It is hard to compare this experience with anything else that I have done. I knew it was going to be challenging, but not quite on the level that I experienced. On the day I arrived, I met a whole pile of other students also apprehensive about the coming days. Two girls, called Nora and Michelle, from Nepal and Canada, respectively. It was both mine and Nora’s first time, and we each exchanged nervous energy! About various things, the pain, the boredom, what we would find within ourselves, etc… On the bus and at the centre, I also spoke to a few more people to hear about their lives and the reasons for doing the course. I realised that I wasn’t alone. People were drawn to the course for a reason they found difficult to explain - like I was.

It may seem like a strange thing to desire to spend 10 days with no social contact with any other student, just questions directed to the teachers. But there was something I couldn’t quite understand about myself, and I wanted the opportunity to really look deep inside without just thoughtlessly reacting to stimuli from the outside world.

I was sharing a room with a guy called Tom, also from the UK. He’d studied Arabic at university and had spent time working in Dubai and Libya, which was interesting to get his impression of. He was in Libya in 2011 during the uprising and explained the culture of money and satisfying cravings in Dubai. We built a lot of rapport fairly quickly, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for the next 10 days sharing a room with only ourselves for company.

I met a few Nepalis who had been through the experience before. As we approached the dhamma meditation hall for the first time right before the course started, he said to me, laughing: “Right now, we know each other. For the next ten days, we don’t know each other”. This was the truth: we were to maintain complete, noble silence. Where one cannot speak but also cannot communicate with anyone else through facial expressions, gestures, notes, etc., we could talk to the assistant teachers if we had questions or problems, but the intention was to limit all communication with the outside world and direct all attention inward - towards oneself. As we slowly entered the hall, I had a pang of realisation that I hadn’t spoken to Tom for a while. It was an extraordinary feeling - like I wanted to say goodbye to a friend whom I wasn’t going to see for a while. Luckily, I saw him approaching the steps and managed a smile and a “See you on the other side!”

‘Vipassana’ means ‘to clean one’s mind of impurities’ in Pali, which was the language spoken in India at the time of Buddha (Gautama Siddatha). It was Buddha who discovered this technique to reach his own personal enlightenment - a stage where one’s mind is totally free from misery. Along with noble silence, we had to adopt five precepts of Sila - not to lie, not to take intoxicants, not to have sexual relations, not to steal and not to kill. We had a rigorous daily schedule. We awoke at 4 am to meditate from 4:30 am to 6:30 am. We then had breakfast and rested until 8 am, after which we meditated until 11 am. After that, there was a break for lunch from 11 am to 1 pm, which was followed by a very long 4-hour meditation period from 1 pm to 5 pm. At 5 pm, we had a light dinner until 6 pm, meditated for another hour until 7 pm, and then watched a ‘Dhamma discourse’ video in which Goenka would lecture on the topic to be learned that day.

The course started in the evening with meditation from 8 to 9 pm. The first hour of meditation went by in a confused state. We were unsure how to hold our postures or where to concentrate our thoughts. Most of the time was spent adjusting my sitting position and experimenting with pillow arrangements to minimise pain in my buttocks, legs, back, and knees. We went to bed at 9:00. I wasn’t tired and lay awake for an hour or so, feeling almost as if my vocal cord had been cut, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t speak, before eventually drifting off to sleep.

I awoke early, in fact, a few minutes before I heard the 4 am bell. Tom and I awkwardly tried to ascertain whether one needed to use the toilet before the other needed to brush his teeth without communicating in any way, but we somehow managed. The hall was similar to the night before, lots of jostling and discomfort in the air. Pillows became a scarce commodity. As soon as the last pillow had been dished out, those with a ridiculous number were looked over with scorn. Uncomfort certainly lead to scorn. I waited and waited, looking at my clock. 5:30 finally arrived in what seemed like an entire morning.

I said to myself, “I will not look at my watch again until 6:30”, and sat there drifting in my thoughts in great determination. I waited and waited. And waited and waited. Until I could wait any longer, and looked down at my watch. 6 am exactly! Oh my god, I was only halfway through. This just felt so mentally depressing. Like a needle bursting the balloon of my determination. I thought and thought about 6:30 am. Unknowing whether the food would be satisfying, but craving something to take me away from this experience. Finally, at 6:30 am came the deep sound of the gong-like bell. Which, once struck, was quickly spun so the sound reverberated around the ears and the body. In the hall, I quickly realised that it was just like being in a prison. Everyone was looking down. All that could be heard was food plopping on plates and the slow shuffling of feet. With the breakfast came delicious warm milk with a teaspoon of sugar, porridge and a chana curry. Very wholesome, tasty and full of energy. Feeling much better but exhausted, I went back to my room and fell back asleep.

I awoke again by the sound of the spinning bell. I was already beginning to feel a negative reaction to this. I was filled with dread when I realised I was about to face another 3 hours of meditation. I was already sick of it. Already averse to it. Begrudgingly, I went back to my cushion and closed my eyes. The pain in the lower back and butt quickly set in. I looked around to see if others were in a similar situation. It turned out they were - almost everyone was shuffling around in obvious discomfort, obvious pain. Not ashamed to admit it, but I gained a lot of motivation from this. Like we were all companions in the torment. This ridiculous situation we’d put ourselves in. 3 hours we sat, in pain. We’d shuffled, and our pain would shift. Until we felt pain again, and we shuffled some more. Until there was no position left for us to adopt which did not cause us some degree of pain, despite some creative imagination. I would hear faint noises in the distance and immediately crave that sweet, sweet reverberating sound. That sound would take me out of my misery. Finally, lunch came. The sound of the bell was as sweet as the taste of the warm sugary milk I had sipped in the morning. I immediately stood up and headed for the canteen. Anxiously anticipating and salivating over the coming food.

And I was not disappointed. The helpings were generous, the varieties were impressive, and the taste was superb. There was too much on my plate, in fact, for me to even manage. I was so full I had to throw some rice away, embarrassed. Afterwards, we had around an hour to relax and wander around the meditation centre in the sun. Watching the sun glisten over the leaves and flowers. Looking up, you could see up the side of the big Kathmandu valley up the foresty mountain, and looking down, one could see the tips of the houses all along towards the city at the basin. The contrast lit up the leaves even more. Having sat in a dark room for hours with nothing but my own thoughts, the sun and colours seemed to ooze a pleasurable sensation from every corner of my eye.

Eventually, the reality dawned on me that I would soon have to spend not 3 but 4 hours cooped up in that room, in darkness and total silence. Strong aversion crept up on me. Again, a strong, intense feeling of dread and despair. I knew I wasn’t going to run away. But all I wanted to do was spend this time right here in the beautiful sun. Eventually, I forced myself to go back into that dreaded hole again. Again, I sat in pain and discomfort, but now there was something different to contend with. The rice, potatoes, vegetables and curry had all piled up in my stomach, and this immense drowsiness ensued. I would sit in silence and suddenly have this shocked sensation as I would lose my balance and have to quickly correct myself for fear of falling completely against the side of another meditator. One can only imagine the sort of mental trauma I would inflict, shaking that person out of a deep mental trance in that way. I would right myself and lose balance, right myself and lose balance - until it became somewhat of a game I would play with myself.

I quickly grew tired of this game. I found having to force myself to consciously be awake and resist these waves and waves of sleepiness even more taxing and exhausting than dealing with the pain in my body. Somehow, I managed to get through it. Always focusing on the promise of food and sweet tea that would be there to greet me at 5 pm. It arrived all too slowly, and I scrambled out of the hall, my back aching, butt quaking and knees shaking. The promise was delivered, too, as I went for my second and then third helping of sweet, sweet tea.

After another hour of meditation followed by a long discourse, we had another short meditation period before heading again to bed. A completely exhausting and demotivating first day. I didn’t know how I was going to get through the totality of this.

Luckily, this was as bad as it got. On the second day, I managed to tie my blanket around my waist and knees and put a pillow behind my back to make a makeshift seat, which solved the pain in both my butt and knee. Fantastic. I felt jubilant. Looking back, there was no way I could have survived without the invention. The pain remained in my butt, though this was something I could push through.

We started to focus on the course. We spent three days learning and practising Annapanna meditation, in which one simply observes one’s own breath for as long as possible, until the mind wanders. I started to realise that, in fact, I have no control over my mind. I have control for a little while, but after that, it simply wandered and thought of things as and when it wanted. On the third day, we started practising what we had come here for: Vipassana.

The teachings of Vipassana and the realisation of Buddha are that the root of all misery and unhappiness is, in fact, our cravings and aversions. Everything outside of us that we see, hear, taste, feel, smell creates a sensation in the body. A part of our mind then reacts to this sensation, classifying it as either pleasurable or painful. If it is enjoyable, the habit of our mind is to respond with craving and attachment. When we have it, we are happy. When we don’t, we are unhappy. Similarly, if we experience a sensation we do not like, our brain reacts with aversion. We are happy when we do not have it, and unhappy when we do. All misery is this. It is a craving for things we haven’t got and would like, and an aversion to things we have but don’t want.

The trick with Vipassana is to remain equanimous to every sensation that we feel in the body. Whatever it may be. Whether it is a taste, a thought, or something visual, if you just observe the sensation in your body when a certain external thing happens, you don’t get attached to it or become averse to it. You still enjoy the sensation, but automatically remind yourself that this will also change. “Anicca” means “Changing”. When you realise and accept that absolutely nothing external is permanent, you don’t get attached to it or averse to it when it goes or comes, respectively.

Easy to understand in theory, at the so-called “intellectual level”, but very difficult for me to build as a habit. It would mean giving up the fantastic feeling of sweet, soothing, warm milk and the sound of the bell that always precedes it. It would mean detaching from many things one cares about. It is something that is easy to agree on, but so difficult to accept and practice oneself.

To practice Vipassana, one must start slowly observing the feeling of natural breath on one’s nostrils. The flow in and out is not caused voluntarily. The job is simply to observe the reality of the situation as it is, not trying to change or enforce how it should be. It doesn’t matter if it so happens to be a deep breath, a shallow breath, through the left nostril, the right, or both; it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t try to take a deep or shallow breath, and whatever happens, it’s all good. It doesn’t matter.

Once you progress in Annapana, you start to focus on the sensation of breath you create in the nostrils. The tickling sensation on the lower lip and mouth. You just observe these sensations. Remaining completely equanimous. Training your mind to become totally equanimous. Not attached to any sensation you encounter.

You then start to progress throughout the body. And realise that there are, in fact, many sensations everywhere on the surface of the body. You begin to observe the sensations that different parts of the body experience. Tinglings, tickling, etc, and also pain in the butt, oh, such pain in the butt. But you must remain detached and equanimous to all these things.

‘Adhitthana’ was introduced, requiring us to sit for an entire hour three times a day without adjusting our posture. Such pain ensued. You couldn’t look at your watch, you just had to realise that the pain you feel is actually impermanent. Eventually, I started to get into the thought habit of “Oh, I have a pain, let’s see how long this lasts”. But similarly, one must do the same with pleasant sensations. Even though the feeling of ‘free flow’, subtle vibrations all over the body, feels good. It is very easy to become attached to and crave this sensation.

As you move along and remain totally equanimous, old cravings and aversions (‘Sankharas’ they are called) start bubbling up. The fantastic thing was that I could begin to feel the habit of equanimity remain. I would put myself in certain situations and then observe the reactions deep inside. Such as the feeling of nervousness. I started identifying the actual process within me that makes me feel short of breath, and although I’m a little ways off, it’s given me a sense of how to control this reaction. There are subtle reactions that happen that I don’t even think about, but I started noticing that I did. Those are much clearer to me now.

However, no matter how much control over my senses I had, I had no control over my laughter when, during total peace and silence in the hall, a loud, confident and assertive fart would explode, followed by an eruption of restrained laughter. The was no control. I could feel the initial sensation seed form, but did not notice it in time before I reacted with a slight tremor in my intercostal muscles. And these tremors led to more laughter sensations, which I also could not observe in time and before I knew it, all control was lost, and I was swept away in a wave of hysterics. At the end of the day, after 8 days without laughter, I had to go to the hall all by myself and laugh like a crazy person for an hour.

I realised that my girlfriend and I were drifting further and further apart. I just didn’t want to admit it. I realise that the time we had was incredible and I don’t regret a single second. But that situation will never be the same again. I had no intention of getting a job back in London when I returned home. I just couldn’t admit it to myself, but 10 days with only your thoughts for company mean there’s nowhere to hide. When I suddenly made this realisation, I cried. I cried so much I felt like I was vomiting. All afternoon, I cried because there is still a part of me, the fuzzy feeling that wants her. But I realise that what it wants is how it used to be. But the other part of me will never be content with this. There were two contradictory cravings, and one of them had to give. A Russian man named Vlad came and consoled me.

On the final day, noble silence was lifted. We were finally able to talk to each other. Such a strange experience: walking out of the meditation hall and looking around at all these faces you recognise but have never spoken to. You know their faces but know nothing about what they are like. As if they are actors and you’ve only seen pictures of them. Hearing my own voice was incredibly strange. I was much more sensitive to feel the vibrations in the neck and hear the sound in the ears, but throughout my body.

Finally, when the first conversation was broken, it was amazing how the compassion and fondness I felt for the people sitting close to me. We’d all been through an experience together that had seriously tested us mentally, even for the people for whom this course was not the first.

I had many incredibly deep conversations with these people after the experience. Arnie from the Netherlands, Hannes from Germany and Tom from England. I also felt very connected to one of the dhamma workers, and was saddened when I couldn’t accept his offer to stay with him a few days after the course, as I had to catch my flight and head to Myanmar. I was very much looking forward to this visit now. This is where Goenka, the ambassador of Vipassana and the teacher of the course, was from. He unfortunately passed away last year, but I found him and his teachings incredibly wise.

In my opinion, the best thing about this technique is that it looks inward rather than outward for salvation. The problem of misery is universal, so the cure must be universal. Not just limited to this particular religion or that particular religion.

Something I felt nagged, however. There was a monk who was on the course with us. He seemed to get varying special treatments. He didn’t have to queue; he sat at the front in a raised seat. Why? It promoted this way of living - to give up everything and choose the path of no possessions. Totally committed to the path of enlightenment. Make us crave and want his lifestyle. Totally against everything that we were being taught, in my opinion.

Similarly, none of the teachers could give me a good answer to my question about why the meditation pagoda is so beautiful. Its sole purpose is meditation, but who has made it so ornate and for what reason?

However, overall, this was an experience that I will never forget and can’t compare to anything else. And it is something I will keep up, for 1 hour in the morning and in the evening when I can.

I was in such a deep conversation that I even missed the last bus back - old habits die hard! So I had to get a local bus with Hannes. I very much enjoyed the company, however, and after heading to an internet cafe to assess the damage in my inbox (nothing was bad and I managed to deal with everything in less than an hour - remaining equanimous!) I got a taxi to the airport to head to the third and final chapter of my trip: Southeast Asia.