Maq Masi Blog

I once wrote an article on silence. Many friends responded warmly—some with reflections, others with questions. One friend opened up about his frustration with his adult children. Though they are all married and living their own lives, they often come to him with their problems. “They never listen,” he told me. “If they had, they wouldn’t be in these situations.”

As I listened to him speak, I noticed he barely paused. He talked continuously, almost compulsively—seeking advice, yet somehow unable to receive it. He talks, but he doesn’t listen. Perhaps the frustration he feels is not only because others aren’t listening, but because his own mind never truly rests.

Another friend sent me a message. She lives alone—no children, no partner, never married. Her response was different. “Your piece on silence was brilliant,” she wrote. “I’m still learning how to silence the mind.” I shared more of my writing with her—hoping it might help her on that journey.

Despite distractions and uncertainties, I continued writing on silence, stillness, and mindfulness. These conversations reminded me: silence is not simply the absence of sound. It is a condition for real listening, understanding, and healing. If silence could help two people from such different walks of life, perhaps it could help others too—those searching for peace, clarity, or a way to quiet the storm inside.

I recalled listening to Osho Rajneesh, the Indian philosopher who influenced many in the West. He described the mind as a vast, tangled web—neurons firing, thoughts layered upon thoughts, creating endless internal noise. Even when we are alone, the mind keeps talking—commenting, doubting, worrying. He once said, “If we keep telling ourselves a lie, our mind eventually starts to believe it.”

Osho often spoke of Mahavira, the great Jain sage who observed maun—a vow of silence—for twelve years. In Jainism, monks are called munis because they practise maun. Osho remarked, “Not everyone needs to speak. Only the muni should speak—and the rest of us should listen.” That idea stayed with me. We live in a time where everyone wants to be heard, but few are truly listening—not even to themselves.

Today, we are surrounded by devices—phones, laptops, televisions. We are flooded with messages, opinions, and demands for attention. Yet this is not only a modern issue. Thousands of years ago, Mahavira, too, sought silence amid the chaos of his age. Why are we still struggling?

The real challenge is not just the noise outside. It is the noise within. We live in societies where we constantly encounter expectations, opinions, criticism. The voices of others shape us. Their words stir emotions—defence, anger, insecurity. In today’s hyperconnected world, this is amplified: misunderstandings, arguments, control, unhealthy dependencies, and the illusion of freedom all crowd the mind. Over time, the inner world becomes overstimulated, overwhelmed, and restless.

The only lasting solution is to calm the mind.

We may not be able to practise silence like Mahavira for twelve years. But can we begin with one minute?

One minute of silence after too much talking.

One minute of stillness when the mind is racing.

One minute of awareness instead of reaction.

If we are alone—be silent.

If children argue—remain silent.

Let silence become the teacher.

True silence does more than quieten the external world. It soothes the mind, opens the heart, and gives space for clarity to emerge. In stillness, we reflect. We observe. We understand.

And in that quiet space, something sacred unfolds—not because we forced it, but because we made room for it.