The Sound of Silence: Reflections from Rishikesh

Tapovan, Rishikesh | 5:45 AM

This morning, sitting by the Ganges as the sun rose quietly over the hills, I couldn’t help but become deeply reflective. There was something about the rhythm of the river, the early morning silence, and the stillness in the air that made me pause—not just in the moment, but in life.

The last six months have been intense. Ever since Baba’s fall in November, our lives have moved through unfamiliar terrain—uncertainty, decision-making, moments of hope, moments of helplessness. But what I’ve come to realise is that the uncertainty wasn’t always about outcomes. It was often about trying to do the right thing, with limited clarity, in a situation no one was prepared for.

And somewhere through this journey—between flights, hospital corridors, quiet prayers, and daily caregiving—I began noticing how much of life we live caught up in things that don’t last or matter. Material possessions, achievements, even emotional highs… they all come and go.

I’ve been fortunate to experience what many people dream of—studying abroad, working in multinational companies in the U.S., travelling with comfort, chartered flights, penthouses, luxury cars, and recognition. And yet, none of it really stays or matters over time. What stays is something else entirely.

Reflecting, I find it almost humorous how our minds keep us running—convinced that the next milestone, purchase, or validation will make us feel fulfilled. But more often than not, we’re simply feeding a part of ourselves that constantly wants more. That part, which we call the ego, isn’t something we “feel” directly—but its presence is always there. It hides in our comparisons, our sense of ownership, our pride. And ironically, the more we feed it, the more restless we become.

Then what truly lasts? What is real?
In my own experience, it is our true self—our core existence. The more we travel inward, the more it radiates peace, love, and harmony. And what also stays with us are not titles or things, but the love we give and receive.

Watching my father over the years—especially now—has brought a deep perspective. A man who created so much, who built what very few could. One of the largest PC hardware companies in India in 1993, even bigger than HCL at one point. The first Indian IT park in West Bengal—Infinity. A corporate B-school in the city of Kolkata in 2002. A tech company that went on to employ over 2,000 people. These were firsts—audacious ventures in their time.

And yet, today, he spends most of his time in stillness—slowed by age and neurological challenges. And what remains with him—what gives him light even now—are not titles or possessions, but the people he loved, the memories he made, the impact he created, and most of all, the love he gave and received.

Does this mean we shouldn’t strive to build? Of course we must. But maybe we should also ask: Why are we building? And for whom?
Do we want to live finitely for ourselves, or infinitely—where what we create, no matter how big or small, outlives our time, continues to serve, and touches human lives?

For me, that moment of realisation was today.
By the river. In silence. In truth.

And maybe that’s all we need—moments that wake us up from the rush and bring us back to what’s real. Moments that help us remember that we are not here to just collect things—but to connect, to give, and to grow.

With love and stillness,
Rahul