Sounds of Silence

I had heard of Finland as the land of a thousand lakes, of saunas and silence, of design minimalism and moody forests. But what drew me in wasn’t a brochure promise - it was a photo I saw years ago of a woman staring at the northern sky, blue-pink twilight pouring over her like a secret. That image stayed with me, waiting, until I found myself booking a ticket from Mumbai to Helsinki. The calendar said June. The world said summer. But Finland whispered something else: stillness.

The journey itself was a contrast. Mumbai airport, bursting with voices, trolleys, families, and the smell of dosa and duty-free perfumes, slowly gave way to the serene hush of Helsinki-Vantaa Airport. As I stepped out, I remember instinctively lowering my voice, as if the Finnish air demanded respect. It was 9 PM, yet the sun hung lazily in the sky, diffused through clouds that looked like they were painted in pastels. Welcome to the land of the Midnight Sun, a stranger had smiled and said on the plane. I hadn’t understood what he meant until I was squinting at my phone screen, wondering if it was still evening or already morning.

My first two nights were in Kallio, a district in Helsinki that’s been called the “Brooklyn of Finland,” although I found that comparison to be unfair. Kallio is quieter, more honest. Vintage stores sit next to kebab joints, and vegan cafés don’t brag about being vegan—they just are. My Airbnb host, Antti, a bearded man in his late thirties who looked like he could be in a Nordic noir crime show, welcomed me with a plate of rye bread and a bowl of blueberries. “From my mother’s garden,” he said proudly. I smiled and thought of my own mother sending mangoes across the country every summer.

Antti introduced me to the Finnish love for silence. On the tram rides, people didn’t make calls or chat loudly. Even friends sat quietly, watching the city pass by. It was unsettling at first. In India, silence in a public place often signals discomfort. Here, it seemed to mean peace. Antti explained this with a phrase I would hear again and again: “We don’t talk unless we have something to say.” That first day, I walked along the Esplanadi Park, stopping to eat lohikeitto—creamy salmon soup served with rye bread. It was simple, comforting, and warm, much like Finland itself.

The next day, I took the ferry to Suomenlinna, the 18th-century sea fortress built across a cluster of islands. It was there that Finland began to slow me down. I joined a small walking tour and listened to our guide Elina describe the battles between Sweden and Russia, her voice so calm it almost felt like a lullaby. I wandered off at one point and sat by a stone wall overlooking the Baltic. A family of ducks paddled by. A couple walked past, speaking in hushed tones. I remember thinking: When was the last time I heard only wind and water?

On my third day, I boarded a train to Tampere, a city known for its lakes, saunas, and industrial history. But for me, it meant something more personal—my Finnish university friend Eero had invited me to his family’s cabin on the outskirts. We had studied design together years ago in Florence, and he had always promised, “Come visit Finland. You’ll breathe differently here.” He wasn’t wrong.

The train ride was a dream. Birch trees lined the route like orderly soldiers, lakes peeked through the foliage, and the sky—oh, that endless Nordic sky—seemed close enough to touch. At Tampere station, Eero picked me up in a dusty red Volvo that smelled faintly of pine needles and radio nostalgia. “I’ve stocked up on beer and berries,” he grinned. “And mosquito spray.” His family’s cabin was a wooden house with a sloping roof, no Wi-Fi, and a lake so clear it reflected the clouds perfectly.

At the cabin, I met Eero’s parents—Mika and Sanna—both in their sixties, both looking like they had walked out of a Juhani Aho novel. Sanna offered me cloudberry jam with crepes, and Mika immediately began preparing the sauna. “You’ve never been to Finland until you’ve sweated with strangers,” he laughed. And sweat we did. The sauna, built from aged spruce, was heated with firewood. We sat in silence, the occasional hiss of water on hot stones punctuating the moment. Then came the ritual run to the lake. I hesitated, toeing the freezing water, until Mika shouted, “Jump, Indian boy!” I did. The shock was electric. I gasped, then laughed. I had never felt more alive.

The days passed slowly, wrapped in pine-scented mornings and evenings that never really ended. Eero’s grandmother, Aila, joined us one afternoon. She didn’t speak much English, but through Eero’s translations and shared glances, she told me stories of wartime evacuations, of love letters burned in stoves, and of dancing in fields when peace was declared. When she learned I was from India, her eyes lit up. “Gandhi,” she said softly, with reverence. Then she asked if mangoes were still as sweet. I promised to send her some.

On my last night at the cabin, we grilled sausages, drank blueberry liqueur, and listened to old Finnish songs on the radio. Eero played a folk tune on his guitar, something about summer love and snowmelt. I didn’t understand the words, but the feeling—melancholy wrapped in warmth—was unmistakable. It reminded me of monsoon songs back home, the kind you hum when looking out of train windows.

After Tampere, I made my way north to Rovaniemi, just below the Arctic Circle. Known as Santa Claus’s official home, the town is a mix of tourist kitsch and Arctic charm. But beyond the reindeer souvenirs and Christmas jingles, I found raw, untouched beauty. I stayed in a small eco-lodge on the outskirts, run by a Sami couple, Anja and Petter. They showed me how to make flatbread over an open fire, taught me the names of birds in their language, and shared stories of reindeer herding and melting ice.

One evening, Anja took me to a ridge overlooking a vast expanse of forest and sky. We sat quietly, watching the sun hover just above the horizon, refusing to set. “This light,” she said, “is what keeps us going.” We talked about climate change, about traditions fading, about identity. She asked if India had indigenous people, too. I told her about the Santhals and the Nagas, about folk music and tribal wisdom. It was one of the most honest conversations I’ve ever had, rooted not in shared experience, but in mutual listening.

Before flying back to Helsinki, I visited a husky farm where the dogs were more enthusiastic than any tour guide I’ve met. One of them, a black-and-white beauty named Kuu, took a particular liking to me and followed me around, tail wagging like a metronome. The handler joked, “He thinks you’re from Lapland.” I wanted to believe that.

On my final evening in Helsinki, I wandered through the Design District, sipping coffee from a paper cup, watching life unfold slowly. There was a couple holding hands outside a Marimekko store, a boy feeding pigeons, and a busker playing the accordion. I walked down to the harbour, past market stalls selling reindeer sausages and fresh berries, and sat by the water. The air had turned cooler, tinged with the melancholy that comes with goodbyes.

I thought of the contrasts - Mumbai’s chaos and Helsinki’s calm, my home’s humid air and Finland’s pine breeze, the spicy rush of vada pav and the understated warmth of salmon soup. I thought of Aila’s wrinkled hands, of Anja’s stories, of the lake I jumped into like a lunatic. I had arrived in Finland with curiosity. I was leaving with something deeper - a sense of space, of balance, of belonging in silence.

At the airport, as I boarded my flight back home, I carried with me not just souvenirs or photographs, but stories etched in light. Finland had shown me a different rhythm of life - one where nature leads, where people listen more than they speak, and where beauty is found in restraint. Somewhere above the clouds, I finally understood what that photo from years ago had tried to say: that some places don’t shout their charm—they whisper it, and you just have to be quiet enough to hear.