My now-defunct and decaying engineering college was between two warring fishing villages, on a forgotten part of the south-eastern coastline. If you got on a boat and went south, you would reach the great Chola port of Nagapattinam, and beyond that, Vedaranyam, the old crossing point to Ceylon: much more famous waters. If you went north, you would see the ruins of the first European fort to be built on these lands, Dansborg at Tranquebar.
But all we had was a lonely beach of black sand, where we would sometimes go wet our feet, the waters being too dangerous to swim in.
The road from the highway to the college passed next to another settlement. These were lovely village roads, winding in and out, up and down, and turning randomly into vistas of open, absolutely empty land. These could take your breath away at certain times, especially in the cooler months. At one such turn, the road would veer sharply past the gates of an old temple. You could easily look past it. The gopuram was, of course, part of the landscape; it was all one gulp of vision if you weren't searching for something. You would see it all as a whole—here was a Tamil village—and never be interested in the particulars of the scene. It was soothing, natural, complete.
I have been to that temple only a few times, and this was at a point in my life that I wasn’t much interested in faith or religion. The reason I went there was because I loved how the place felt. It was old, as I have said before; that was easy to notice. And it had large spaces within, which were perfect for studying or reflection. If you want me to conjure this up for you, think of the big temple in Mylapore, Madras, and imagine how it would feel if it was in the middle of nowhere, and only you and the priests were in there. It was exactly like that. I would take my notes there at times, or a book, and the hours would go by in gorgeous serenity. No one would disturb you, and the temple was far out off the way of usual pilgrim trails for huge crowds, except on feast or festival days. So you had the place to yourself, and I had heard that several generations of students had studied, prayed, and rested on its cool, quiet grounds.
I was reminded of this place and its effect on me because I have been thinking, for the last few days, about silence. And I don’t mean just the aural variety. In the world we now inhabit and move through, one of our constants is noise. There are things being thrown at us from everywhere: work, media, our relationships. Our mind is being trained to worry, about careers, about how we look, about not having money or not knowing enough. It is loud. And it’s tiring. One of the results is that we can't seem to pay attention to the things we actually want to, or even enjoy things we love. Again, this isn’t news to most of us. We have all thought about this, and we keep going, because what are our options?
I agree, the world has changed, and we have to make peace with some of its stupidities. But we also have to find our silences where we can, and on our own terms. We'd go insane otherwise. We all have to answer this question for ourselves, I think: What kind of silence do we want?
I can tell you what I want.
I want the kind of silence you have in your head when you are 18 and sitting in a corner of a 1000 year old temple. It’s almost evening, and the women of the village will walk in, one by one, smelling of the jasmine in their hair and the oil lamps in their hands. No one will look at you, they have things to talk about, and they have to get home for dinner. You sit there, the breeze from the sea slowly getting gustier, telling you it's time to walk back to hostel.
As you get up and start walking, the only sound you will hear is your breath and the far-off crash of waves. You will miss home, and think about what your mother must be making for dinner. You will think of the coming exams, and then you will wonder about all the life coming your way.
As you reach your room, one of your friends will notice your preoccupations and ask what you are thinking about. You will look at him, smile, and say what you will never be able to say to that same question 20 years later: Nothing.