“Solitude is not emptiness — it is service. A quiet walk in the forest taught me that listening to the smallest voices can reveal the biggest truths”.

When I look back at my days of PhD field work in a Northeastern state of India, what I remember most is not just the research, but the silence of the forest. Of course, this I realized much later, after my degree was complete. But I was fortunate to have noted many of my experiences — not always what I saw, but often what I felt — in the form of ad libitum observations. These were the quiet, personal notes that later guided me to decode many things that my formal data-sheets could not reveal. I know that in the scientific world, such insights — without statistical backing — may not stand the test of scrutiny and are often rejected outright. Yet, I have come to see them as a form of ‘latent knowledge’: subtle, truthful, and free from bias, and therefore deeply valuable.

As I walked through the forests, often with just my assistant (a tribal whose knowledge of nature needed no scientific backing) or sometimes even alone, the silence surrounded me. At first, it felt heavy — even boring — as I was transitioning from the busy, loud lifestyle of a public office. But slowly, I began to sense that the forest was not silent at all. It was alive with voices we often ignore.

Once, my assistant told me that a snake was moving with a frog in its mouth, because he had heard a peculiar sound — a sound I completely missed. His trained “natural ears” had caught that frequency. When we checked our surroundings, we found exactly what he had said. Another time, the careful rustle of dry leaves under our steps sent small lizards scurrying away, and even startled barking deer fawns — things I had not noticed before. The sudden call of a bird, warning others of my presence. The busy hum of crickets, rising like an unseen orchestra, especially when we passed through deep, moist patches of forest where small rivulets (locally called chhara) flowed incessantly.

I began to notice things that I had missed before. These sounds were always there — but drowned out by our own noise, our constant talking, and our assumption that we humans know best. A classic example of missing the real charm of nature, along with the deeper meaning that natural settings try to convey, is what I often noticed with tourists visiting a tiger reserve. At the end of their sojourn, many felt disappointed because they failed to spot a tiger. In that disappointment, they did not realize what they had truly missed — the sounds of nature that surrounded them. In their single-minded quest to see the tiger, they ignored those valuable gifts of the forest — very much like “missing the wood for the trees.”

As I grew in public service, and especially when I got closer to local communities after my studies on primates (monkeys and langurs) — creatures who are speechless to make any explicit claim for their needs — I noticed something striking. The local communities too, though they can speak, often remain “voiceless” when it comes to presenting their needs. They depend on nature for all aspects of life, yet their traditional wisdom and practices are often dismissed as “unscientific.” In reality, this knowledge is what has helped them co-exist with wild flora and fauna for generations.

I still remember one such moment: while walking with my tribal assistant, he suddenly paused and said, “The Albizia procera (koroi) tree in front of us will be in full bloom with tender leaves within the next 15 days.” His prediction — without the help of AI or any scientific instrument — proved absolutely correct. He had grown up in the company of this and many such plant species, observing their growth and life cycles as if they were his playmates. He could read the signs on his own, while also carrying the wisdom passed down from his elders. Thankfully, today we are once again beginning to recognize and revive such wisdom under the name of Traditional Knowledge Management (TKM).

And here lies the deeper lesson: just like the forest’s silence, this knowledge asks us to pause and listen. I say this not as someone against science — being a PhD myself, I value and respect its rigor. But I, as I have noted above, also see how, in the modern world, anything not backed by primary, statistically analysed data is often dismissed as having no value for life. In that noise of “scientific” voices, we risk overlooking truths that are vital for balance and survival. I realized that even the tiniest creatures — those who are speechless — and the local communities — those who are voiceless in the larger system — have much to contribute. Each plays a role in maintaining balance, in creating the very conditions that sustain life, including human life. Their silence often carried more wisdom than many of the loud voices I had heard outside — even in state, national, and international seminars and conferences. What I learned in those quiet forest walks, and in my closeness with communities, was that what appears small or invisible — a creature, a tree’s subtle change, or an unrecorded traditional practice — is often profoundly important. My real knowledge did not come from statistics alone, but from listening deeply, and realizing that silence itself is a form of wisdom.

This lesson humbled me. Silence was not emptiness. Silence was a teacher. It allowed me to listen more carefully, to others and to myself. And the lessons followed me beyond the forest:

In research discussions, silence taught me to pause, reflect, and articulate before answering, much like the pause of a langur troop, I noticed during my research, before they chose to cross an open patch — alert, careful, and wise.

At home, I discovered that silence could cool anger and create space for understanding, the same way a still water hole in a wildlife sanctuary/national park quenches thirst not just for one, but for many species together.

From local communities, I realised that what matters most is not how loudly one demands, but how deeply one listens. Their quiet, traditional practices of plucking handful of leaves/fruits etc. from the wild, protecting sacred groves, etc. carried more strength than many official “loud” policies.

Today, I see solitude not as loneliness, but as nourishment. Just as a tree draws its silent strength from roots hidden deep in the soil, we too need silence to draw our inner strength — so that our service can remain steady, sincere, and without ego.

The world may celebrate loud achievements, but I have learned that real change often happens quietly — like the hidden work of a seed growing into a mighty tree, the unnoticed contributions of small forest creatures, or the unspoken wisdom of local communities who live close to nature. Their voices may be soft, but their contribution is immense. And so it is with us: small, quiet acts of service can shape lives in ways far greater than we imagine. True service begins not when we assume we know best, but when we pause to listen — really listen — to the voices around us, however small they may seem. The forest has taught me: nothing is small, and no voice is ever wasted.

Let us reflect: When did I last pause in silence — long enough to hear what usually goes unnoticed, in nature, in others, or even within myself?”