Eleven Doors, One Silence

Eleven Doors, One Silence

By Sanjay Shharma

For years, Ekadashi was just a whisper in my home, a day my wife said casually, “Aaj Ekadashi hai. Chawal nahi banenge.” I'd nod, a gesture of routine, not reverence. It wasn't until a seemingly ordinary morning that I finally asked myself the question I had never dared to voice: Why?

She went on with her rituals — jal arpan, lighting a diya near Tulsi, planning light meals. Somewhere in the background, I felt the echo of Maa… decades ago, sitting in a quiet corner with her jap mala, whispering softly under her breath. No sermons. No display. Just a rhythm that felt sacred, even if I didn’t understand it.

For years, Ekadashi was like that — present, but unexplored. A ritual orbiting around me, yet never quite touching me. Until one day… I did what any modern seeker does — I Googled it. At first, all I found was food restrictions. Don’t eat rice. Avoid grains. Eat fruits. But that felt incomplete, a superficial answer to a deeper longing. Why only rice? Why this particular day, and why such profound reverence for something that seemed so minor? This surface-level understanding only deepened my curiosity, pushing me to dive deeper—not just into websites, but into ancient scriptures: the Padma Purana, the Skanda Purana, fragments of the Bhagavata Purana — and slowly, the pieces began to fit together.

“Ekadashi” means eleven. But it’s not just the 11th day of the moon cycle. It is also the day of the eleven senses.

Ancient Indian wisdom offers a richer tapestry than our modern understanding of just five senses. It speaks of ten active channels through which we constantly pour ourselves into the world — five of perception (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin) and five of action (hands, feet, speech, reproduction, excretion). These ten constantly pull us outward — into action, desire, distraction. And then there’s the eleventh — the mind — the invisible master conductor of them all. The one who directs attention, creates longing, stores memory, and chases fulfilment.

On Ekadashi, the scriptures say, we are gently invited to let the ten withdraw and allow the eleventh to turn inward. Not through suppression, but through soft awareness. Not to escape life, but to meet it more deeply. When these ten senses gently recede, and the eleventh — the mind — turns inward, a profound silence emerges. Not an absence of sound, but a quietude where the soul can truly speak and remember its own light.

And what about rice? That too has its wisdom. Grains — especially rice — are considered heavy in their energy. On Ekadashi, when the lunar cycle makes the body naturally more sensitive, such foods dull the subtle stillness available to us. Ancient seers saw it as a day to lighten the body — not for punishment, but for purification. So we eat fruits, roots, drink water, take in less — and feel more.

As I read, I began to try it out — not perfectly, not religiously, but reverently. I didn’t skip all food, nor chant mantras for hours. I simply observed the day. Ate lighter. Moved slower. Spoke less. Disconnected from noise. Reconnected with breath. I watched the sunrise without my phone. I sat next to my wife while she did jal arpan, and for the first time, felt something stir — not in the sky, but in me.

It wasn’t about skipping rice. It was about meeting myself. About slowing down enough to notice how much of life I had been eating without digesting.

And slowly, I realised — Ekadashi isn’t a rule. It’s a rhythm. A rhythm that whispers: you don’t have to be somewhere else. You just have to be here.

Twice a month, life offers us a mirror. Are you aligned? Or are you just running? It invites us to rest the senses, reclaim attention, renew the inner space. Even kings and sages followed it. In the Bhagavata Purana, King Ambarisha observed Ekadashi with such steadfast devotion that even the wrath of Durvasa Rishi could not shake his equanimity. It wasn't his fasting alone — it was his presence.

Now, when my wife says, “Aaj Ekadashi hai,” it means something more. I may still not follow every rule. But I understand the reason. My wife’s quiet rituals. My mother’s unspoken discipline. The scriptures’ quiet insight. All pointing to one thing — a day to turn the volume of the world down, and listen to the soul whisper.

Ekadashi is not about deprivation. It is an invitation. To fast — not just from food, but from reaction, noise, and compulsion. To nourish — not just the body, but the breath and the awareness. To remember — not something new, but something ancient that was always within you.

Until one day… and that day is today. Ashadhi Ekadashi.

The one where Lord Vishnu is said to go into yoga-nidra — cosmic rest — and the universe enters a more inward season of reflection, known as chaturmas. The day when lakhs of pilgrims walk to Pandharpur chanting “Vitthala Vitthala,” not to reach God outside, but to awaken God within. And maybe that’s what I too needed — not a temple, not a ritual, but a return.

A pause. A soft remembering. A sacred exhale.

“Chawal nahi banenge,” she said.

And I smiled. Because something else was being prepared —

Silence. Awareness. Grace.

It’s a truth echoed in ancient wisdom, reminding us:

“शांत मन की गहराइयों में, आत्मा का वास है।जहाँ मौन है संवाद सच्चा, वही मुक्ति का प्रकाश है।”

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About the Author

Sanjay Shharma is a seeker, storyteller, and observer of life who weaves timeless truths into everyday reflections. Drawing from the well of Indian wisdom and personal insight, his writings awaken remembrance — not of something new, but of what was always within. Through simplicity, stillness, and soulfulness, he invites us not to become more, but to remember who we already are.