A chance photo I took in the chaos of Saigon reminded me of a lesson from my childhood – that wisdom begins not with knowing, but with listening.
You’ve likely seen him before — the elephant-headed god who sits calmly, with his wide ears and round belly, always grounded, always aware. He’s one of the most recognisable figures from Hinduism. But more than just a symbol, he’s a message in form.
Those big ears? They aren’t random. They’re a nudge. A call to listen more. To take in more than we speak. To absorb before reacting. Two ears. One mouth. That ratio isn’t an accident. Perhaps it’s one that we ought to be using when deciding between how much to listen and how much to say.
In a world louder than it’s ever been — filled with hot takes, instant opinions, voices shouting over each other to be heard — maybe the bravest thing we can do is stay quiet long enough to hear what’s really being said. Or more importantly, to know what’s worth listening to in the first place.
There’s a memory that still makes me squirm. I must’ve been about seventeen. Back in South Africa. It was yet another all-day weekend satsang (religious gathering) with my mentor and two best friends — the kind of session that not only teenagers my age happily dodge but also elders twice my age.
My mentor asked if any of us knew a verse from a scripture we read daily (Swamini Vato). He read the first few words and then a few more in the hope of it ringing a bell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. However, rather than stay silent or better yet, admit that I did not know it, I began murmuring along while he was trying to give us the lead with a few words. You know, the way you try to sing along and butcher a song you don’t quite know the lyrics of.
It did not take long for him to catch on. He snapped. Rightly so. My two other friends, who also did not know it, remained silent. I didn’t. I let my fear of not knowing and the desire to be liked and not disappoint speak for me — louder than honesty ever could. The result was that I inadvertently achieved the very outcome I was hoping to avoid – disappointing my mentor. Looking back on the incident now, I realize seeking approval is something I’ve been doing all my life. Sure, to a lesser extent now but I would be lying if I said it’s a self-sabotaging behavior that completely leaves you on its own without acknowledging it and actively working on it. Anyway, that’s for another post altogether. Coming back to the topic at hand.
This little incident from my life reminds me of a fable that I learned at the temple of a father and son. The son kept bringing his paintings to his father, who critiqued them harshly each time. Not out of malice, but to sharpen him. One day, the boy painted something he believed was brilliant and, desperate for praise, secretly placed it where the father would find it without knowing the artist. The father praised it. The son revealed it was his.
Instead of joy, the father was disappointed. He said, “Progress ends the moment praise becomes more important than growth.”
This hit home because that’s exactly what I was doing — chasing approval, not understanding. Wanting to seem wise rather than become it.
Even Krishna, the divine charioteer of Arjun, didn’t start with instruction. He started with silence. With listening. On that battlefield, with chaos swelling all around, he let Arjun fall apart first. Only after that came the Bhagavad Gita — a timeless guide born not from noise, but from presence.
This photo, from the heart of Saigon, reminds me of that. Of the stillness in Lord Ganesha’s ears. Of the silence before Lord Krishna spoke. Of how easy it is to pretend to know, and how rare it is to pause long enough to actually learn. That understanding comes before being understood.
Until the next one.
Abhay.