Silent mind.

 A little girl once asked the sage,

“Master, tell me, if you will—

How does one silence the restless mind?

How does it learn to be still?”

Patanjali smiled like dawn unfolding,

Soft as moonlight on a hill.

He asked her, “Child, how do you stop

Your trembling hand’s small thrill?”

She shook her hand and then released it,

Letting quiet gently fill.

“By not shaking it,” she whispered—

Innocence revealing skill.

“Just so,” the ancient sage replied,

“The mind is shaken by your will.

You follow thoughts like scattered birds,

And wonder why they will not still.”

“Let thoughts arise, let thoughts subside—

Do not chase each passing drill.

The lake reflects the moon again

When waters cease to ripple and spill.”

“Silence is not something made,

Nor forged by effort, force, or skill.

It blooms when you stop stirring it—

A lotus on a windless rill.”

“So stay,” he said, “as the quiet seer,

Not the storm you try to kill.

Calmness is your native home—

Return, and let the heart refill.”

The girl bowed low before the sage,

Her eyes serene, her breath now still.

For she had learned the secret truth:

The mind is silent when you are still.

The Sage’s Answer to the Simplest and Deepest Question

There is a story often whispered in the yogic tradition—soft, luminous, and simple. It is about Maharishi Patanjali, the great compiler of the Yoga Sutras, and a little girl whose heart carried the same question that troubles even the greatest seekers:

“How does one silence the mind?”

She asked it with all the clarity that only a child can carry. No philosophy, no heavy theory—just a direct question from the center of innocence. Patanjali looked at her, and a smile slowly spread across his face, the kind of smile that holds both compassion and knowing.

Instead of answering, he asked her:

“Child, how do you stop your hand from trembling?”

The girl lifted her little hand, shook it playfully, and then stopped.

She looked up and said, almost surprised by her own simplicity:

“By not shaking it.”

Patanjali nodded. In her answer was the essence of yoga.

The Mind Shakes Because We Shake It

He told her, with a voice as calm as still water:

“Just as the hand trembles only when you move it,

the mind becomes restless only when you participate in its movements.”

Thoughts arise.

Desires pull.

Emotions swirl.

And we follow every one of them, as though each thought were a command, each fear a truth, each desire an instruction.

Patanjali explained:

“The mind is not noisy by nature.

It is noisy because you keep stirring it.”

He pointed to a pot of clear water beside him.

“See this water?

When it is shaken, the moon’s reflection breaks into a thousand pieces.

When it is still, the moon reveals itself effortlessly.”

The girl leaned over and saw the truth of his words for herself.

The moon was there—not something to be created, only something to be revealed.

Silence Is Not Created — It Is Allowed

Patanjali then uttered one of the gentlest teachings ever given:

“Silence is not something you manufacture.

It appears when you stop disturbing it.”

This is the heart of yoga.

The mind need not be conquered, suppressed, or fought.

It only needs to be left alone for a moment, allowed to settle like dust in a sunbeam.

He told her:

“Do not chase every thought.

Do not argue with every emotion.

Do not follow every desire.

Let them arise and let them pass.

You remain the seer.”

In the Yoga Sutras, this is expressed as:

“Drashtuh svarupe avasthanam

— The seer rests in its own nature.”

The little girl did not know Sanskrit, but she knew truth when she heard it. Her eyes widened with a soft understanding—the kind that does not come from the mind, but from the heart.

Stillness Is Our Nature

Patanjali concluded:

“Calmness is your true nature.

Noise is the movement you add.

Return to your nature.”

In those few lines lies the entire science of inner peace—the whole architecture of the yogic path. The girl bowed, touching her small hands to the earth, and went away with a lightness in her step, carrying a wisdom that even adults struggle to grasp.

For in that brief interaction, Patanjali had shown her—and us—something profound:

**The mind becomes silent not by force,

but by ceasing to disturb it.**

Silence is not a destination.

It is home.