The Journey of Silence

Not every silence is peaceful. Some scream so loudly inside you that the noise drowns out your soul. This is a story I never thought I’d tell. Not because it’s dramatic. But because it’s… quietly terrifying.

I met him at a chai dhaba during winter. A quiet boy with haunting eyes who always sat at the corner bench, sketching on the back of old bills. No one spoke to him. He didn’t speak either. I don’t know why, but one day, I walked up and asked, “Tum kya bana rahe ho?”

He looked up slowly. “Memories,” he said. Just one word. And he smiled—a tired, worn-out kind of smile, like he hadn’t used those muscles in a long time.

Over the next few weeks, we met often. I never learned his real name, so I started calling him “Noor”—because he brought light into dark places without knowing it. He was a silent storyteller. His sketches weren’t art—they were wounds on paper. Each one told a story of pain, escape, or something too complex to label.

Sometimes, he would draw strangers too. People sitting nearby, unaware that Noor was quietly turning them into memories. One day, he sketched an old man feeding birds. Another time, a mother scolding her child gently. He found beauty in moments most of us overlook.

One evening, I asked him, “Why don’t you talk to others?”

He looked out into the foggy night and said something that still burns in my memory: “Because I did… once. And the world didn’t listen. It laughed.”

Noor wasn’t mentally unstable. He was deeply aware—too aware. He had lost both parents in a fire when he was ten. He lived in a shelter for most of his life, then drifted between cities. Every time he tried to connect with people, they either mocked his silence or forced him to be someone he wasn’t.

But he never stopped drawing.

One day, he handed me a folded sketch. It was me. But not just my face—my thoughts. My fears. My loneliness. All captured in ink.

“How did you—?” I asked, choking on my words.

“I listen,” he whispered. “Even when you don’t speak.”

That was Noor’s superpower. He heard what others buried. And carried it.

And just like that… he disappeared.

No note. No goodbye. Just one final sketch left at our usual spot—two figures on a bench, one drawn in heavy lines, and the other fading away into the fog.

I searched for him. Everywhere. But Noor was like a shadow—seen only when light hit the right angle.

It’s been five years.

Sometimes, I sit at that same dhaba, alone. And sometimes… just sometimes… I feel a sketch slide under my tea cup. A rough corner. A faint signature: "N."

He lives, somewhere. Maybe in another city. Maybe drawing for someone else. Maybe still listening to unsaid words.

I kept his sketches safe. I framed one. Another one stays folded in my wallet. A reminder that not every connection needs words. That sometimes, silence has more meaning than an entire book.

And me?

I’ve stopped chasing noise. I’ve learned to listen—to others, to myself, to silence.

Because Noor taught me this:

“Some people speak loudly. Some speak through silence. Both deserve to be heard.”

But maybe, Noor never really left. He lives in the quiet souls who want to speak but don’t know how. His silence was a lesson, and his art—a silent cry. Every time I look into someone’s eyes and see a story buried deep, I feel like Noor is listening… understanding. Maybe there's a Noor inside all of us—quiet, sensitive, unforgettable. I’ve stopped chasing the noise, and now, when silence speaks… I hear it clearly. Perhaps… in Noor’s voice.
And that’s how I know—some people don’t vanish.
They become a part of those who choose to truly listen.