In a charming café, Anjalika and I discover that quietly listening is an art, more powerful than voicing opinions. Through conversations and humour, we explore the depths of communication, where silence speaks volumes. Sometimes, the best thing we can offer is our attention—making someone feel heard, understood, and validated.
Have you ever tried to really listen to someone? Not just nodding along while internally planning your next grocery list or mentally constructing a winning argument, but actually giving them your full attention. I had no idea how hard that was until I met Anjalika. And let me tell you, it is both an art and a challenge.
It all started on a Tuesday, in one of those quaint cafés where the air smells like fresh coffee, burnt toast, and a pinch of procrastination. You know the type—wooden tables, potted plants hanging like they belong in a Pinterest board, and overly enthusiastic baristas who refuse to believe you just want black coffee. I’m pretty sure I was their only customer without an artistic hobby. The girl next to me was sketching a pigeon, for crying out loud.
Anjalika sat two tables over, a whirlwind of energy in a soft pastel sweater. Her thick, curly hair was tied up, though a few strands rebelliously fell over her forehead. She had one of those faces where the eyebrows practically do half the talking—constantly moving, expressing thoughts she hadn’t yet voiced. And, oh, the way she smiled. It was the kind of smile that felt like a secret, like she knew something you didn’t, and you’d never figure it out until she told you.
But the most striking thing about her wasn’t her curly hair or that mischievous smile. It was her voice. No, scratch that—it was her silence.
How does listening change us?
I hadn’t known Anjalika for more than a few days when I realised she had a habit of just…listening. At first, it was unsettling. Here I was, spilling out every anecdote, every wild theory about life, love, and everything in between. Yet she just listened, nodding thoughtfully, occasionally leaning forward with her elbows on the table, her gaze sharp but kind. And every so often, she’d throw in a small “Go on” or “Hmm, what do you mean by that?”—like she was coaxing my thoughts to unravel more completely.
As someone who prided himself on his wit, I suddenly felt very seen. And heard. It was strange. I wasn’t used to it. Most conversations these days are more like verbal tennis matches. You lob an idea over the net, and the other person smacks it right back, hoping their opinion will land in your court with more force.
But Anjalika wasn’t like that. She wasn’t waiting for her turn to speak; she was waiting for me to finish.
I found myself wondering: Is this how people feel when someone really listens to them?
That feeling you get when your favourite song comes on, but it’s more than just a song. It is like someone plucked your emotions and thoughts right out of your chest and turned them into a melody? That’s what it was like talking to her. She wasn’t just present—she was attentive. And she made me feel like I mattered.
Can silence really be more powerful than words?
Here is the thing—I talk a lot. My mum once joked that I could have a conversation with a wall and walk away convinced it was a great listener. So when I met Anjalika, it wasn’t like I wanted to keep my mouth shut. But slowly, over time, I began to realise something: in a world so full of noise, sometimes silence is the loudest form of communication.
Take this one evening. We were sitting on a bench, watching the sunset—which sounds like a cliché, but bear with me. We had been talking about everything under the sun (pun intended), and then suddenly, she just stopped. Her eyes drifted toward the horizon, and she didn’t say a word.
Now, the old me would have filled that silence with a rambling story about my latest hobby or an attempt at a profound observation about the colours of the sky. But instead, I stayed quiet. We sat there for what felt like forever, just watching the sun sink lower and lower. And in that silence, something unspoken passed between us. I couldn’t explain it then, and I’m not sure I can now, but it was as if that quiet moment spoke louder than any words could have.
It was peaceful. It was perfect.
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Why do we feel the need to fill the silence?
Most people can’t stand silence. You know that awkward pause in a conversation when you are scrambling to think of something—anything—to say? We treat silence like an enemy, something that needs to be vanquished with chatter. But what if we’ve been wrong this whole time?
As I sat with Anjalika in that quiet café, watching her listen to the world around her, I began to wonder: What if silence isn’t a gap that needs filling, but a space that needs to be honoured?
She told me once that people talk for two reasons: to be heard or to be understood. There is a difference, you know. Being heard is easy. You can shout your opinions on social media, argue with strangers online, or even force your point across in a heated debate. But being understood? That’s much rarer. It requires patience, empathy, and—above all—listening.
Anjalika was great at creating that space for people, and soon I wanted to try it out for myself. It felt weird at first. I had this knee-jerk reaction to jump in with my thoughts every time someone paused. But slowly, I learned that when I stopped trying to talk at people and instead just listened to them, the conversations became richer, more meaningful.
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Are we afraid of what silence might reveal?
It is funny how afraid we are of silence. Maybe it is because, in those quiet moments, we are forced to confront our own thoughts. Maybe it is because we fear what the other person might say—or not say—when we stop talking.
But when you let go of that fear, magic happens. You see, when you stop trying to fill every moment with words, you make room for connection. And isn’t that what we are all really looking for? Connection?
I remember the first time Anjalika told me about her brother. It was one of those conversations that snuck up on me. We’d been talking about our favourite films, and suddenly, she shifted the conversation, her voice soft but steady.
“He used to make me watch all these old black-and-white films,” she said, eyes focused on a distant memory. “I hated them at the time. But now, I think I’d give anything to watch one of those films with him again.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened. And I think that was enough. Sometimes, silence is the only answer. Sometimes, quietly listening is a way of saying, I’m here. I hear you. I see you.
Is listening the key to better relationships?
As it turns out, listening isn’t just good for making someone feel heard. It’s good for relationships, too. Think about it—how many arguments could be avoided if we just took the time to actually hear what the other person was saying?
I was never great at relationships, if I am honest. I used to think that the key to being a good partner was to be witty, charming, and always ready with a clever comeback. But Anjalika taught me that sometimes, the best thing you can do in a relationship is to shut up and listen.
I started doing this thing where, instead of trying to “win” arguments, I’d just sit back and let the other person talk. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t try to fix things. I just let them get everything off their chest. And it worked. We would argue less, and we’d understand each other more.
Turns out, people don’t always want solutions. Sometimes, they just want to know that you care enough to listen.
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Can listening change who we are?
By the time Anjalika and I had been friends for a year, I noticed something had changed. Not just between us, but in me. I wasn’t as quick to jump into conversations, wasn’t as eager to have the last word. I had become more patient, more thoughtful. And I realised that listening isn’t just about the other person—it changes you, too.
There is a quiet power in listening, in holding space for someone else’s thoughts and emotions. It teaches you empathy. It teaches you to see the world through someone else’s eyes.
And in the end, isn’t that what we all need? A little more empathy? A little more understanding? Maybe if we all just stopped talking for a minute and started listening, we’d find that the world isn’t as noisy as we think. Maybe we would realise that, in the silence, we can finally hear what matters most.
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The Listening Practice: Where Love Stops Performing and Starts Becoming
There is a moment in every almost-relationship when the performance begins.
You lean forward, not because you are moved, but because you have rehearsed leaning.
You smile, not because joy rose in you, but because silence frightens you.
You ask questions, not to know—but to impress.
And afterward, you are tired.
Dating feels exhausting not because love is heavy—but because pretending is.
For those walking the path of conscious dating, for healed hearts who have done the therapy, read the books, survived the almosts—there comes a quieter longing. Not for fireworks. Not for chemistry that burns the house down.
But for presence.
And presence begins with listening.
Not waiting-to-speak listening.
Not fixing listening.
Not seducing-through-attention listening.
Listening as if the person across from you is not an opportunity—but a universe.
This is The Listening Practice.
It sounds simple. It is not.
In a world addicted to speed, listening feels like rebellion. In a dating culture built on curated bios and dopamine swipes, stillness feels almost suspicious. We are trained to perform desirability. We are not trained to cultivate emotional intimacy practices that feel sacred, slow, and disarming.
So here is the ritual.
When you sit across from someone—whether it is the first date or the fiftieth—decide silently: I will not perform. I will witness.
Feel your breath in your chest. That is the Heart chakra opening—not to impress, but to receive.
Feel your throat soften. That is the Throat chakra choosing honesty over charm.
Feel your sacral center relax. That is desire without hunger. Attraction without grasping.
Then ask something real.
Not “What do you do?”
But “What has been heavy on your heart lately?”
Not “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
But “When do you feel most like yourself?”
And when they answer—do not interrupt the becoming.
Let their pauses exist.
Let their contradictions breathe.
Let their vulnerability land without applause.
Most people have never been listened to without agenda. When you offer that, something shifts. Their shoulders drop. Their voice changes. The mask loosens.
This is how to date consciously. Not by saying the right enlightened words. But by practicing reverence.
In spiritual relationships, love is not extracted—it is revealed. And revelation requires safety. Safety is born not from promises, but from presence.
The Listening Practice is one of the simplest emotional intimacy exercises for couples—or for two strangers deciding whether they might become one. It asks only this: Can you be with what is here without trying to edit it?
Notice what happens inside you as they speak.
Do you rush to agree?
Do you scan for compatibility points?
Do you prepare your own story while theirs is unfolding?
That is the old survival self. The one dating from trauma. The one seeking validation disguised as connection.
But if you stay—if you anchor yourself in breath and body—you begin to experience something rare.
You begin to feel them.
Not their résumé. Not their curated trauma summary. Not their charm.
Their humanity.
And in that space, mindful love becomes possible.
Because real intimacy is not built in grand declarations. It is built in moments where someone feels deeply seen—and does not feel consumed.
This is the spiritual dating guide no algorithm will give you:
Presence is erotic.
Stillness is magnetic.
Safety is seductive.
When someone feels heard, they soften. When they soften, truth arrives. And truth is the only soil where conscious love can grow without rotting beneath performance.
The change you seek in dating will not come from better lines or clearer boundaries alone. It will come when you stop asking, “How am I being perceived?” and begin asking, “Can I hold this soul gently?”
Connection thrives where presence replaces performance.
So the next time you sit across from someone and feel the old exhaustion creeping in—pause.
Drop the script.
Drop the armor.
Drop the need to win.
Date from your truth—not your trauma.
Listen as if love is already in the room.
Because sometimes, it is.
And it is waiting, not to be impressed.
But to be met.
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