The Himalayas have made me ponder the art of silence, so I guess I never truly understood it till then. Back in the city, such moments were rare-were they ever quiet? Always interrupted by the honking of cars, the endless pings of notifications, or the constant drone of some television playing quietly in the background. It was my mind that was busy even when I was alone. Thoughts would race against each other, clamouring for attention. In contrast, this would be something else—some kind of pregnant silence in the Himalayas, not void, an abundance of meaning, the very presence of something I never knew I needed.
It was an impulsive journey that I had executed in desperation to escape the din of my everyday being. I had heard travellers talking about peace in the mountains, that the Himalayas are so vast they can take away everything except bare, raw, and true. And thus, without any itinerary jotted down, little more than a backpack, I set foot in Himachal Pradesh, hoping to find that quietude. Little did I know, silence was not something to be sought-it waits for you when you are ready to listen.
Bidding Farewell to the Crazy Noise
My journey kicked off in this little hamlet called Tirthan Valley, where I stayed at a wooden guest house right on the edge of a river. That first night, I lay in bed with the sound of water rushing over rocks, and for the first time in a long while, my thoughts did not seem so loud.
The next morning, I was trekking in the Great Himalayan National Park. The further I walked into the forest, the more an unusual phenomenon The world around me began to silence. The only sounds I could hear were the crunching of my footsteps over the formerly leaf-covered ground, the occasional chirp of some bird, and the muffled gurgle of the river at some distance. This was not silence but some third kind of consciousness that made me realise my presence in the world.
We reached a clearing where a lone shepherd stayed in the company of his flock. He looked at me, smiled, and motioned for me to sit beside him. Next, we sat together for what felt like an eternity, watching the clouds drift across the sky in silence. At the time, however, I felt more connected with one other human than I had for years.
“You city people talk too much,” he finally said, laughing softly. “You don’t listen to the mountains.”
I asked him what the mountains had to say.
“They say nothing,” he shrugged. “That is why they are wise.”
The Stillness of the Monasteries
From Tirthan, I left for Spiti Valley, a stark, high-altitude desert where the monasteries loom like silent sentinels against the sky. I had a burning curiosity about the monks who have penetrated further and deeper into Buddhist philosophy. These monks, I sensed, spent their lives meditating; what was it that they sought in that silence?
At the Key Monastery, I watched young monks seated cross-legged in a dimly lit hall, eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly. The thick air smelled of butter lamps and old books. A senior monk, watching my curiosity, motioned me to sit.
“Try,” he said simply.
I sat there, eyes closed, not sure of what I was meant to try. Almost instantly, distractions flooded my mind—thoughts about work, home, and what I was going to eat for lunch. I opened my eyes, embarrassed.
The monk laughed gently. “The mind is like a restless monkey,” he said. “You can’t suddenly calm it down. You just watch it until it gets tired.”
For an hour, I remained there, with my eyes closed, just breathing. I was not enlightened by the end of it, nor did I have any mystical experience; I did feel a shift, the tiniest loosening of the grip of my thoughts upon me, a faint acceptance of the present moment.
Talking to the Wind
One of the deepest episodes was in a remote village near the Chandratal Lake. The whispers said the wind in the Himalayas translated the ancients’ tales.
On the last night there, I sat by the lakeside alone, watching the sky turn from orange to deep blue. The wind howled through the valley. I felt it engulf me like an embracing presence. No words, no whisper feeling of being welcomed.
It was at that moment that I gauged the meaning of Himalayan silence. It was more than just an absence of sounds. It was a moment in which one was so present that nothing else existed, not a silence that leaves you feeling isolated but one that makes you feel part of something much greater.
Change in the Coming Down
When I left the mountains, the silence went with me. I became painfully aware of the noise in the city, but I also discovered that I could find peace even in that noise. The silence I had found did not come from the Himalayas; rather, it had been with me all along.
Today, when the noise and frenzy of life become overpowering, I shut my eyes and journey back to that quietness. To the view of the shepherd, to the silence of the monasteries, and the wind in its whispering sonorous voice. And I tell myself that sometimes silence carries the heaviest answers.
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