Raised in Noise, Rooted in Silence
|
|
| Raised in Noise, Rooted in Silence My Father Shiva: A Journey of Faith, Love, and Awakening |
|
|
|
| In Raised in Noise, Rooted in Silence, the author takes us through a deeply personal and spiritual journey, beginning with childhood devotion to Shiva, shaped by the inherited grief of exile from Kashmir, and later evolving through love, loss, meditation, and motherhood. From the sacred stillness of a Ram temple to the soul-stirring energy of Osho’s ashram and the vibrant solitude of Los Angeles, each chapter brings her closer to her spiritual core. Through dreams, divine guidance, and quiet awakenings, she learns to trust her path, even when it spirals through uncertainty. This is a story of surrender, resilience, and remembering who you truly are—even when the world forgets. At its heart, it is a call to stay grounded in faith and open to transformation. |
| The one who has always watched over me, guiding each step, whispering through my most difficult days, and gently warning me before every storm, was with me long before I arrived on this planet. My journey with my constant force, Shiva, began in early childhood. I prayed to him every day, instinctively drawn to his presence. Even during chaos, through punishments at school, the ache of abandonment, and the relentless tension at home. I never truly felt alone. He was always there, quietly holding me together. During difficult days, I would quietly write “OM” on my hand, drawing strength from that simple ritual, whispering to myself, “Shiva, help me find peace in the chaos.” My parents, displaced from Kashmir in the 1990s, carried with them a silent but immense burden, the mental and physical trauma of losing their homeland. They did their best to create a life of stability, but their hearts remained tethered to the valley they had left behind. The spiritual stillness of the Kashmir mountains and their deep, unwavering love for Mouj Kasheer (Mother Kashmir) made it impossible for them to belong fully anywhere else. The emptiness of exile quietly consumed their spirits; they lived for their children, having long surrendered the hope of ever returning to that lost paradise. I was just two years old when we migrated, with no memories of Kashmir of my own, yet somehow, it lives in me. It shows the way I dress, the food I cook, and how I treat others with love. Kashmiri culture is woven with threads of poetry, mysticism, and deep spiritual reverence. We celebrate life through our meals and soul-touching poetry. As a child, I could not fully grasp the depth of my parents' struggles, but I absorbed their pain like a sponge. To cope, I searched for small ways to heal. Often, I would sit on the terrace for hours, gazing at the night sky, trying to feel free, if only for a moment. Near our home stood an old Ram temple, quiet and timeless, with a grand peepal tree whose branches stretched like arms of silence. Beneath its shade rested a serene Shivling, always adorned with fresh yellow flowers and glistening with offerings of milk. Every other Sunday, I would walk to the temple, fill a small metal bucket with freezing water, and gently pour it over the Shivling. I was just eleven, but in that quiet, I felt a sense of belonging, of being seen. The temple became my sacred refuge, a place where stillness met devotion, and where I could feel the peace that often eluded the rest of the world. Then life moved forward. College took me to Dehradun, a place that felt new, fresh, and full of possibility. Dehradun was a canvas of colors, snowy mountains, the towering trees of FRI, and a breeze that always carried stories. I made friends, fell in love, and slowly drifted from the rituals of my past. For a while, I forgot about praying to Shiva. I was free to think, to explore, to express myself in ways I had not before. Sunday mornings were spent at the peaceful Tibetan temple, eating momos, and sitting on the lawn. Walks through the Wildlife Institute of India sparked a love for nature and conservation, while weekend escapes to Rishikesh opened me to the energy of the Ganga and the spiritual pulse of the mountains. I was fully immersed in the present, living a new life shaped by friendship, nature, and freedom. Until one day, I stumbled upon the Tapkeshwar Temple in Dehradun. A long flight of stairs led me into a cave where a gentle stream flowed through the heart of the earth. Dozens of Shivlings rested beneath the cascading water, timeless and still. The energy there gripped me. I stood frozen, breath held, as if the presence I had once known had been waiting patiently for my return. In my 20s, I began exploring new ideas and spiritual paths. Talking about God was not exactly “cool” in college, so I played along, trying to fit in, slowly detaching from the faith I had grown up with. Around this time, I discovered Osho. My partner introduced me to his teachings and gave me a book that would change the course of my life. I soon took Osho's sannyasa — a spiritual rebirth that was not about renunciation, but about celebration. Unlike traditional paths, Osho’s Neo-Sanyas embraced life fully, encouraging meditation through dance, laughter, love, and awareness. It was a path for the modern seeker, inwardly free, yet fully engaged with the world. Through it, I entered a world I had not known before. My guru had warned me, “Keep your heart open. You are playing with fire now.” Right after finishing our bachelor’s, we started visiting the ashram often and felt a longing to stay close to OSHO. So, we decided to stay at the Osho ashram for a few months to learn new techniques of meditation and get closer to Osho’s teachings. The experience of living in the ashram cracked me open. It was a period of unlearning and ego death. I scrubbed toilets, cooked for friends all over the world, meditated, and danced with people I had never met before. Every day was raw and revealing. Life in the ashram flowed without hierarchy—everyone dressed in maroon robes, shedding identities and social roles. We woke up to dynamic meditation: intense breathing, catharsis, silence, and celebration. The days were filled with active meditations like Kundalini and Nada brahma, designed to shake the body free of unconscious blockages and bring awareness to every movement and breath. After a few months, I felt weightless, almost enlightened, like I had finally found peace. But what I did not realize then was that the work had only just begun. The dust of old pain—from past lives, childhood wounds, and ancestral grief—had merely been stirred. Osho was not offering me an endpoint, but a beginning. A reminder that the spiritual journey does not move in a straight line; it spirals. And with every full circle, life tests you again… just to see how much you have truly grown. After the ashram, I moved to Bangalore for my master’s. Life kept flowing forward with dosas, filter coffee, and crowded bus rides to work. My partner and I stayed connected, navigating the complexities of distance, time, and growing up. Eventually, he moved to Bangalore for his PhD, and our world came closer again. After ten years together — despite caste differences, family drama, conflicting views on marriage, vastly different family dynamics, and years of persistent resistance and negativity — we eventually got married. Ours was not a fairy tale, but a journey of rebellion, healing, and relentless growth. Spiritually, we often clashed, both seekers, both stubborn, each with our truth. At times, it felt like an ego war disguised as devotion. Yet beneath it all was a deep love and commitment to walk the path together, no matter how winding it became. A few years after our marriage, our thirst for growth and knowledge brought us to UCLA for further research, a dream come true. Beaches, freedom, peace, and beauty surrounded us. We spent our first few weeks in a modest hostel near the Hollywood Walk of Fame, soaking in the vibrant energy of Los Angeles while searching for our first apartment in LA. There was a wild kind of freedom in those days — starry streets, late-night conversations, the buzz of possibility hanging in the air. I walked for miles along the coast, feet in the sand, wind in my hair, soaking up the sun and the ocean’s quiet wisdom. Afternoons were spent in the UCLA library, wandering its halls, reading research posters, and picking up fresh sourdough for the next morning. I explored farmers’ markets, palm-lined streets, and the quiet majesty of California’s hills. The natural beauty of LA, golden skies, and boundless water mirrored something sacred within me. I told myself, I am home. Everything around me vibrated at a higher frequency, and the collective consciousness of this place felt nothing short of magical. But beneath all that beauty, solitude quietly crept in. Without a work permit, my days were filled with long walks, books, and the occasional battle with boredom and loneliness. Slowly, I began to lose my sense of self. Until one afternoon, while lying on the couch, I slipped into a deep meditation and dreamt……………….. I found myself walking toward a dark, jagged mountain, water thundering down its face. At the base stood a massive Shivling beneath the roaring stream, and there was Shiva, still and majestic, deep in meditation. His presence was so powerful, so overwhelming, it took my breath away. Then, Shiva looked at me and said, “Stand up. Get ready for what is coming next.” I could not move; the magnificence was too much to bear. And then I woke up, sitting on the couch, tears streaming down my face. Days later, I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I was overwhelmed, filled with both fear and joy. He had returned. Shiva had made his presence known once more. I could no longer ignore the signs. I began meditating and praying, this time for my baby. I felt stronger, grounded, fearless. Yoga came to me effortlessly, as if I had done it for lifetimes. Within weeks, it became a daily rhythm. During this time, I had the rare opportunity to work with the celebrated author in LA, who’s writing beautifully preserves the intimate histories of women and Chinese American heritage. Assisting her in Los Angeles was one of the most enriching experiences of my life. I was six months pregnant, spending my mornings and afternoons surrounded by creativity, literature, and a warm circle of women who soon became dear friends. I started authoring small articles of my own and discovered the quiet joy that comes from putting words to emotion. Our daughter was born, and everything began to shift for the better. Life moved forward, new homes, new beginnings. I received my work permit after COVID, and when Nritya turned two, I finally started working again. For a while, life felt smooth. Then, after 18 months, I lost my job due to the limitations of my work permit. I felt helpless, disoriented. New desires began to cloud my mind: owning a home, earning more money. I found myself comparing my life with others, and the peace I had built began to slip away. That night, Shiva appeared in my dream again, this time, angry. I saw myself scrambling up a snowy mountain, battered by snowballs, desperate to find shelter. I took refuge in a small temple. In that moment, I knew I had gone off track. Eventually, we decided to have one more child. We were living on the university campus, surrounded by calm, lovely neighbors, and long walks with my dear friend. I was well cared for, held in warmth and friendship. I did not feel alone. This time, Shiva appeared in my dream again, he blessed me, but also warned me. I did not understand the message until my husband’s lab was abruptly shut down around Thanksgiving. Just a couple of months before my due date. I was seven months pregnant, without health insurance or job security. That is when I touched the peak of anxiety. I did not know how to manage it. While my husband searched for a new job, drafted papers from his old lab, and fought for his rights with the university, I turned inward. To ease the discomfort of uncertainty, I discovered a beautiful Kali mandir remarkably close to my house, I started visiting the temple regularly, and I also began meditating intensely. I picked up the Shiva Sutras by Swami Lakshmanjoo, a revered Kashmiri saint. The Shiva Sutras are ancient texts from Kashmir Shaivism that explore the nature of consciousness, revealing how the divine vibration (Spanda) pulses through everything in existence. Reading them was a revelation. I had listened to Osho’s discourses on the Sutras before, but this was different, pure, direct, powerful. They blew my mind open, just like Osho’s words had when I was eighteen. The teachings reminded me how small our problems are in the vastness of this universe, and how intimately connected we are to all of it. We named our second daughter Spanda, after the sacred vibration described in the Shiva Sutras, the cosmic pulse from which all life flows. After years of waiting and navigating endless paperwork, my work permit still had not arrived. I often felt restless and defeated. No matter how hard I tried, nothing seemed to move forward. I have always been an expressive person. But without a way to channel that energy, without a career, without creative work, I began to feel like I was slowly unraveling. The unexpressed ideas, the urge to create, the need to contribute... it all started weighing on me. I slipped into a quiet depression. I longed to write. I longed to work. But life was demanding in other ways. Eventually, something inside me said: “Eventually. I began to set boundaries and detach, to create space for my needs. And in that stillness, I heard Shiva again—gently but firmly urging me to speak, to write, to share. So, I started writing. Now, life is fast-paced and intense again. The world feels heavy. My faith in myself and Shiva kept me afloat. Life is not about playing it safe; it is about taking a leap of faith and trusting that the universe has your back. Ironically, the farther I moved from home, the closer I grew to my roots in Kashmir. I have never been there as an adult, but my soul remembers it through the food, the poetry, the longing. I know I have a long way to go on this journey. But I also know that if we trust our inner voice, our path will always unfold. A big transformation is coming, and I am listening. To feel connected to Shiva is to live with intensity and detachment when the moment calls. Do not run from it. Life often gets harder before itgets better.
I surrender to Shiva. To you, the reader, stay grounded, stay soft. Let your spirit flow like a river. Transformation is near. I am waiting, watching, trusting. |
|
.jpg)
*Neha Razdan is a budding writer based in California, raised on kahwa, stories of exile, and the whispers of Shiva. Originally from a Kashmiri Pandit family and born in India, she writes about identity, motherhood, migration, and spiritual growth. Her work blends the soul of Kashmir with the sunshine of LA. Deeply influenced by her Kashmiri heritage, Osho’s teachings, and the enduring presence of Shiva, Neha seeks to honor the memory of Kashmir while carving out space for healing, remembrance, and rootedness in a rapidly changing world. She hopes to continue exploring the mysticism, rituals, and rich cultural legacy of Kashmir in her future writing. |
|
|
