A silent understanding passed between us - a shared memory of our own meditation retreat in Rishikesh flashing in our minds
The wind carried secrets as we drove through the Nilgiri Hills. Each breath filled my lungs with the scent of wet earth and fresh tea leaves. My heart swelled with peace. These were not just hills covered in emerald green; they were living beings, ancient and wise, welcoming us into their misty embrace. Beside me, my friend sat in silence. Words felt heavy, unnecessary. Our eyes spoke volumes as they drank in the endless green tapestry unfolding before us. Sometimes, the deepest connections form in silence.We pulled over at a small hut nestled between thick trees.
An elderly shopkeeper with kind, crinkled eyes nodded at our request for tea. His gentle hands moved with practised ease, brewing a drink that seemed to hold the essence of the mountains themselves. As the warm cup touched my lips, I closed my eyes. The fragrant steam danced with the mountain breeze, creating a moment of perfect harmony.That is when I noticed him, a figure draped in white, sitting beneath a grand old tree. Stillness surrounded him like an invisible shield. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful. Something about his presence tugged at my soul.”That is Mutthuswami,” the shopkeeper whispered, his voice thick with respect. “Once a professor. His family lives in America, but he finds peace here in these hills.”My gaze met my friend's. A silent understanding passed between us, a shared memory of our own meditation retreat in Rishikesh flashing in our minds. Without words, we knew what we had to do.As if feeling our thoughts, Mutthuswami approached us. My heart quickened. We greeted him with slight bows, our hands pressed together. Though no words passed between us, questions bubbled inside me like a mountain spring. We sat before him on the cool earth, letting the hills cradle our conversation. My friend broke the silence first. “Sir, what is the relationship between religion and spirituality?” The question hung in the air like morning mist. Mr. Mutthuswami did not answer immediately. His silence gave me time to drift back to Rishikesh, the flowing Ganges, the chanting, the feeling of something greater than myself. I remembered how thoughts came and went like clouds, how some lingered longer than others, shaping our lives in ways we barely understood.When Mr. Mutthuswami finally spoke, his voice was soft as falling leaves.
He shared his story, thirty years teaching religious studies, losing his wife a decade ago, his daughters living in America. His eyes grew distant when he mentioned his daughters, his fingers absently touching a simple thread bracelet on his wrist.” Religion,” he said, looking at the distant hills, “is like this road we travel on. Built with purpose, marked with signs, maintained by many hands. It gives direction, community, a sense of shared journey.” He cupped his hands, gathering the sunlight that filtered through the leaves above. “Spirituality is the water that quenches our deepest thirst. It flows freely, takes the shape of whatever holds it, yet remains true to its nature.”
As he spoke about the differences, organisation versus freedom, external authority versus inner knowing, absolute truths versus personal discoveries, I watched his face. Each word seemed to come not just from knowledge but from lived experience. His hands moved gently with his words, sometimes reaching out as if touching invisible threads that connected all things.”In ancient times,” he continued, his voice growing softer so we leaned in closer, “humans looked up at stars with wonder.
They felt connected to forces they could not explain. This feeling, this spirituality, came first. Religions grew later, like trees from these seeds of awe.”A small bird landed near us, tilting its head as if listening. Mr. Mutthuswami smiled at it. “Both paths seek the same mountain peak, but take different routes.”
As he spoke, I found myself nodding, tears gathering in my eyes without warning. Not from sadness, but from recognition. His words touched something deep within me, something that had always known these truths but had never heard them spoken so clearly. My friend's eyes were bright too. I noticed his hand resting on the earth, fingers spread wide as if trying to feel the heartbeat of the hills. His shoulders had dropped, the tension of our busy lives melting away in this sacred space.
Mr. Mutthuswami fell silent again, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they seemed to hold the entire blue sky. “The truest temple,” he said, touching his heart, “has always been here. The holiest text is written in the language of compassion. The greatest prayer is a life lived with awareness.” Time seemed to stand still in that moment. The trees around us swayed gently, as if bowing in agreement. Even the breeze paused to listen. When it was time to leave, words failed us.
How do you thank someone for opening a door you did not know existed? My eyes filled with tears that spilled freely down my cheeks. Not tears of sorrow, but of overwhelming connection, to this man, to these hills, to something vast and ancient that had always been there. As we walked back to our car, I turned for one last look. Mr. Mutthuswami had returned to his spot beneath the tree, eyes closed, face serene. But something had changed.
The Nilgiri Hills watched us leave, their blue-green slopes gentle as loving hands. I knew then that we were never truly separate from nature, from each other, from the divine. We were threads in the same grand tapestry, each one essential, each one connected to all others. And as we drove away, the mountains whispered one last secret: that the journey between religion and spirituality is not a choice between two paths, but a dance between form and freedom, between community and individual seeking, between ancient wisdom and personal truth.
— The author’s views are personal. The author is a civil servant at the Ministry of Defence and a spiritual speaker
