SILENCE BECOMING TOO LOUD

When Silence No Longer Felt Like Home

Many families came to see the house.

Some arrived with careful eyes and practical questions. Some spoke softly in corners while mentally arranging furniture that did not yet belong to them. A few seemed interested only in a temporary association, but the owner was very clear - he wanted a permanent family, one that would truly choose the place as their own.

After all, he had built me with dreams. He wanted a family that would love me as much as he did.

He had never really wanted to part with me, but circumstances had made the decision for him.

Some families visited once. Others returned more than once. Conversations would happen, hopes would quietly rise, yet somehow the decision to buy the place never came.

After many such visits, and repeated visits from some families, the outcome always seemed the same.

Then one day, finally, a happy family decided they wanted the house. For the first time, the owner seemed at peace letting me go. It was a small family : the husband, the wife, and their teenage daughter.

The girl was giggly, moving about with the carefree energy only teenagers seem to possess. She wandered around, exploring every corner as though trying to feel the place rather than merely see it. It seemed she liked it.

At one point, she ran her hand over me absent-mindedly, the way one does while getting familiar with something new. For a moment I felt slightly awkward, but brushed the feeling aside. After all, I was going to be part of her space now.

Strangely, I found myself liking the noise she made.

It was a happy kind of noise, giggles, hurried footsteps, little bursts of excitement. The kind of noise that makes a place feel alive.

After a while the family left, and the house sank back into its usual silence. But this time, the silence felt different. It carried a quiet hope that they would soon be moving in.

A week later, they did.

The house filled quickly with guests for the housewarming ceremony. Voices echoed everywhere. Laughter bounced off the walls. People moved endlessly from room to room.

It was vibrant.

Very vibrant.

Now, I must admit something about myself. I am not particularly fond of noise. I prefer calm, dignity, and a reasonable level of silence. This, however, was beginning to feel less like a home and more like a festival that had forgotten to end.

Just when I was beginning to lose patience, one of the guests pointed directly at me.

“How about hanging the family photo in that space?”

That space.

Was me.

I froze.

“Perfect spot,” another voice replied enthusiastically. “We’ll just drill a nail here.”

Drill.

A.

Nail.

Into me.

I had welcomed them patiently. I had tolerated the noise. I had even started enjoying the girl’s giggles.

But drilling?

This association was becoming painful rather quickly.

Thankfully, the sun set and the guests slowly began to leave. Their voices faded, the front door closed behind the last of them, and silence finally returned.

Ah… silence.

Glorious, beautiful silence.

But the real test came the next morning.

“Diyaaaaa! Get up! It’s 5:30!”

Before I could recover from that assault, another voice followed immediately.

“Alexa, play Vishnu Sahasranamam.”

Instantly, the house exploded into activity.

Lights came on. Footsteps rushed everywhere. Cupboards opened and shut. Pressure cookers hissed like angry snakes.

Both parents rushed through the kitchen while preparing to leave for work. Diya ran around in various stages of readiness, none of which looked particularly close to ready.

By six in the morning, the house sounded less like a home and more like a highly efficient fish market.

At 7:15, after several reminders, one missing sock, and a dramatic search for a water bottle that had been on the dining table all along, Diya finally left.

Slowly, the house returned to something resembling civilisation.

But the routine continued.

For an entire month I endured alarms, hurried footsteps, kitchen clatter, weekend visitors, and the constant fear that someone might arrive any day carrying a drill machine.

Eventually, I did something I had never done before.

I started praying.

Not for wealth.

Not for success.

Just for silence.

And one day, my prayers were answered.

I overheard them discussing a family function outside Bengaluru. They would be gone for a week.

Seven glorious days of silence.

If I could have helped pack their bags, I would have.

When they finally left and the door closed behind them, the quiet that followed felt like pure bliss.

Day one was wonderful.

No alarms. No shouting. No devotional music at sunrise.

Day two and three were equally peaceful.

But on day four, something felt strange.

The silence felt heavier somehow.

Uncomfortable.

A troubling thought crossed my mind.

Was I…

missing the chaos?

That couldn’t possibly be right. I had prayed for silence.

Yet the house now felt too still.

Too empty.

The silence was no longer peaceful.

It was lonely.

And before I realised it, I found myself listening for the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock…

And then, one evening, it finally came.

Voices.

Footsteps.

Bags dropping onto the floor.

Diya complaining dramatically about the journey.

Her mother asking everyone to wash their hands first.

Her father wondering aloud who had left the balcony light on.

The noise was back.

And this time…

it felt exactly like home.