When talking takes a break

I was floored when my old college friend texted me that his ENT specialist had prescribed a whole month of silence. “No way can you pull that off!” I fired back.

“What choice do I have? Doc says my vocal cords are strained and need a break,” he replied. The words betrayed his unease.

Of course, I was worried about his throat — but even more about his ability to stay quiet. I’ve known him since our college days, and he could never hold his tongue for even a minute. He was pursuing MA in English, a highly coveted field of study at the time. At the slightest opportunity, he would launch into eloquent recitations from classic English literature, and that too in his roaring voice, and we would find ourselves scrambling to rein him in.

English literature was all Greek to us, but his voice — oh, that booming voice — was loud enough to rattle the windows. That resonant voice is a distinctive trait of people from the erstwhile undivided Rohtak district of Haryana, which once included Sonepat and Jhajjar. Hailing from the same region, I’ve often been ticked off by seniors to soften my tone, and, of course, endlessly coached by my wife.

He began his career as a probationary officer at a leading bank around the time that I joined the Indian Police Service. It is only after our retirement that we came into regular touch. Over the years, he has lost neither his passion for English literature nor the booming voice that once defined him. Recently, he sent me a gift through Amazon — a hefty tome, The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell, running into more than a thousand pages — and he is already pressing me to read it.

My most immediate concern, however, was how to lift his spirits. The doctor’s rather stern prescription — an enforced silence — was, for a person who loves to talk, a cruel punishment.

It reminded me of a teacher from my junior school who had a simple cure for noisy children: he would make them stand at the back of the classroom with a finger pressed against their lips. It was enough to quieten even the most restless among us.

“Couldn’t the doctor give you a course of steroids?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “He believes in a conservative line of treatment.”

That got me thinking about our own traditions. In Indian scriptures, the practice of Maun Vrat — a vow of silence — is held in the highest regard. Far from being a punishment, it’s a path to spiritual growth and self-realisation. This enforced silence could actually be a blessing in disguise.

“Imagine,” I said, “this could help you connect with your inner self, master your emotions and touch a deeper peace within. Silence, after all, doesn’t just withhold words; it unlocks possibilities.”

“So cheer up, my friend,” I added, hoping that he would see the silence not as a burden but as a gift.