When the Mind Is Noise, Music Becomes Silence

I grew up in Delhi — a city that hums with a constant pulse. Streets alive with traffic, conversations, ambition, and energy that rarely sleeps. My own days moved to that same beat — running between school, music classes, dance practice, social work commitments, and responsibilities at home. Life was full, exciting, and loud.

But somewhere in that loudness, I often felt my thoughts racing faster than the rhythm I was trying to keep up with. There were times when I would sit with my books, but my mind would still be in ten different places. I didn’t yet have the words for it, but I was searching for quiet — not outside, but within.

And then there was music.

When I sat for practice, everything else slowly receded. The tanpura’s sound would fill the room, and that one continuous sound felt like it was holding me. The first note demanded honesty. Each phrase asked for focus. And somewhere between repetition and resonance, my scattered thoughts began to fall in place. The mind that was once a crowd began to become a single, steady voice.

Structure as Solace

As I grew older and life evolved — studies turned into a career, and the world expanded to new countries, new teams, new cultures — the noise changed, but it never disappeared. The expectations grew, and so did the pressure to do more, be more, achieve more.

That’s when I began to understand that Carnatic music wasn’t just an art form I practiced — it was a way of anchoring myself. Its structure, discipline, and daily routine were not restrictions; they were a form of self-care. The tala gave rhythm to my restless thoughts, the raga gave emotion a safe space, and the act of returning to practice every day was like returning home to myself.

The more unpredictable life became, the more that structure steadied me.

I’m often reminded of something the legendary violinist Yehudi Menuhin once said:

“The practice of music is a meditation in itself — it demands the highest concentration and gives back the deepest joy.”

That idea resonates deeply with me. The discipline that at first feels demanding slowly transforms into devotion — and devotion has a quiet power to heal.

The Freedom Inside the Frame

People often think that freedom means doing whatever you want. But I’ve found freedom in the opposite — in surrender.

My Laya Guru, Vidwan Shri Erode Nagaraj, shared during my very first lesson:

“The ultimate goal of music is silence.”

At the time, it sounded beautifully simple. But as the years went by, I understood the depth of that statement. The more I practiced, the more I saw how every note eventually leads you toward stillness — how rhythm, when mastered, dissolves into timelessness. That lesson wasn’t just about music; it was about life.

I once heard M.S. Subbulakshmi’s accompanist recall that even on the most hectic concert days, she would find a few quiet minutes before going on stage, close her eyes, and simply hum a single phrase until she felt centered. She believed that only when the mind is still can the voice truly flow.

My Guru, Vidushi Smt. Gayathri Venkataraghavan, has inspired me in similar ways — her calm presence on stage, her deep focus before a concert, and her ability to channel devotion through restraint. Watching her, I’ve realized that true artistry is not about filling every moment with sound, but knowing when to let silence speak.

That moment — that surrender — is something I’ve come to understand deeply. When I sing, when I truly lose myself in a raga, it’s not that the rules disappear. It’s that I disappear. The mind stops calculating, comparing, controlling. It simply flows.

That’s when the noise quiets. That’s when music turns into silence.

Silence Between the Notes

Over time, I’ve learned that silence is not just the absence of sound. It’s the space that gives sound meaning.

In music, we respect pauses — they hold tension, emotion, and breath. In life, we often forget that. We fill every gap with activity, every silence with distraction, every still moment with noise. But just like a composition without pauses becomes chaos, a life without stillness becomes noise.

For me, protecting that silence — even for a few minutes a day — has become essential for mental well-being. Whether through music, mindfulness, or just deep listening, those pauses are where I recalibrate. They’re where I remember who I am beneath the noise.

A Reflection for You

We often search for peace by changing what’s outside us — the place, the people, the pace. But peace begins with how we tune ourselves.

Maybe the real question on this World Mental Health Day isn’t “How do I find silence?” but “What am I filling my silence with?”

And to students of music — whether you’re just beginning or already deep in your journey — remember that practice is not only about skill. It’s also about stillness. Don’t rush to reach the next song, the next concert, or the next applause. Listen to how your breath settles when you sing a note right, how your mind softens when rhythm aligns.

Let every practice be not just training for your art, but tuning for your mind.

Because when the mind is noise, music becomes silence.

And when you truly listen to that silence — it becomes music again.