I never believed in meditation. The very idea seemed absurd – how can one sit still and ‘empty the mind’ when that very mind is globe-trotting without passport, visa, or ticket?
So when my son vanished for about 12 days, and even his wife was clueless, I was genuinely concerned. He resurfaced, calm and smiling, to reveal he had been at a Vipassana course at Dhamma Khetta in Vanasthalipuram, Hyderabad. Why the secrecy? ‘Perhaps you would have stopped me,’ he said. Before I knew it, he had registered my name for the following year. And that is how my reluctant journey began.
First sitting, first shock
On arrival, my phone was confiscated. No laptop, no books, no writing – and worst of all, Noble silence. No talking, no whispering, not even eye contact with fellow meditators.
The early days were torment. I was certain I would not survive long. But somehow, I lasted 12 days. The food was simple, the stay comfortable, and the group meditations strangely energising.
S.N. Goenkaji’s recorded video discourses in the evenings – equal parts practical instruction and compassionate wisdom — steadied us through physical and mental turbulence.
I came out a slightly changed person. The shift was subtle but real. Anger and stress dipped, just a little, but enough for my family to notice. Encouraged, I signed up for a Dhamma Tour across the Buddhist circuit in India and Lumbini in Nepal, and later another ten-day course at Dhamma Kondana in Sangareddy. My family’s approval of my latest session (August 10–24 at Vanasthalipuram) is probably the best endorsement of all.
Voices from the meditation hall
I was not the only one surprised by the effect. A sleepless executive battling body stiffness rediscovered rest. A Catholic priest called it a ‘mental detox’. A Muslim tutor learnt to embrace both success and failure. An octogenarian, undeterred by age, kept sitting for his thirtieth course. The spectrum of voices was proof that Vipassana does not belong to any religion. It belongs to humanity.
Karteek, 44, an executive from Bheemavaram, Andhra Pradesh, had been battling severe body stiffness, sleeplessness and even early Parkinson’s. ‘I dragged my feet everywhere, and pills kept piling up. Here I began sleeping like a child – lights out at nine, up at four. My stiffness is down by 40 per cent. I never imagined I would walk out feeling this light.’
For octogenarian Raja Gopal, this was his thirtieth course. A former BDL employee, injured years ago in an accident, he still arrives at the hall earlier than many half his age. ‘I first came in 1985, when it was all tin sheds. Now there are proper halls and rooms, but the essence is the same. As long as I can walk, I will sit.’
Uday Bhaskar Reddy, a retired banker, said his maiden course gave him ‘energy, discipline, and better sleep. There’s a soothing effect you cannot quite describe – but you sense it.’
Catholic priest Jiggu George from Ernakulan in Kerala, who does his missionary work and teaches science in Tanzania, called it a ‘mental detox’ between missions. ‘I had done it before, but could not continue. This time I feel light – as if some weight has lifted from my head. I can focus better, and I will share this with my parishioners.’
And then there was Imam Sahib Sheik, who runs a coaching centre in Hyderabad. ‘This field is cut-throat, and I was drowning in stress. Here I realised failure and success are both temporary. If I fall, I rise again. That is what I will tell my students. I only wish I had known about this earlier.’
On the Buddha’s trail
The Dhamma Tour of 2024 took forty of us, including a Japanese participant whose Hindi put many to shame, across the sacred circuit – from the meditative stillness of Sarnath to the Bodhi tree at Gaya, from the ruins of Nalanda to the mist at Kushinagar.
We meditated with Sri Lankan visitors at a Buddhist vihara, shared food at a monastery, and sat alongside Thai monks near the Sarnath stupa. At Bodh Gaya, dawn meditation under the banyan tree was beyond words.
The journey had its drama – a traffic jam lasting several hours in Vaishali courtesy of a political rally, a steep climb completed in a doli by a 78-year-old, and a visa scare for our Japanese friend at the Nepal border. But each day ended the same way: with meditation, metta (loving-kindness), and a sense of connection to something timeless.
Awareness and equanimity
Vipassana is deceptively simple. You observe the breath. You observe bodily sensations. No mantras, no chanting, no visualisation. Only observation. Beneath the stillness, buried miseries surface and dissolve.
The rule is strict: do not react with craving to the pleasant, or with aversion to the unpleasant. Watch them rise and pass away. Maintain equanimity (samata), and awareness that all sensations – whether gross and solid or subtle and fleeting – are impermanent (anitya).
Goenka ji often reminded us that these sensations are not random. They are the sankharas – deep-rooted miseries surfacing from the depths of the mind. Through observation without reaction, Vipassana begins to dissolve them. It is a deep cleansing – a way of ‘seeing things as they really are’ – and equips us to face the vicissitudes of life with calm.
It was Goenka ji – born and brought up in Burma (now Myanmar) – who reintroduced this technique to India in the early Seventies. The Buddha had taught it here, but it was long lost in the very land of its origin. Goenka ji went on to establish scores of Vipassana centres across India and abroad, ensuring the practice was available freely to anyone, without charge.
From scepticism to stillness
I began as a sceptic. I am still not a mystic. But I have sat in silence long enough to know this: in a noisy, restless world, giving yourself the space to listen inwardly is no small gift. The remarkable part? You are not charged a single rupee. Everything runs on voluntary donations – and when you have tasted the mental detox, you feel moved to contribute.
And sometimes, even the ‘just a bit’ of change you bring home – a little less anger, a little more calm, a touch of equanimity – is more than enough.
