In Dharamasla I met an American girl who had just finished a 10-day vipassana course. It sounded awful — ten hours of meditation per day, with no speaking for the duration.

“Didn’t you get bored?” I asked her.

“No,” she smiled. “It was a relief to spend some time with myself.”

“You must have read a lot.”

“Books aren’t allowed. Neither are phones, writing materials or your own food. No luxuries at all.”

I shook my head — she seemed normal enough: why the hell had she put herself through that?

Over the next few days I met a lot of other travellers who had completed a vipassana course: some might say this was an omen that I ought to try it, but it was more likely because I was on the Indian tourist trail where everyone involved themselves in some kind of spiritual pursuit.

Eventually however I convinced myself that travelling was about trying new things and I might never have time for something like this again.

The induction

There were a lot of foreigners waiting in the café near the vipassana centre. Most chain-smoked cigarettes — like people who eat a load of junk food before their diet begins the next day.

I met a guy called Mike — a Chinese-American who seemed completely spaced out.

“I’ve just finished a degree in computer science,” he said. “But I hate technology. I wanted to study philosophy but my Dad forced me to do computer science instead. In the final exam we had to use the university computer — it took me three minutes to figure out how to turn it on!”

“Does your dad approve of you doing vipassana?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know,” laughed Mike. “He thinks I’m here because India is the computer hub of the world.”

A queue of about 150 people snaked up the stone steps towards the centre entrance. We signed consent forms and filled in information about our medical history. I confirmed I’d had no (major) psychotic episodes — then relinquished my belongings and received a receipt in return.

A series of stone buildings surrounded the centre’s small courtyard. The complex overlooked the hills but you couldn’t walk too far — numerous signs said: “Course boundary. Do not cross. Be happy.”

A vipassana volunteer gave me a blanket and pointed to my accommodation — a large corrugated shed. There were about 50 beds inside and mine was closest to the door.

Shortly after, a loud gong summoned us to dinner.

In the large dining room we were segregated by sex; on the other side of the screen the girls chatted loudly, but in the male quarters it seemed as if the enforced silence already had begun.

After porridge and tea, we washed our bowls in the sink — where a sign said: “Please rinse off soap carefully. Be happy.”

Then came the introductory talk: no talking, no eye contact, no hand gestures, no smoking, no drugs, no stealing, no private food, no reading, no writing and no phones.

At the end of the introduction, “noble silence” began and speaking was prohibited.

That night the wind rattled through the freezing shed. I lay in bed and worried about tomorrow: I knew nothing about meditation — so doing 10 hours of it was the equivalent of not being able to swim and trying to cross the Atlantic at the first practice.

The vipassana begins

The bells woke me up at 4 a.m.

I stumbled into the darkness, up the stone steps, and into the huge meditation hall. A narrow carpet separated the men from the women — each of us were assigned one of the meditation cushions that had been laid out in neat rows.

The “assistant teacher” entered through a side-door. He strolled onto a low platform, sat down and crossed his legs. He had a microphone but rarely said anything — most of the instructions were on tape.

The audio had been recorded by Goenka, a successful businessman who turned to vipassana to cure his migraines. Impressed by the results he later became a teacher — and today he is the face of vipassana across the globe

For the first three days the instructions were basic but not easy: observe the breath flowing in and out of your nostrils. This requires a high level of concentration — it’s almost impossible to stay on task for a minute — let alone hours and days.

Goenka whispered, “Start again … start again.” Work patiently and persistently. Persistently and patiently. You are bound to be successful … You are bound to be successful … You are bound to be successful.”

I didn’t feel successful; my mind bounced from one thing to the next — and most of my thoughts were utterly useless.

OBSERVE YOUR BREATHING … Yes … in and out … in and out … perhaps I should live in the US when I’m older… that would be great …and… OBSERVE YOUR BREATHING… what would the best state to live in …. Hmmm … how many states are there again … I really ought to know that … 52? I wonder what I’ll look like when I’m 52 … I bet there’s an app that shows you that… I wonder what’s for lunch … the potatoes were good yesterday … 

Breakfast at the centre consisted of porridge, rice and bread. Lunch took place between 11 a.m. and noon — usually curry with rice, some fruit, and occasionally cake. There was another tea break at 5 p.m. during which we were allowed a small bowl of cereal — but most flouted the rules — discarding their bowls and filling their trays with cereal instead.

Learning to meditate

We spent the evenings watching Goenka’s video lectures.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he grinned on day four. “My legs are killing me! How long is this going to go on for?”

He was right about the pain — sitting in one position for 10 hours a day was hell. The new cushions that had collected at the back of the hall confirmed this — many people now leant against the walls or begged for plastic chairs.

After three days the instructions changed: now we had to resist moving to teach our minds to remain equanimous in any situation. Apparently only a small amount of pain is experienced in our body, and this is then exacerbated by our mind — if we remain aware of this we can stop creating pain for ourselves.

As well as observing our breath, we were now instructed to observe the sensations in our bodies. The theory is that everything we experience manifests as a sensation in our body — but most of us don’t notice and go straight to our minds instead.

If we feel a pleasurable sensation our minds react positively and we want more. If we feel a painful sensation then we want rid of it. In this way our lives are out of balance — we’re either craving good sensations or running from the bad.

On day 7 we were asked to remain aware of our sensations at all times. When walking we should feel the sensations in our legs and the the ground beneath our feet, when eating we should feel the food against our lips and the cutlery between our fingers.

The idea is that by moving our attention into our body we return to who we truly are.

Whoever the hell that is.

If I was trying to control my mind then I couldn’t be my mind — which began to make me wonder …

The end of vipassana

Goenka told us to continue to work hard and use the time  — but by the final day many of us already had mentally checked out — and not in the way he’d wanted us to …

Then, at last, the moment came.

“Noble silence” finished and we were able to talk again.

The chatter sounded strange, as did my own voice, and for the first few minutes I couldn’t form proper sentences.

“Oh my God,” said Mike. “That was impossible, right? I gave up after six days. I just sat in the hall, staring at the teacher and thinking to myself: ‘You think I’m meditating, but you haven’t got a clue what I’m really thinking.’’

“What were you thinking about?”

“Mainly old TV programs and songs that kept popping into my head. The thoughts were so pointless, but I just couldn’t stop them.”

At first, I found this shared realisation about how our minds work disappointing — it certainly hadn’t been worth a ten day investment.

But during the following months this attitude began to shift.

Now that I knew my mind churned out random thoughts, I stopped giving them so much attention. In this way I was able to notice and then ignore recurring thoughts that would have caused angst in the past.

Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t become a different person, but in a subtle yet perceptible way, life had become a little lighter.