When the Universe Goes Silent

When you’ve done everything right, and the universe still won’t speak back

There was a time when life made sense in its own strange way.

When I was a boy in a small village, I didn’t have much, but I had rhythm.

My days were stitched together by the hum of a shop, the smell of dust, the laughter of people who came and went with the sun.

I studied in government schools, helped at the family stall in melas, sold prasad outside temples, and learned how to observe the world quietly; how to remember faces, voices, and gestures like photographs in the mind.

People often say it must have been a hard childhood, but I never saw it that way.

I saw men who worked with dignity, women who survived with grace, and strangers who spoke to me like an equal.

That simple and uncertain life taught me how to absorb, how to endure, and how to stay human.

It was not suffering. It was education.

By the time I finished college, I had already been working for more than half my life.

I did whatever kept me afloat and I did multi-level marketing, freelance web development, IOT projects, internships.

I worked morning to night and through weekends, and by twenty-five I had cleared the debts that once defined my limits.

I quit my job, made decent money and bought basic luxuries of life for myself and family. On paper, I had made it out.

But somewhere between the exhaustion and the applause, I realised I didn’t know where I was going anymore.

I had spent so many years running toward stability that I didn’t know how to stand still once I reached it.

The emptiness was new; quiet, clean, and terrifying.

That was the first time I met meaning not as a word, but as a wound.

I went on to study psychology, searching for sense — in people, in pain, in the invisible stories that make us who we are.

I learned to listen deeply. I helped others heal.

And through that, I began to understand that perhaps the only way to survive life is to serve it.

That realisation became the seed for dsrp & Co.

I wanted to build something larger than myself, something that could make the act of working itself sacred.

I poured everything I had into it, be it my savings, my mutual funds, my safety nets, my sleep. When that wasn’t enough, I borrowed.

I convinced people to believe in my vision even when I was barely surviving it myself.

And yet, despite all of this and despite doing what felt right, staying ethical in an industry where shortcuts are currency, despite showing up every single day; there are still mornings when I wake up wondering: why does the universe stay silent?

I don’t expect rewards. I don’t expect applause.

But sometimes, all you want is a sign that your intent counts for something, that the invisible good you do quietly is not forgotten in the noise.

You see others who take the easier path, who trade integrity for opportunity, and the world seems to open for them as if virtue was a burden they were wise enough to drop.

And you start asking questions you never thought you’d ask:

• Does it really matter who you are as a person?

• Does the universe truly notice the ones who choose the harder right over the easier wrong?

• Or is life just randomness dressed in poetry?

Maybe this is what faith looks like when it matures; not the loud belief that everything happens for a reason, but the quiet endurance when nothing makes sense at all.

Because truthfully, the world doesn’t stop when good people struggle.

When a mother keeps caring, nobody notices until she stops.

When a father keeps providing, nobody thanks him until he can’t.

When a nurse keeps showing up the room feels ordinary, until one day it doesn’t.

That’s how the world measures goodness — by its absence.

And maybe that’s why people keep going, even when no one’s watching.

I don’t have a conclusion to this story. Maybe there isn’t one.

Maybe this is just how life tests those who are meant to build; by giving them silence instead of signs and questions instead of answers.

The reason this piece has no closure, no answer, no divine sign

because I don’t have one either.

I’m leaving it open, exactly as life feels right now

unresolved, uncertain, painfully honest.

And if you’re reading this and something in these words feels like your own silence then that is the only answer I have at this moment.

Maybe in this shared quiet

you and I can both sit in solitude

with that ache of waiting

for a sign, that hasn’t yet come.