Personal transformation often starts with intense experiences. This is a story of a journey that changed my life, written in the third person, as if to look back at my younger self.

The boy stood at the gate. Through a small opening, he saw a shaft of bright light. He waited, not sure what to do next. It had been a journey many years in the making; a journey of pain, suffering and growth to stand in this place. He looked at the shaft of light again; it was even brighter this time, as if to beckon him closer. ‘Come through,’ it seemed to whisper, ‘here is everything you are, and everything you hoped to be.’ He looked down at his feet, his hands trembling, his whole body in a state of heightened awareness. But, still, he waited, rooted to the spot, holding on. Everything he knew was in question. He remembered a quote he had once read: ‘The moment before you let go is the moment you hold on the most.’ He looked again at the opening, took a long breath in, and slowly let it out. He tentatively reached forward with his right hand and pushed open the gate. The light flooded his face, his body, and deep into his whole being. He walked forward, step by effortless step, and through the gate to the other side. In that moment, his world changed forever.

The journey to this point started in the late 1990s. It was a time of Brit-pop, millennium computer bugs and drinking on university dance floors. On a superficial level, the world was okay. The promise of hard work, good exam results, and material happiness offered some choice for a young mind. But he was curious about life, always questioning what really mattered. In turn, this curiosity had led him to a story about a young prince who became dissatisfied with a life of privilege and was also asking questions. The story of the Buddha was powerful, and the boy’s bookshelves became a refuge for these texts. He read about the Dalai Lama, meditation, inner peace. He even read the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying; a spiritual narrative so expansive, it challenged everything. ‘We get old, we get sick, and we die,’ so, what can we do about it, in this life or the next? Good A Level results are useful. But to what end? There was always something else to achieve, some other hill to climb, only to roll down the other side.

At university, a group of meditators came together on the top floor room of a generous Georgian terrace house, every Wednesday evening. The class was taught by an ageing man with close-cropped hair and beads around his neck, wearing flowing white clothes. He seemed pleasant, if a little intense. The experience was miles away from drink-fuelled parties and ready meals; and yet, only a couple of streets away. There was an eclectic mix of students, local pensioners, and busy professionals. But they all found common experience in one thing: breathing; in and out, from one to nine, and then back again, from nine to one. So it went on, for about 20 minutes each week. Sometimes there were moments of stillness; at other times, his mind would jump around from essay deadlines to what to have for dinner. Would his friends be in the pub, again? But he returned, week after week, interested enough to try, interested enough to practice.

After university, reality kicked in. Friends were moving all over the country, finding work, and splintering the camaraderie of student life. Reflection, study, and curiosity were over – at least it felt like they were. Three years had gone by in a flash, and it was time to get a job. But the boy decided to move back in with his parents and develop another plan. The nagging feeling in his heart, mind and soul just wouldn’t go away. Yes, he would find a career, but he would save the money to go away travelling first. While many of his friends settled into their jobs in the bright lights of London, he was now back at home, looking for work. A temporary contract working on publishing databases wasn’t much fun, but his colleagues were pleasant. He earned enough to get by and put some of it aside; eight months building up funds, thinking about where to go and what to do.

Monks, mountains and monasteries

One of the books he’d read described a land above the clouds, a land where dreams travelled into the air, and monks prayed at the foot of great mountains. He imagined a place where people lived more simply, trading with each other and contemplating life, for the good of everyone. In Ladakh, a Himalayan Kingdom in the north of India, farmers, villagers and monks lived alongside each other next to the mighty Indus River, which started its long and epic journey from the tributaries of the high mountains, across a thousand miles of high-altitude desert, before plunging down towards the Bangladesh delta. The capital, Leh, was an ancient trading post between Pakistan and India, protected from the ravages of development and modern life. It sounded ideal, but did it really exist? He thought it was a long way from the Western world, always in such a rush, with its baffling priorities.

Over the winter, he sat in the attic at his parents’ house, feeling lonely, but quietly determined. He explored maps and read stories. It was a time before the internet knew everything, so research was a reflective and time-consuming process. There seemed to be a few ways of reaching this mystical place: travelling alone, overland from India; joining a group tour; or signing up for a farm stay with a local family. He wanted the experience to be real, unfiltered, he wanted to see this place for himself. From Ladakh, he thought about travelling across the Tibetan plateau, through Nepal, and to the eastern fringes of Sikkim. The trip’s working title? Monks, Mountains, and Monasteries. He stood back from the books and maps, considering this plan. Something felt right, something had clicked. His dream of going travelling and experiencing the world he read about was coming to life.

But, on the news, there were rumblings of political discontent on the India-Pakistan border. The long dispute over parts of Kashmir was bubbling up again and the Indian military was on manoeuvres. Once the news came through that the farm stay wasn’t an option, there was no anchor to start the trip. He still had a return ticket to Delhi, but only part of a plan. The doubt began to creep in. Should he go at all? Would it be safe? The Foreign Office warned against travelling to certain parts of the region. He sat down at the kitchen table, pushing the food around his plate. His parents, supportive and understanding, offered quiet words of encouragement. ‘If you don’t go now, you’ll probably regret it later…’ They were right, of course.

Fear meets with defiance – and then reality

In early July 2002, he walked into the terminal at London Heathrow. The dull grey space was filled with excitement, fear and apprehension, a heady contradiction of emotions in otherwise banal surroundings. After checking in his backpack, holding enough for six months of adventure, he turned and said goodbye to his parents. It wasn’t a particularly emotional moment; it felt more defiant. He punched the air, as if to say: ‘I’ve got this.’ He didn’t have it at all. His parents knew this, of course, but they would never say. Quiet support. Knowing looks. It was farewell, but only for a while.

The flight to Delhi took nine hours and he sat alone, contemplating the next few months, watching the sunlight fade below the horizon, as night fell at 30,000 feet. Eventually, the plane landed at 2am into the stifling Indian heat. The noise, the smells, the people – the sheer number of people – were overwhelming. A kind soul on the plane had agreed to share a taxi and, as luck would have it, knew the city well. Thirty minutes later, inching through the airport traffic, they pulled up outside a guest house in the cluttered backpacker district of Parharganj. It was basic, but a friendly man at the front desk offered the boy chai: a hot sweet tea, commonly served in the country. ‘Welcome to India…’ he said. ‘Er, thanks,’ replied the boy; fear rippled just below the surface. He sat on the steps, and a cow wandered past. Over the road, men lay asleep on beds, wooden frames with stretched hessian offering comfort from the dirty rubbish-strewn street below. The air was thick, heavy, and hot. Upstairs the ceiling fan reluctantly circled, pumping hot air around the bedroom. The boy lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Here he was, 4,000 miles from home, on his own. He imagined friends and family enjoying their steady lives and home comforts, getting ready for bed. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ he thought.

It didn’t take long for the answer to come. July temperatures in Delhi can reach 45 degrees and, for a young lad from the English countryside, way too hot. Street salesmen saw an easy target and the crowds felt unnerving, unpredictable, and unsafe. He was at the beating heart of the Indian capital and yet felt like an alien in another world. So much for a spiritual journey, gently transporting him from one place to the next. In contrast, New Delhi railway station was airy, the high ceiling and sprawling ticket office a signal to the days of British rule. It also offered a route out of the sweltering heat. The train north would leave at 11pm that evening and a cabin with six bunks would be home for the next 12 hours. On the journey, he felt the warmth of Indian hospitality when a kind family shared food, but he lay in fitful sleep as the train trundled through the sticky mid-summer night. Dawn on the state border of Punjab and Himachal Pradesh was a breath of fresh air, 500km to the north. The oppressive heat had lifted, and the green of the countryside began to reveal a lusher, softer, quieter landscape. As the train reached the railhead at Pathankot at 6am, the boy stood on the platform watching the crowds disembark. He took a few deep breaths. He was getting closer now, and he could feel it.

A journey in search of himself

The journey to Mcleod Ganj took an hour through green hills. The hillside town was famously home to the Dalai Lama, who has been living there since his exile from Tibet in 1959. For the spiritual tourist, it was a place that might hold answers. Instead of the farm-stay in Ladakh, this would now be home for the next two weeks, before travelling north into the high mountains. In his heart, he knew he was part of the tourist crowd: privileged westerners, taking time out to travel to the Himalayas – ‘beware the ‘gap-yaah’ cliché’, he thought. So, he decided to check into the guest house of a Tibetan monastery, which a friend had recommended, down a quiet street, away from the main thoroughfare, for some quiet contemplation. Inside, he was ushered quietly into a basic room with a simple bed. It was like those on the streets of Parharganj market, but with a mattress this time. The room was only a few pounds a night. It was quiet and it felt safe. It was also much cooler than his experience in Delhi; no ceiling fan was needed. Outside, clouds folded their way across the hillside, and houses clung to the landscape in search of protection from the elements.

The next day, he walked past street stalls selling the Tibetan dream: prayer flags, beads, and prayer wheels, all offering a message of hope to the rest of the world. Backpackers continued to arrive by the busload, and monks perambulated in small groups, their dark red robes unmistakable against the whitewashed buildings. He could hear their throaty chants, and watched them pass prayer beads through their fingers, with dexterity and rhythm. Cars, vans, and buses, which had surely all failed their MOTs, inched along narrow roads through the crowds. It felt touristy; a place where people go, looking for something. The boy met people in cafes and at yoga classes. He also attended Buddhist teachings, hoping that some of them might sink in. It was a comfortable, but odd, two weeks, as travellers arrived, and locals smiled. Everyone was kind, accommodating and approachable. But it felt like something from a film set, a canvas on which the Tibetan story had been painted. The story of dispossessed people finding their way in a foreign country was one thing; being hijacked by well-meaning tourists was another. Maybe that was a harsh assessment. But it was somehow a sanitised, watered-down version of what he had read about. The ingredients were there, the mix just didn’t feel quite right. But when it was time to go, the boy felt more purposeful and confident about the journey ahead. He was ready to travel into the high mountains. From Mcleod Ganj, he travelled overland to Manali by bus, and from there he would take a two-day jeep ride to Leh, in Ladakh.

Something beckoned him to go higher, seeking some kind of truth. But the higher he travelled, the bumpier the road became. The green valleys gave way to the Alpine desert. The smooth roads became potholed tracks. The air became thinner, the sun got hotter. The pain of travelling along rough roads was real. And yet, he continued, as the roads wound their way up into the sky, and signs warned of the dangers ahead – ‘after whisky, driving is risky’ read one. It would certainly be tempting to have a drink. The roads were narrow, twisting, and perched on the edge of great ravines. The sun was intense and unrelenting. All powerful. It was hard to breathe. It wasn’t fun.

Finally, the tension broke: over the top of one hill, driving down the other side, he entered a valley that time had forgotten. The great Indus River – the one from his books – was glistening like a silvery grey snake far below. Traditional houses and farmsteads hugged the hillsides. He saw weather beaten faces and monasteries; beautiful, white-washed buildings with golden spires and prayer wheels rooted in the landscape for thousands of years. Welcome to Ladakh, where the local time is about 30 years behind the rest of the world, he thought. Separated from the rest of civilization by the high mountains, but offering a glimpse of a time before. What was it about this place? Why did it matter so much? Because, in the thrust of modern life, something had been lost. A quenching of the soul had been stifled at the gates of western consumerism. People had been reduced into units of productivity, stripped of their very essence by the corporate machine. Or they were just trying to survive the icy winds of being human. The truth was probably somewhere in the middle.

Driving into Leh was mesmerising. A mini metropolis high on the Himalayan plateau. Pilgrims walked the streets, hulking their bags under great strain. Tradespeople in dusty, rickety garages sat alongside all manner of spare parts and engines; food sellers piled their packets of imported goods outside in the sun, close enough to capture the wandering eye of passers-by in the street. It was a heady mix of commerce and community; tradition and modernity, rubbing up against each other. Just outside the centre of Leh and its busyness, a small guest house sat on the grounds of a rich and fertile garden. The scene was like something from a children’s movie: quaint, safe, and peaceful, a space for visitors to play and rest in the surroundings of this strange and otherworldly place. It was like nowhere the boy had seen before. There were no comparisons to be made, no reminders of home; nowhere in India felt like it. Cut off from the rest of the world in some ways, but with roads and an airport, Leh was the beating heart of contradiction; a trading post in a place that didn’t fit the world he knew.

At 3,500m, it was also a high-altitude town, and the highest place he had ever visited. The air was thin and breathing difficult. He’d travelled by road, and had some time to acclimatize, but the effort of walking any distance felt like a burden. It took a few days to relax, and for his lungs to adjust. The plateau stretched for miles in either direction, giving his eye many hours of exploration from the landscape to the sky. Mountains in a desert, commanding attention in the sparse and barren landscape. Small stretches of green blanketed the riverbanks, and cottage gardens sprung up outside the back of local houses. Atop small hills, he could see villages and more monasteries; a short walk took him even higher, allowing the views to seep into his soul a little more. It was a captivating experience but soon interrupted by a dose of reality. Just a few days after arriving, he had his first bout of stomach problems, from the food or the water. It was a reminder that he was a long way from home, and the journey would be a bumpy one. In his room on the first floor of the guest house, he lay in bed, heaving and writhing; he couldn’t settle, and his body was unhappy at being taken over by this monster. Every so often, he would throw up so violently, it would take him by surprise, as if he had been possessed and had no control, which he didn’t. This experience lasted for a couple of days. Time had become enclosed in a waking nightmare. Outside, the calm of the guest house grounds was quietly interrupted by the conversation of other travellers. But upstairs, he felt vulnerable. Recovery was painful and slow.

Another tourist cliché?

It was also a chance to reflect on something that bothered him. Mystical lands and otherworldly religions had long seeped into western thought, creating havens for burned out souls, and even Hollywood royalty. The story of these places was linked by natural curiosity and wonder, but also by an ability to travel and to see the world. It was tourism, in all its forms, which had made this possible. The boy was also a tourist with money to spend on a quest that Ladakhi farmers would laugh at. Was he a cliché, too? It was something that stayed in his mind for most of the trip as he tried to walk the line between curious and respectful, enquiring and observing. It was already clear Ladakh was an ancient land, punctuated by modern life, a dichotomy that would become even clearer as he continued his journey across the Himalayan plateau.

He saw Leh gradually disappear into the distance as the plane took off from the runway. The winding body of the Indus became a small contour on the landscape and the mountains that gave way to great Himalayan peaks to the west looked like tiny protrusions on a faded map. The arduous journey he had taken to reach the valley was undone in a matter of minutes, as the flight took him back across the foothill ranges towards the Indian plains and back to Delhi. Once again, he made swift plans to leave, this time buying a ticket to Kathmandu in Nepal. It was now early August, and the heat of the summer continued to bear down on travellers short on experience and wisdom on the busy streets. ‘It’s OK,’ he thought; ‘I know what to expect. But I am not ready to spend time here.’

In contrast, landing in Kathmandu was a breath of fresh air. It was a place that had been entertaining Western tourists for decades, with its mountain trekking and friendly backpacker hotels. The difference between India and Nepal was stark and he had to concede it was much easier to navigate this new country. The culture shock was softer, the shops more familiar, the climate kinder. He admitted that whatever experience he came for, he couldn’t shed two decades of conditioning and life’s comforts overnight. He felt guilty for wanting to eat familiar food and grab a beer but also exhilarated by the chance to appreciate these simple pleasures again. From Kathmandu, he planned to travel overland to Lhasa in Tibet, a week-long-journey, from the lush valley of Nepal’s capital to the northern border post with China, before a high-altitude drive up onto the Tibetan plateau. At least he knew what to expect this time, having spent two weeks in Ladakh.

But before this journey could begin, he had signed up for a ten-day meditation retreat in the hills outside Kathmandu. His experience at university had tickled the edges of his consciousness, and alongside sporadic practice in the real world, he had managed to focus on his breath from time to time. He’d read about Vipassana mediation and heard war stories from other travellers. But as a reflective and introverted character, ten days in silence didn’t sound so bad. It would also be a chance to pause after a hectic six weeks of moving, discovering, and travelling. He would, quite literally, come to a stop.

Meeting the mind

He stood outside the gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, alongside a couple of people who had joined him on the bus journey from the centre of Kathmandu. Once they entered the leafy compound, he knew that nothing would be said for ten days. The entrance was situated on a quiet, hilly street on the edge of the valley; a driveway wound its way down to the left, out of sight. A series of small buildings were scattered among a series of gardens. The sun was shining through the trees, and the temperature was cool on his back. Wearing a pair of sandals, cotton trousers and a faded surf-brand T-shirt, he walked into the grounds. Guests were welcomed with a cup of warm milk and shown to their accommodation. His room was basic, but perfectly comfortable, and shared with a few others on the retreat. The dormitories were located around a central hall, where the meditation practice would take place; and nearer the entrance, a place to eat brought about 30 people together. It was a tranquil location, but the calmness belied an experience that would be exactly the opposite. After a simple meal, he tried to get some sleep.

At 4am the next morning, he awoke with a start. Somewhere outside, a gong sounded, and dawn had not yet broken. ‘Who gets up at this time?’ he thought. People were stumbling around in the dark, guided only by a series of ground-level lights on the paths outside. At 4.30am, before anyone had a chance to eat or drink more than a gulp of water, he was seated in the meditation room. It was a large timber-framed building with stone walls. The ground was smothered in rugs, hiding a cold stone floor. Square cushions were arranged in rows, facing the teacher’s space, which sat in front of orange drapes. Each morning, the group would sit for about an hour before breakfast, ushering in a daily practice that would continue for ten hours, divided into five or six slots.

His mind had always been busy, hankering after something, driven to achieve something, and conditioned in the factory of western thinking. Sitting in a silent meditation retreat on the edge of the Kathmandu valley was like driving a truck into a wall at 40 miles an hour and expecting to walk away unscathed. On the cushion, he had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nothing to plan for, or achieve. Even his travel plans had been suspended, limited to short walks between where he slept, where he ate, and where he meditated. Life had become much smaller, and his mind was all over the place. The practice of Vipassana meditation – gaining insight – involved establishing mindful breathing and working with the sensations of the body. The group was gently encouraged to establish their practice and move their awareness around the body, sometimes focusing on areas of perceived pain, small aches in the knees or back. By focusing on a sensation, it would become something else, or dissipate, so the theory went. It was a simple technique to understand impermanence: everything is temporary, the mind’s projection of an experience. Look closely, and it can change into something else.

The reality was much more arduous. On day one, each minute felt excruciating, as his body protested at having to sit still for so long. His mind wanted to do everything else, apart from be in that room. ‘What about the bright lights of the city? Couldn’t we go out and have some fun?’ it whispered. His back hurt, his legs hurt. ‘Please, anything else but this,’ they cried… And so, it went on, hour after hour. The first day was hard, extremely hard. But he fell back on quiet persistence, committed enough to try. He didn’t know how others felt, because he couldn’t talk to them, but everyone had developed a subtle way of communicating their feelings. It was clear they were struggling.

It was a painful, tiring, and wrenching experience. The only real highlight was dahl curry, spinach, and rice for lunch, adding light shades of colour to an otherwise grey experience. But, as time progressed, he noticed a gradual softening and acceptance taking place in his body, and occasionally, his mind. He was kneeling on an adapted cushion setup, conceding that sitting cross-legged wouldn’t work. His body also protested less; it realised there was no escape from the present moment. His mind slowly let go of plans and ambitions, for now. After six days, getting up at 4am felt more natural; the early sitting became habitual, and ten hours a day – while still difficult – became part of an unfolding journey. The creases and folds in his busy mind were being slowly ironed out and making space for something smoother: more awareness of the world around him, more presence? He wasn’t sure. There were no Eureka moments, no bright lights, but something was shifting. Ten days in silence, 100 hours on a cushion, eating breakfast and lunch, but only a drink of warm milk in the evening; the experience had punctuated the early part of his trip, and began to set a new tone. He remembered watching teachings at the main monastery in Dharamsala, hoping they would rub off on him. This time, he was sure they had.

The boy stood at the gate, this time looking back out into the street he’d left behind. His senses were heightened. Birdsong felt louder, richer, more visceral; the trees were greener. He could feel their movement in the breeze, as if they were talking to each other, and the world around them. The gate was a dark shade of green, but had it been painted? It looked fresher, brighter, and the yellow walls of the campus cast a gentle hue across his field of vision. On the bus ride back down into Kathmandu, the experience was magnetic and intense. He heard every motorbike horn, shout, beep and conversation, as if he were hearing them for the first time. This new level of awareness was a unique experience. Back in the guest house, he looked in the mirror for the first time in two weeks. The basic diet had done him good, his face looked sharper, leaner; he also noticed the details of his features much more. Had his eyes got bigger? Surely that was impossible. But they stared back at him with clarity and vision. He remembered his meditation teacher at university, holding a calm gaze while guiding the class. He turned away and sat back down on the bed. It was now six weeks since he had flown into Delhi airport. He still felt a long way from home, but his concerns and fears had been quietened by the experience. He had spent nearly two weeks in silence, and yet he could hear himself better than at any point in his life.