Silence stayed – from shared spaces to farm fields

In the beginning of my fellowship journey, we were four fellows posted in Salem, Tamil Nadu. Each of us were working in different thematic areas under JSW CSR but, we all lived in the same house- ate together, went out for dinners together, shared the same space, walked the barren roads together, waited for the buses that never arrived on time. It was a never-before, never-after experience for me.

I wasn’t used to sharing spaces with my friends for more than couple of days. Still, here I was, staying with newly met friends- co-fellows, colleagues – for almost eight months. During that time of togetherness, where each of us were the first point of contacts to each other, I realized how vulnerable we humans can be.

Even when we are surrounded by people, we can feel lonely. Not by choice, but because of clinging attachments. I often lonely in that lively space, because I was comparing that moment with what I used to have at my home. It happened because of my attachment to my family, to my comfort zone where I didn’t have to adjust or behave.

Does it mean that my friends weren’t nice/enough? Not at all. They were in fact more than nice. It was me who was clinging on to my memories and comparing.

It ain’t a bad thing to cling on to your sweet memories. However, it is indeed bad to make them the parameter for your happiness. Every time, I compared, I could feel this subtle shift within me. I felt that my soul had just pressed the mute button and everything within me faded into silence. Have you ever felt that? When the chatter, not the around you, but the one within you – faded.

When I moved out to live in my project village, the silence became permanent – not just within, but all around as well. I really enjoyed the serene quietness, bright sunshine and the call of chirping birds. I was at peace with myself and the silent surroundings.

One of the first things I noticed was how energetic the village became in the early mornings. After 9 AM it is difficult to find people working on household chores. I loved that discipline and decided to imbibe this nature. The need to fetch water on alternate days from 6.30 – 7.15 am made it all the more possible.

As days passed by, I realized I was walking through long roads of silence. Elderly women can be spotted chatting under the trees, but often, even they weren’t there. It was nothing unusual to walk into the barren streets to go the farm fields during the day. The village bustling with energy in the mornings, napped in the afternoons only to wake up to children returning from schools in the evenings. As the kids played around with cycle tires and

This eventfulness slowly dips into a slumber, every night around 8 pm. Elders, after a long day of work, finish their dinner and get ready for their bedtime TV soaps. Youngsters, on the other hand, get on with their work – playing games, finishing home works, preparing for next day, after they finish their dinner as a family.

At home, my parents always said that at least for one meal in a day, the entire family should come together. They believed in the power of bonding over food. Suddenly, I was having all my meals alone. At first, it was just weird. But later, it began to ache. I missed the warmth of my family, my friends, the casual chatter with my co-fellows and even the everyday fights.

That’s when my chosen solitude quietly turned into loneliness.

I tried to soothe the pain through movies, stand-up comedies, podcasts only to fail miserably.

This doesn’t mean, I wasn’t welcomed in the community. I was. I was valued for my presence, my inputs and my connections. But, the community didn’t owe me emotional care the way family or close friends might. Maybe my own professionalism, the invisible boundaries I had drawn to maintain good flow of work might have kept them from stepping in.

I was trying so hard to figure this flux. I later realized that it’s only natural.

We feel a deep sense of belonging in familiar places and then one day – we don’t. We detach, resist, reattach, surrender. This tendency to alienate and familiarize with people, surroundings and situations make our lives more lively and human, though uncomfortable.

In the last two years, I have lived through so many such moments. From shared rooms to living alone, from silent dinners to early mornings, I have slowly found my home within me.

This journey of teaching farmers about financial literacy has taught me something even deeper : how to be truly comfortable with my own company, my choices and my silence.