Daily Fix

Silence

T. SHER SINGH

 

I wrote and first published the following piece several years ago. The Monastery is long gone now, fallen to the march of ‘progress'. But, fond memories remain ... vivid enough to re-charge my batteries at the mere thought of the place!

 

 

Perched on the highest point overlooking the Hockley Valley in Southern Ontario (Canada) is the Cistercian Monastery.

It's a decade-old building, surrounded by several hundred acres of undulating forest and farmland.

It constitutes the home of a handful of Trappist monks who contemplate, worship and toil in its peaceful environs.

Once there, you can see for miles around, but the business of civilization is kept at bay by distance, dirt roads, and a thin mist that envelopes the scenery at the least excuse offered by the weather.

The monks observe a vow of silence, which is broken only in prayer or for essentials. All visitors are asked to observe the rules.

I arrived there one Monday morning, early in the spring, looking for a week of solitude. Earlier, I had forewarned Robert, my contact at the monastery, that I was a Sikh and not a Christian; that I was looking for a week of quiet thought and introspection; and that I would also like to sit in during their religious services even though I wouldn't participate in them.

No problem, and you are welcome, was the prompt reply.

It takes a couple of days before you start feeling the full impact of the place.

There is no radio, no TV, no newspapers. No music. No discussions. No sermons.

There are a few other visitors, but you merely greet them with a nod and a smile. There are no introductions, no hellos, no good-byes. No need to find out what each one does, or where he or she comes from. Or tell anyone what you do, where you come from. Or why you're here. Not even an exchange of pleasantries about the weather.

I have made a pact with myself: I will not call home during the week, because the week is also meant to be a reminder that I'm not indispensable. My daughter knows where I am, chalking it off as yet another excuse from me to get away from the rat race.

I'm here not to sort out things in my head, but to get away from the need to constantly sort out things.

My body cells begin to relax. Is it the clean and crisp air, or the long, quiet walks? I've brought a few books. I start on a couple. I write a bit. I sleep a lot.

By the middle of the day, I realize I'm enjoying every meal, nay, every dish in every meal. They all taste gourmet, every morsel of every serving. I eat everything, even things I'd never touch at home, and they all taste marvellous.

I notice other things too. All my senses feel sharpened. I can hear the birds and distinguish between them. I notice the buds beginning to open on the low branches as I walk by. I notice tiny movements in the grass beneath me. The bushes rustle nearby. Rabbits? A groundhog saunters by.

The prayer-service schedule for each day is posted. On my first morning, I set my alarm for 4 am to be able to make it to the Vigil at 4:30. I bounce up, and I'm ready, turban and all, within minutes. I pause as I suddenly remember words from a long time ago.

"The early hour of the morning, the Amrit Vela," my mother was speaking to me, a child, "is the ambrosial hour. If you're up and alert then, you can connect with Eternity."

I enter the sanctuary. The hall has been lovingly, tastefully decorated with a minimum amount of artwork, symbols and furniture.

The monks begin their chants.

Somebody has forgotten to turn on the lights. Or have they? In the dim light, the Gregorian chorus lifts you up and takes you to wherever you are willing to go. The words are in English; but it doesn't matter. I let go the need to understand them. The poetry of worship is sweet enough to obviate the need to understand. I close my eyes. The singing reminds me of the early morning hymns in a gurdwara. Am I listening to the Asa ki Vaar, the Song of Hope? Where am I?

We disperse an hour later.

I feel good all over. A thought flashes through my mind: it would be perfect to have the monks sing along with the raagis, the minstrels of the gurdwara, one day. The combination would be ethereal!

I stretch and yawn. I think I need a short nap before breakfast. I walk back towards my room. I look out as I walk past a huge window. It looks perfectly serene outside. I can hear the birds. There's a soft glow in the ink of the sky. It's beckoning me. It is irresistible. Softly, I open a door and step out. Mm-mmm-mmmm. It's the kind of moment when you say to yourself, I've got to do this more often.

I walk to the edge of the grass, where the ground suddenly drops, sloping downwards into the valley. I can see the silhouette of the surrounding countryside for miles. I drink my fill. I head back.

I reach for the door. It won't budge. It's locked. No, I don't have my key with me.

No problem. I walk up to the front door. It too is locked. No lights on inside. The monks are busy, obviously, deep inside the cloister. Nobody else is visible.

I realize I am locked out. I shiver: it's cold at this hour. I wrap my arms around me, and mutter: what do I do now? My mind races through the options and alternatives. I can't bang on the door. I can't go around to the back, looking for another entrance - why? I had noticed a couple of very business-like dogs the previous day.

But I can't last more than half-an-hour outside in this morning air: I'll catch a chill if I don't get in soon.

I look around. I see my car in the parking lot. Ah! I think I have a spare key stuck beneath it somewhere. I grope around in the dark and voila! It is there.

I start the engine, turn on the heat. At least I won't freeze now. I close my eyes, but can't go to sleep. I get fidgety and start looking around. Nothing to read. I dig around. I look under the seats. I find a paper bag: two CDs I had bought months ago and forgotten all about.

One of them is ... "The Song of Hope"! The Sikh morning service, sung and recorded more than three decades ago by my favourite raagi: Bhai Surjan Singh. I had bought it for nostalgia's sake; I used to have a record album of the same back in India, in my pre-historic years.

I have an idea. I turn the car around so that it now faces east. In the veil of dawn, I can see the valley descending away from us for miles, and then meeting with the dip of the sky. There is a luminous focal point on the horizon.

It's the promise of sunrise.

I slip the CD into the player, turn off the light, incline my chair, close my eyes, and settle down for a nap.

The singing begins: "Lord! With the depths of my mind do I contemplate Thee; May this helpless one, pray, may he always in Thy shelter be."

I open my eyes. I realize I can understand the words. Now that I think of it, I've never really paid any attention to the verses before. I look at the glow straight ahead of me. It is growing even as I look at it, bigger, brighter.

Marvellous are the varied forms of speech in the universe, (the song continues)

Marvellous all the scriptures recorded.

Marvellous the multiplicity of creation, wonderful their distinctions;

Marvellous all of Creation's forms, wonderful the variety;

Awesome the sight of creatures, wandering unadorned.

Marvellous the motions of air, wonderful the water;

Marvellous is fire with its strange pranks;

Marvellous the earth, wonderful the sources of life;

Astounding the pleasures humans delve in.

Wonderful is union, wonderful is separation.

Inexplicable is hunger afflicting some:

Strange is the indulgence of others ...

 

The sun arose. Once the Song was over, I returned to the entrance. It was breakfast time: the doors had been unlocked.

The dogs greeted me outside the door and politely let me by.

 

April 11, 2013

read other articles in Daily Fix