Between the Tick and the Tock

The day began with an unusual silence. Much of what remained was rubbish, but for him, it was useful rubbish. There were no guarantees about what he would get out of this exercise. Perhaps nothing in the worst case. He was okay with that, as he knew there are hardly any guarantees in life. His main concerns were: a gnawing doubt about the nature of the peculiar silence; about how to express it; about what he should do if it tried to engulf his entire being.

The most difficult aspect he was grappling with was about how it had so naturally come to bear upon him that morning. It was there when he woke up, hung around as he brushed his teeth, stuck with him as he went through the morning chores, and remained comfortably nestled within his mind, so to speak, ever since. All the outwardly noise on one side, and his awkward silence on the other. And they seemed to balance each other.

Wherever did it come from, this weird silence? Had it a purpose? A motive? Had it a reason to acquire his mind that morning? Would something change? Had something changed? Was he slave to it? Was it his slave? He wanted to talk about it, but it had caught his tongue. After all, it was the eerie silence in itself.

It was formless. Like water. But it took any form when required. Also like water. The distant horn of the morning locomotive train: the silence bracketed it's ends. The constant ticking of the wall clock: the profound silence ruled the time between the tick and the tock. The shrill shriek of an ambulance siren on the road: enough to stop lively hearts into a grave silence. It was everywhere, from the bed to the toilet to the bathroom to the kitchen; to the unfolding of the yoga mat and to it's ultimate rolling away; to the calls and honks of the vegetable and fish vendors  on their regular morning rounds on bikes around residential apartments; to the angry shout of the bus conductor and the equally angry retort by the passenger. It took all forms, but remained untouched by them. It remained... Silent.

He took a deep breath in. Held it for two seconds. Let it out. Again. What was this? What was going on? Was the stress of life getting to him? Was he finally beginning to lose it? Or was it something else -- an answer to his prayers perhaps? He knew it was other than normal. But was it abnormal, subnormal, or supernormal? How would be know? Would he know? Did he want to know? What he badly wanted to know now was what he should do.

He stood in his tiny balcony, peering out at the world beyond the iron grill. The sun was almost overhead now, glaring down at the parked cars, the dusty road, and the occasional stragglers walking with deliberate slowness under the burden of heat. A crow sat on the edge of a streetlight, picking at something unidentifiable and no doubt unpleasant. Life, in its cacophonic, bustling way, continued. And yet, the silence within him persisted, untouched by the clamor of the city.

He leaned on the railing, his fingers gripping the cool iron bars. The questions came again, louder now. What was he supposed to do? His thoughts, usually chaotic and varied, were unusually sharp today, focused on this one enigma. The silence wasn’t just present—it was present with intent. He could feel its weight, its steady gaze. It was waiting for him to... respond? Engage? Surrender?

Something stirred in him, a flicker of something old and buried. A memory, not sharp, but vivid enough to draw him away from the present moment. A younger version of himself stood in a classroom, staring at a question paper. The final question had been unusual, one that required more than rote knowledge to answer. The teacher, a stern-faced man with a love for riddles, had said something then.

"Sometimes, the question isn’t there to be answered. It’s there to make you think. To make you pause. To make you... listen."

He shook his head. Listen to what? There was nothing but the silence. And then it hit him.

He wasn’t listening to the silence. He was trying to fight it, analyze it, assign it a purpose. But what if... what if it didn’t need one? What if it was simply there, waiting for him to step back and let it be?

He stood straighter, suddenly more alert. Closing his eyes, he let the world fade away. He didn’t try to name the silence or break it. He let it sink in, filling the cracks in his thoughts, wrapping itself around the doubts and worries that usually clamored for space. And in that moment, he realized something startling. The silence wasn’t an intruder. It was his.

For years, he had drowned it out—through work, through distractions, through the noise of a life that demanded constant action and validation. But now, it had crept back in, uninvited but not unwelcome. And it had a message, one he could hear clearly now.

"You’ve been running. Stop. Stay. Be."

It was the simplest thing, yet the hardest thing. He opened his eyes, a strange calm settling over him. The silence hadn’t disappeared—it was still there, as steady as the breath moving through his lungs. But now, it was no longer an enemy. It was a companion.

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a resolution, not entirely. The questions still lingered, and he knew they would return. But for the first time, he felt equipped to face them—not with answers, but with acceptance.

The day unfolded as days do, indifferent to personal revelations. But something had changed within him. And as he sat down with his tea that evening, watching the same crow hop on the same streetlight, he realized he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

It was his.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)