There is a peculiar stillness that accompanies the night of Amavasya—a silence so profound it does not merely blanket the world outside, but seeps gently into the chambers of the soul. For centuries, across the subcontinent, Amavasya has been regarded not merely as the darkest night in the lunar cycle but as a space in time where the veil between the seen and the unseen thins. It is a night when the sky offers no moon to comfort the wandering eye, and instead invites one inward—to reflect, to remember, and to release.
Amavasya, or the new moon night, is often misunderstood in popular discourse as ominous or eerie. But to those who sit in stillness and observe the rhythm of nature, it is a deeply spiritual pause—a turning inwards. Unlike Purnima, which celebrates fullness, radiance, and outward energy, Amavasya whispers the language of surrender, emptiness, and introspection. It is a night made not for celebration but contemplation.
October 2021’s Amavasya was particularly profound, falling just days before Diwali, the festival of lights. In many Hindu traditions, this Amavasya is considered the most spiritually charged of the year. Known as Bhoot Amavasya in some parts and Mahalaya Amavasya in others depending on the calendar month, it’s a time when ancestral energies are believed to be especially active. In homes across India, flickering diyas were lit not in celebration, but as quiet offerings—guiding lights for those who came before us, and a reminder of the impermanence of our own earthly journey.
In a small town in Gujarat, I remember watching my grandmother perform the rituals that October evening. The home was not bustling with the typical Diwali buzz just yet. Instead, there was a subdued reverence. A small silver plate held sesame seeds, water, rice, and a simple diya. She whispered prayers under her breath, her eyes closed, her hands folded—not in performance, but in presence. It wasn’t about the ritual itself, I realized. It was about the connection, the quiet dialogue between generations that could no longer be spoken aloud, but were now felt deeply.
That evening, the silence around us was not heavy. It was sacred. And within it, there was an undeniable emotional weight—something that can’t be manufactured or rehearsed. It was the kind of silence that invites memory. And in memory, we often find healing.
Spiritually, Amavasya is considered a potent time for shedding. Just as the moon has receded into darkness, so too are we invited to release our own accumulated burdens—the emotional clutter, the unprocessed grief, the hidden fears. Yogic philosophy often regards this night as ideal for deep meditation and self-inquiry. The absence of lunar energy, they say, allows us to sit with our shadows without interference. In this dark, we are seen more clearly—by ourselves.
In that same October, many people were still reeling from the emotional scars of the pandemic’s second wave in India. The loss was not just physical—it was spiritual. Amavasya gave space for unspoken grief. In many homes, photos of lost loved ones were adorned with marigolds and incense, not as a gesture of mourning alone, but as a silent acknowledgment: “You are remembered. You mattered.” There is something profoundly cathartic about rituals done in silence. They say what words cannot.
In modern times, we often forget to honor the cyclical nature of life. We celebrate new beginnings with fanfare, but rarely give endings the attention they deserve. Amavasya nights gently push us toward that realization—that life, too, needs pauses. That silence is not absence, but presence of a deeper kind.
Walking outside that night, there was no moonlight. Only the distant glow of oil lamps at doorsteps and the occasional rustle of trees swaying in wind. And yet, the darkness didn’t feel empty. It felt like a womb—protective, waiting, sacred. The kind of space in which something unspoken could be born—not through sound, but through stillness.
One of the most beautiful aspects of Amavasya is its refusal to demand. It does not ask you to act. It does not require celebration. It simply offers itself—a blank canvas. Some fill it with prayer. Others with rest. Many simply sit with their thoughts. And that’s enough.
That Amavasya in October 2021 reminded me that the darkest nights are not those to be feared—they are the ones that call us home. Not to a place, but to ourselves. In a world addicted to light, to noise, to constant motion, these shadowed evenings are gifts. They remind us that growth is not always upward—it can be inward.
For those who’ve lost, Amavasya is a balm. For those who seek, it is a doorway. And for those who simply are, it is a moment of stillness in the endless spiral of becoming.
As the night grew deeper, I remember lying on the terrace, staring at a sky that held no moon, yet brimmed with quiet promise. There was no rush. No illumination. Just a gentle, enveloping silence. And somehow, in that absence, I found a fullness I didn’t know I was missing.
