has addressed many of these practical challenges but it cannot erode presence of mind, spirit and time.

The Ramazan of our childhood felt immersive partly because fewer competing stimuli existed. Summer holidays freed time. Streets were active but not overwhelming. Nights were long and socially rich. Today’s Ramazan is navigated amidst professional obligations, academic calendars and digital saturation. Children may attend school during fasting hours. University exams may coincide with the final ashra. The structure around the month has changed.

The question, then, is not whether the past was better, but how to preserve depth in the present. Used intentionally, digital applications can meaningfully enhance the Ramazan experience and help ‘structure’ worship, access knowledge and integrate wellbeing in busy routines.

Ramazan in Lahore has transformed from drumbeats in dim streets to calibrated time alerts, from summer holidays filled with unstructured recitations to tightly scheduled days managed by digital calendars. The essence of the month, however, remains unchanged.

Perhaps the task before us is simple — to carry forward the warmth of those summer Ramazans, the lingering mosque courtyards, the unhurried recitation, the communal spirit, into digital life. The purpose then is not to just wake from sleep, but into awareness. And ultimately, that is what Ramazan is about.

Ahmed Ahsan is a development sector leader currently building AI compute and ecosystems at UET, Lahore. He has a keen interest in environment and public policy, and can be reached at linkedin.com/in/aaansari