What We Learn from The Silence of Dakshinamurthy
—A reflection on courage, sacrifice, and spiritual truth.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there. Below the banyan tree, where the winds held their breath and even the rustling leaves seemed to listen. I was young then—eager, restless, filled with questions that burned holes in my chest.
My guru had sent me in search of knowledge. "Go south," he said, "to the silence of Dakshinamurthy. There, you will hear what cannot be spoken." I didn’t understand then. I only obeyed.
I traveled far—through the forests of ancient India, following rivers where sages bathed and ash-smeared ascetics sat unmoved through heat and rain. I asked every teacher I met: What is truth? What is Self? What is dharma, the right way to live?
Each gave words. Pages. Lessons. Some spoke of Lord Vishnu’s forms, others chanted hymns to Goddess Saraswati for wisdom. I listened but felt empty. Like someone speaking of the moon but never seeing its light.
Then I arrived at Arunachala. The hill stood like a sleeping lion. At its base, beneath a massive peepal tree, four elder rishis sat. Masters of the Vedas. They waited for someone, they said. A teacher. "He does not speak," they told me. I frowned. What kind of teacher doesn’t speak?
Then he came. Barefoot, young but ageless. Eyes deep as oceans. Hair curled by wind, rudraksha beads hanging calmly. This was Lord Dakshinamurthy—a form of Lord Shiva as the Silent Teacher.
He sat facing south—dakshina—though teaching is usually done facing east. This was the direction of endings. Of death. And wisdom.
We four sat around him. After minutes, I began to shift, waiting for words. A mantra. A sign. Something. But there was only silence.
A cow mooed far off. An ant crawled over my foot.
He looked at us—not at our faces, but through us.
Was I supposed to ask a question?
I thought of Lord Krishna teaching Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita—about action without attachment, about fulfilling one’s dharma even when torn inside. I thought of Vishnu in his epic forms—as Rama following duty into exile, or as Krishna advising on a battlefield soaked in blood. They spoke. They acted. This silence—what was it teaching?
One of the rishis bowed low. Another closed his eyes, tearful. What did they see?
Still, I waited.
By the second day, I was angry. “Why won’t he speak?” I whispered to another. The rishi only smiled, eyes fixed on the Lord’s still face.
Then it happened. I heard a voice—but not one of words. Inside me, a shift. Suddenly, all my questions turned on themselves. Who was asking? What part of me needed the answer?
There were no answers given because there were no questions left.
The silence became a mirror. I saw myself—not as the wandering seeker with dusty feet, but as the Awareness behind the thoughts that wandered. The part of me untouched, unmoving. Like Lord Shiva, eternal and still.
In that moment, I understood.
Knowledge, true knowledge, is not transferred. It is revealed. It doesn’t come from outside. It awakens inside, when the mind is quiet.
That is why Lord Dakshinamurthy is silent. That is why the Upanishads speak in riddles and metaphors. Because Truth is too vast for language. And yet, once you glimpse it, it is simpler than breath.
I stayed there for years. Clouds passed. Birds nested and flew. Trees aged. I meditated beneath his gaze. He never moved, but in that stillness the whole universe turned.
Children came, asking about Krishna. About battles and dharma and the Goddess. I spoke the stories. I told them of karma and courage. But to the ones ready—truly ready—I brought them beneath that tree. And I let them see for themselves.
I walked away from Arunachala one day, older, quieter. Life outside hadn’t changed, but I had. The fire of questions had become a steady flame of knowing.
What did I learn in the silence of Dakshinamurthy?
That the highest wisdom doesn’t shout. It waits within you, like a seed in the earth.
And when it sprouts—it does so without words.
—
Keywords for SEO: Krishna, Epic, Dharma, Goddess, Vishnu, India
Themes: wisdom, courage, dharma
Word Count: 598
What We Learn from The Silence of Dakshinamurthy
—A reflection on courage, sacrifice, and spiritual truth.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there. Below the banyan tree, where the winds held their breath and even the rustling leaves seemed to listen. I was young then—eager, restless, filled with questions that burned holes in my chest.
My guru had sent me in search of knowledge. "Go south," he said, "to the silence of Dakshinamurthy. There, you will hear what cannot be spoken." I didn’t understand then. I only obeyed.
I traveled far—through the forests of ancient India, following rivers where sages bathed and ash-smeared ascetics sat unmoved through heat and rain. I asked every teacher I met: What is truth? What is Self? What is dharma, the right way to live?
Each gave words. Pages. Lessons. Some spoke of Lord Vishnu’s forms, others chanted hymns to Goddess Saraswati for wisdom. I listened but felt empty. Like someone speaking of the moon but never seeing its light.
Then I arrived at Arunachala. The hill stood like a sleeping lion. At its base, beneath a massive peepal tree, four elder rishis sat. Masters of the Vedas. They waited for someone, they said. A teacher. "He does not speak," they told me. I frowned. What kind of teacher doesn’t speak?
Then he came. Barefoot, young but ageless. Eyes deep as oceans. Hair curled by wind, rudraksha beads hanging calmly. This was Lord Dakshinamurthy—a form of Lord Shiva as the Silent Teacher.
He sat facing south—dakshina—though teaching is usually done facing east. This was the direction of endings. Of death. And wisdom.
We four sat around him. After minutes, I began to shift, waiting for words. A mantra. A sign. Something. But there was only silence.
A cow mooed far off. An ant crawled over my foot.
He looked at us—not at our faces, but through us.
Was I supposed to ask a question?
I thought of Lord Krishna teaching Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita—about action without attachment, about fulfilling one’s dharma even when torn inside. I thought of Vishnu in his epic forms—as Rama following duty into exile, or as Krishna advising on a battlefield soaked in blood. They spoke. They acted. This silence—what was it teaching?
One of the rishis bowed low. Another closed his eyes, tearful. What did they see?
Still, I waited.
By the second day, I was angry. “Why won’t he speak?” I whispered to another. The rishi only smiled, eyes fixed on the Lord’s still face.
Then it happened. I heard a voice—but not one of words. Inside me, a shift. Suddenly, all my questions turned on themselves. Who was asking? What part of me needed the answer?
There were no answers given because there were no questions left.
The silence became a mirror. I saw myself—not as the wandering seeker with dusty feet, but as the Awareness behind the thoughts that wandered. The part of me untouched, unmoving. Like Lord Shiva, eternal and still.
In that moment, I understood.
Knowledge, true knowledge, is not transferred. It is revealed. It doesn’t come from outside. It awakens inside, when the mind is quiet.
That is why Lord Dakshinamurthy is silent. That is why the Upanishads speak in riddles and metaphors. Because Truth is too vast for language. And yet, once you glimpse it, it is simpler than breath.
I stayed there for years. Clouds passed. Birds nested and flew. Trees aged. I meditated beneath his gaze. He never moved, but in that stillness the whole universe turned.
Children came, asking about Krishna. About battles and dharma and the Goddess. I spoke the stories. I told them of karma and courage. But to the ones ready—truly ready—I brought them beneath that tree. And I let them see for themselves.
I walked away from Arunachala one day, older, quieter. Life outside hadn’t changed, but I had. The fire of questions had become a steady flame of knowing.
What did I learn in the silence of Dakshinamurthy?
That the highest wisdom doesn’t shout. It waits within you, like a seed in the earth.
And when it sprouts—it does so without words.
—
Keywords for SEO: Krishna, Epic, Dharma, Goddess, Vishnu, India
Themes: wisdom, courage, dharma
Word Count: 598
