Rough Hewn: The Silence of the Room

It is a strange thing, to be abandoned by someone who never existed.— Shon Mehta 

There are moments after completing a story or novel when I feel an odd sadness—an emptiness I cannot quite explain. I realize that my characters—those strange people I once believed I controlled have quietly departed. As they should; and yet, what is unsettling is that I miss them. I feel abandoned. It is a strange thing, to be abandoned by someone who never existed.

During the act of creation, these characters trouble me greatly. Some exhaust my patience, others hurt my conscience, a few even frighten me with the truths they reveal. But once they fall silent, I miss them as one misses acquaintances who, despite their faults, once filled the rooms of one's life with noise and meaning.

Let me talk about a few I remember the most.

The first is Jaskar Dharman. Writing him felt like remembering something I was not aware I knew; he did not simply arrive—he was there, and I just recognized him. He is a figure shaped by order and structure, someone who refuses to collapse beneath the weight of his own flaws. It is not perfection that commands respect in Jaskar, but the refusal to break.

Then there is Isaku. Characters like Isaku are not understood so much as they are felt. He carries a quiet, almost sacred presence, like the silence inside an ancient, forgotten temple. He feels less like an ordinary individual and more like what conscience might look like if it were forced to take human form. He does not speak much, yet he induces a stillness in others that allows them to hear themselves.

Then there is the street-smart Lokya. Lokya sees the world not as it pretends to be, but as it really is. Writing him felt like conversing with someone who already knows the ending of the story but refuses to reveal it out of politeness. There is a clarity in him that suggests he does not need the writer at all. Lokya feels like someone who could outlive the page.

I often recall the aura of Queen Travi, the leader of Rongchas. She carries a gravitas that inspires a quiet, solemn respect. She is guided by principles that make her hold on power reassuring. It is a rare kind of power—one that does not demand obedience, but makes it unnecessary. Her presence stabilizes rather than unsettles.

I also miss the monk Trivit from The Timingila, though he remains an enigma. Even after all these years, if someone asks me what kind of person Trivit is, I would say I don’t know. He is someone to be accompanied rather than understood. His calm, attentive eyes appear both knowing and distant; he does not hide, yet he never fully reveals himself.

I might have missed Tasvak more than any other character, if not for the echo of his words—so often repeated, so widely known. He never truly departs, held in the light of his own renown, a voice that cannot find silence because the world insists on repeating his words.

And then there is Prince Abhik, who made writing an emotional burden. I hesitate even to speak his name because of the remorse I feel—the remorse of a creator toward a suffering they themselves have invented. I gave him his weaknesses, I planned his punishment, yet there is something unbearable about creating a character whose pain you understand more clearly than your own. At times, I wonder if I was too harsh, but then I realize that mercy might have destroyed him. A kinder world would have made him an ordinary character, and he was meant for something more.

Why do we do this? Why create lives only to burden them with meanings and contradictions we ourselves cannot resolve?

Perhaps because it is the only way we are capable of examining what we would otherwise avoid. In doing so, we become responsible for sorrows that never happened, and yet feel entirely real. Then, when the characters leave, the room returns to its silence—but it is not the usual silence.

 It is a silence that remembers them.

———

The Inhabitants of the Silence:

Jaskar Dharman, Tasvak, & Trivit: From The Timingila. 

Prince Abhik, Queen Travi, Lokya, & Isaku: From Lair of the Monster.

——

Shon Mehta is an author and philosopher known for creating the Jivavarta Universe, a fictional setting used to explore sociopolitical themes, human resilience, and moral philosophy. Her work has transitioned from contemporary fiction to foundational academic material used in several countries. Rough Hewn is her series of reflective essays, where she explores the personal memories and philosophies behind her writing.