In search of Silence

I shut my eyes and inhale deeply. I mimic the box-breathing technique from self-help influencers. I hope to get a glimpse of her. It feels like I’ve been searching for ages. In my tiny studio, sleeping in parks, projecting fears in movie theaters, practicing dance, praying in temples, sitting on bathroom floors, watching the machine swirl my clothes, clouds change its shape and now observing the stillness of the waves. Yet, no luck.

Finding peace has become the central theme of my quarter-life crisis, prompting me to explore every avenue to achieve it. This monk sold his Ferrari before it was even cool! That brings me here — I’m on our self-organized writing retreat because taking a break from my problems and overthinking my way into a fictional book in an exotic country? — Copy that!

Picture a small, sea-facing villa in the coastal city of Budva, a lesser-known city in Montenegro. Our motto: craft a story you'd love to read. We are five young writers who met in a workshop and now act as a self-proclaimed therapy group, using writing as a tool to vent and escape.

This summer retreat reminds me of the Enid Blyton adventures I read as a kid. Now, we are living one of our own, the famous five. Each of us hails from a different corner of the world — Italy, Canada, America, Australia, and India. Despite our differences, we share one thing in common: romanticizing life and living in our own constructed worlds.

Budva’s horizon is dominated by a magnificent view, with more birds chirping than humans. The thick, humid air mingles with our body odor. The water swirls gently, and my fingers prune from playing on the beach for too long. The sardines and squid I had for lunch are still swirling in my belly. As I lie down, I can feel the sand and pebbles pressing against my body through the thin Decathlon towel.

As the tension grows and my heart feels heavy, I revisit the last time I felt this way.

Traveling India — in search of silence

India, 6 months ago

This isn’t yet another tale of a white girl traveling to Asia in search of spirituality. My South Asian roots would beg to differ. My search for silence has made me wander far and wide, desperately hunting for it and hoping to take it with me forever.

I’m sitting under a huge lotus-like structure that seems like an architectural marvel, too pretty and perfect from the outside. I’m in a temple in India governed by the Bahai autonomous religion. We are here only because my mom wanted to see this monument to share on her Instagram. As we make our way into the work of art, we are squeezed into a mob of 50-100 people in the scorching heat. The representatives give us a quick walkthrough of the temple and warn us to keep quiet and sit in silence to honor the religion.

Well — Indians and silence don’t go together. I rush to find a spot in the hexagonal room with marble walls that create a cooling effect. I find a suitable position, only to hear baby noises, a couple muttering, “What’s even the point of this temple? Can we get up now?” The echoes of the baby crying again, clearing throats, sneezing, coughing, more sneezing, shoe tapping, bangles clashing, loud exhales, shushing sounds, doors closing, anklets jingling, zippers unzipping, baby laughing, phone ringing, shushing again — a loud exhale. I even hear the sound of people staring at me. I hear all sorts of noises, but not silence. Whether it's the chaos of this populated, loud country or the war inside my head, I can’t tell.

Do you remember the last time you vacuumed your thoughts? Cleared away the dust and debris that accumulate in the corners of your mind? Embrace peace tightly until your heart aches and you suffocate.

Why am I so obsessed with achieving this state of nirvana? Is it my way of rewarding myself for reaching Maslow’s highest need of self-actualization? I’m desperate to do anything in my capacity to meet her again. I’m yearning and longing for peace like never before. I’m committed like a psychopath stalker to make it work.

Trying White People Yoga — In search of silence

Berlin, 2 months ago

I see the world upside down. Literally. My legs are wide open, touching the wall, and my pelvis hovers like a lost cursor. It refuses to touch the floor and trembles with every breath. My thighs sting with pain, a current running from my hips to my toes. I hear a woman murmuring in German, “Einatmen eins... Einatmen zwei...” I try to calm myself, but my nervous system is giving up. I wish I had learned cycling as a child; maybe then I wouldn't feel this way now.

In this state, I cursed little me, who sat on the sofa every dinner while my family pestered me to sit down on the ground with them. Every meal cost me one nerve of flexibility. Om Namah Shivaya music plays in the background, in a foreign accent.

“Oh God, I’m never doing yoga again” I cry every class. My Icelandic teacher, Gunni, says, “It’s to align my asana with my body, not vice versa” Learning about my body is challenging. I still try to push my limits more than before. Yoga is my commitment to myself, hoping for at least one appointment with inner peace.

Weirdly, this reverse colonization of my culture—living in Berlin and learning Suryanamaskar—makes me feel close to my roots. But reaching peace in this setup feels like a failed orgasm. Almost there, but not quite.

Writing everyday — in search of silence

I sit up, looking for the floral notebook I bought in Italy, my coping mechanism for when my thoughts escape like fish in the sea. I try to catch them when anxiety sweeps through me, when I wish to simplify life, when sadness engulfs me, leaving no trace of hope. I write to keep track of the people I meet, to breathe freely, to talk freely. As Joan Didion in one of her essays describes keepers of notebooks as a different breed altogether — lonely, resistant, and rearrangers of things. Keeping in touch is what all notebooks are about. For me, writing is a lifeline, a way to stay connected to myself and the world around me.

My thoughts behave like children in a dysfunctional family: some acting out and rebelling, while others try to keep it together by being numb. Some days, my mind feels like the sound bath I once visited, with multiple gongs and singing bowls waiting to be struck. On other days, it feels like me cooking Indian food in the kitchen — utter chaos. My emotions are the spices I throw into the giant pot, timid yet hopeful it will turn out well.

This retreat is an honest attempt to find peace, to streamline the chaos of my thoughts. As Marie Kondo would say, "Discard everything that doesn’t spark joy." This essay itself is a brave attempt to let go of the idea of compulsively hunting down silence. Let it come to me in its own time. When we finally unite, I'll skydive together with it, holding it tight as my tandem partner, and savoring the brief moment until it passes.

As the retreat was coming to an end, we had our flight from Dubrovnik. I dipped my toes in the beach, unlike the Konkan coast of India where I grew up; the waves here didn’t pull me in. There were pebbles instead of the sand, making my grip more firm. I marveled at how these pebbles, shaped by the relentless waves, stood resolute yet smooth.

In that moment, I realized that peace isn't a place to find, but a state to nurture. It’s the silent strength of those pebbles against the waves, the ability to be molded yet remain grounded. It’s the fleeting stillness amidst the chaos, the brief calm within a stormy mind.

As I retrospect on the retreat, two months later, I identify a sense of peace I had with the ocean and the waves. I understand now that peace isn't a destination but a journey, a dance with the waves of life, ebbing and flowing, sometimes calm, sometimes tumultuous. It’s in the acceptance of this rhythm that I find my peace, my silence. And perhaps, in letting go of the desperate hunt, I’ve finally found her