From 3 September to 13 September 2026, I attended my first ten-day Vipassana meditation course. Whenever someone asks me how the experience was, I now answer:

Torturous—but extremely rewarding.

The course was physically demanding, mentally exhausting and, at times, almost unbearable. Yet it also gave me something I had been searching for: a logical way to understand why I react impulsively, especially when something hurts my ego, and a practical technique that may help change those reactions over time.

Entering a Very Different World

I reached the meditation centre on 3 September, sometime between 3 and 4 p.m. After registration, we were shown our rooms. I was assigned a double-sharing room and met my roommate, Karthik, an investor whom it was a pleasure to get to know. I also briefly met a few of the other participants.

That evening, after some light snacks, we assembled in the Dhamma Hall—the main meditation hall—and the course began.

From that point onward, we had to maintain Noble Silence. There was no phone, reading material or writing material. We could not step outside the designated course area. Our world for the next ten days consisted mainly of the accommodation block, dining hall, the meditation hall and a walkway of perhaps a hundred metres between them.

Male and female participants stayed in separate quarters, used different dining halls and entered the Dhamma Hall through separate entrances. They also sat on different sides of the hall. There was no interaction between the two groups during the course.

There were two assistant teachers: one for the male students and another for the female students. Participants could approach their respective teacher with questions about the meditation technique. The teachers also met students in small groups periodically to check their progress and clarify doubts.

Most of the teaching itself came through recorded instructions, chanting and video discourses by S. N. Goenka.

The Daily Routine

Every day began at 4 a.m. Meditation started at 4:30 a.m. and continued until 9 p.m., with breaks for meals and rest.

A typical day looked like this:

  • 4:00 a.m.: Wake-up bell
  • 4:30–6:30 a.m.: Meditation
  • 6:30 a.m.: Breakfast
  • 8:00–9:00 a.m.: Group meditation
  • 9:00–11:00 a.m.: Meditation, with a short break
  • 11:00 a.m.: Lunch
  • 1:00–4:00 p.m.: Meditation
  • 2:30–3:30 p.m.: Group meditation within the afternoon session
  • 5:00 p.m.: Evening refreshments
  • 6:00–7:00 p.m.: Group meditation
  • 7:00–8:30 p.m.: Goenkaji’s discourse
  • 8:30–9:00 p.m.: Meditation
  • 9:00 p.m.: Rest

The three daily group meditation sessions—8 to 9 a.m., 2:30 to 3:30 p.m. and 6 to 7 p.m.—were compulsory one-hour sittings. During these sessions, we were not supposed to leave the hall. During the other meditation periods, it was possible to step outside briefly for a washroom break or a short walk.

Breakfast and lunch were good. There was no dinner. In the evening, we received puffed rice, ragi malt and some fruit—perhaps a banana, a few slices of watermelon or some papaya. To be honest, I hated the evening food. After a full day of meditation, it felt almost like a joke.

Learning to Observe the Natural Breath

The practice began with observing the natural breath.

This was not like pranayama, where one might intentionally deepen, slow or otherwise regulate the breathing. We were instructed not to manipulate it in any way. We were simply to observe the breath as it naturally entered and left the body.

We were also told not to verbalize a word such as “Om” and not to visualize a symbol, deity or any other form. Goenkaji’s explanation was that verbalization and visualization might make concentration easier, but the mind could become attached to the word or image. The objective here was to allow the mind to go deeper within itself by observing reality in its natural form.

On the first day, I simply watched my breath going in and coming out.

I expected that the second day would bring something dramatically new. Instead, the instructions advanced only slightly. We were asked to notice where the breath touched the area around the nostrils—inside the nostrils and in the small region below them and above the upper lip.

On the third day, we concentrated even more closely on this small triangular area and tried to notice any sensation occurring there.

That was it.

For hours and hours, we sat in one place observing the breath and a tiny area below the nose.

For me, it was torture.

I kept thinking, “I cannot do this. This is not for me. I should run away.”

But I had come there for a reason. I kept telling myself to stay for one more day and see what happened.

The Beginning of Vipassana

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the actual practice of Vipassana began.

We were asked to start at the top of the head and move our attention gradually through the body, examining small areas one by one and observing whatever sensation was present. After reaching the toes, we would move back upward, from the toes to the head, and repeat the process.

This continued through days four, five, six and seven, with new nuances gradually being introduced.

At one stage, we were asked to scan symmetrical parts of the body simultaneously—the two hands or the two legs, for example. Later, we were asked to see whether we could experience a continuous flow of sensation across the surface of the body.

One part of my mind continued to protest: Why was it necessary to make someone sit for so many hours? Why did the process have to be so intense?

At the same time, another part of me could see the logic of the progression.

Only because I had spent so much time observing the breath was my mind calm and concentrated enough to notice subtle sensations. Only because I had spent an entire day focusing on the tiny triangular area below my nostrils was I later able to detect sensations in different parts of my body.

By around the end of the seventh day, I experienced what felt like a continuous flow of vibrations through my body, moving from my head to my toes and back again. It was an amazing and deeply pleasant feeling.

But we were repeatedly reminded not to become attached to such an experience. Sometimes the flow would be there, and sometimes it would not. We were simply to observe whatever was happening and move on.

Goenkaji described different stages in the practice. The first was becoming capable of feeling sensations throughout the body. The second was experiencing a continuous flow across the body’s surface. The third involved penetrating deeper and observing sensations inside the body. The fourth was described as bhanga—an experience in which the body seems to dissolve into a unified field of sensations.

It is something that has to be experienced. I do not think it can be adequately described.

One Strange and Memorable Moment

At one point, around the seventh night, I felt vibrations flowing continuously from my head to my toes and back again.

For an instant, I had a vision of myself as a network of tiny veins, with pulsating vibrations or energy moving throughout the body. Everything seemed to come together as a single entity.

I opened my eyes.

I still do not know whether I had actually experienced one of the stages being described or whether it was simply the effect of having watched too many Avengers movies.

Another participant later shared an equally funny experience. When he first tried to move his attention inside his head, he felt it pass straight through and reach his neck without encountering anything. He joked that he had finally understood what his parents had been telling him throughout his childhood: his head was empty.

What Is the Point of Observing Sensations?

The physical sensations are not the final objective of Vipassana. The purpose is to understand and gradually change the way the mind reacts.

In one of his discourses, Goenkaji explained the process through which we respond to what happens around us.

First, one of our senses registers something: we hear a sound, see something or feel something.

Next, the mind recognizes or interprets what has happened.

It then evaluates the experience based on our memories and conditioning. Is it pleasant or unpleasant? Is it something we like or dislike?

Finally, we react.

Suppose someone insults us. We may immediately insult the person in return. If someone drives rashly, cuts across our car and shouts at us, we may instantly shout back. The reaction happens so quickly that our conscious mind barely has time to consider what would be the wisest response.

According to the teaching, whenever something happens—outside us or within us—it creates sensations in the body. There may be an increased heartbeat, throbbing, heat, tension or some other biochemical reaction. The subconscious mind is constantly registering these sensations and developing patterns of reaction.

Traditionally, we tend to deal with an unpleasant situation in one of two ways: we react to it, or we suppress our reaction.

Vipassana presents a third option: observe.

Do not react immediately, but do not suppress the experience either. Observe what is happening in the body and allow the conscious mind time to respond with greater wisdom.

Why This Felt Personally Relevant

This explanation connected strongly with something I had been struggling with.

In most professional and personal situations, even when something goes wrong, I can remain calm. I can handle pressure, assess the situation and deal with it in a balanced manner. People who know me generally describe me as a calm and composed person.

But when something feels personal—when someone challenges my work, my actions or me as a person, or even when something goes against by beliefs or standards of how things should happen—I react, many times because of my ego feeling hurt or cornered, or times general aversion to things not going according to my standards of things go. Of course I do understand I don’t have control on things way outside my control – but I always felt that things in my immediate circle, my immediate family, etc. (i thought they should change) they should work according to certain ways which I felt was the benchmark of how things should be done.

I sometimes also ended up reacting in a way that is completely disproportionate to the situation.

This has happened at home too. I might shout and then feel extremely guilty. I would withdraw into a room and struggle to get out of the spiral of guilt and misery created by my own reaction. Tense environment would be created in the home.

My mother would tell me, “You are not a person like this.”

And I knew that. I did not consciously want to behave that way. But I did not understand how to stop the reaction before it happened.

I had previously completed Sadhguru’s Inner Engineering programme and practised Shambhavi Mahamudra. The practice involved breathing exercises, physical movements, concentration, etc. It left me feeling energized and temporarily calmer.

However, I could never clearly connect the different practices with the specific subconscious reactions I was trying to address. I knew I was being given a process, but I did not understand exactly how that process was supposed to change this particular part of me.

Vipassana gave me a connection that I could follow.

An external event produces sensations in the body. The subconscious mind reacts to those sensations based on its old conditioning. By repeatedly observing bodily sensations without immediately reacting to them, I may be able to develop a different mental habit.

I see it as a possible way of gradually rewiring the relationship between my conscious and subconscious mind.

That possibility is what I had been looking for.

Learning Anicca: Everything Changes

A central principle of the practice is anicca—impermanence or change.

Every sensation, whether pleasant or unpleasant, will eventually change. The task is to observe it without craving a pleasant sensation or developing an aversion towards an unpleasant one.

From around the fifth day, the mandatory group sittings were practised with adhitthana, or strong determination. We were encouraged not to change the position of our hands or legs and not to open our eyes for the entire hour.

Naturally, sitting without moving could become painful.

If my knee hurt, I was not supposed to immediately move my leg. When my attention reached the knee during the body scan, I would acknowledge the pain and observe it as if from a third-person perspective.

Yes, there is pain.

But the pain is not permanent. It will change.

I would then move my attention to the next part of the body. When I returned to the knee during the next scan, the pain might still be present, or it might have reduced or changed. Whatever its condition, I would observe it again and move on.

The same applied to an itch. Normally, the instant something itches, we scratch it. Through the practice, we began training ourselves to notice the urge without automatically responding to it.

Repeatedly observing sensations in this manner is meant to develop the habit of observing other situations without instantly entering a reactionary mode.

This does not mean ignoring genuine needs. If I need to use the bathroom, that is a physical need—not merely a craving to be observed indefinitely. The practice is not about refusing to act. It is about recognizing the difference between a necessary action and an automatic reaction created by craving or aversion.

Craving and Aversion

According to the teaching, much of our misery comes from two patterns: craving and aversion.

We experience something pleasant and want it to continue. When it ends, we become unhappy.

We experience something unpleasant and want it to stop immediately. When it continues, we become angry or frustrated.

By observing both pleasant and unpleasant sensations with the understanding that they are impermanent, we gradually learn not to become attached to one or resistant to the other.

The aim is not to become passive. It is to create a small but important space between an event and our response to it (observation)—a space in which wisdom can replace impulse.

Metta Bhavana and the End of Silence

The final part of the practice was Metta Bhavana.

When the body and mind are calm and there is a feeling of subtle flow rather than heavy or gross sensations, we direct the peace, goodwill and harmony we are experiencing towards others.

We begin with our immediate family, then extend it towards relatives and friends, and finally towards everyone.

Goenkaji frequently used the phrase:

Bhavatu sabba mangalam.

May all beings be happy. May there be goodwill and well-being for everyone.

On the tenth day, 12 September, we broke Noble Silence and began speaking to one another again. Our phones were returned to us at around 4 p.m. that evening.

The following morning, 13 September, we had another meditation session, chanting and a final discourse. At around 6:30 a.m., the course came to an end and we were free to leave.

What I Took Away From the Course

For ten days, there was nowhere to go and nothing with which to distract myself.

There was no phone, no reading, no writing and no conversation. I could not leave the centre. My entire world was a room, a meditation hall, a dining area and a short walkway.

All I could do was work with my own mind: concentrate it, calm it, observe it and, perhaps, begin the process of changing some of its deeply conditioned reactions.

The course was undeniably difficult. Sitting for so many hours was painful – more mentally than physically. The lack of dinner was difficult. There were moments when I desperately wanted to leave. I felt so anxious about home.

But it was also extremely rewarding.

For the first time, I found an explanation for some of my reactions that I could connect with at a practical level. I could understand the sequence: an event takes place, the body develops sensations, the subconscious reacts to those sensations, and the reaction occurs before the conscious mind can intervene.

Vipassana offers a way to work at that fundamental level—not merely by being told that anger is wrong or that one should remain calm, but by practising how to observe the internal process from which the reaction arises.

Whether it will create a lasting transformation will depend on whether I continue practising it. I want to meditate every day and see where this journey takes me.

I also find myself wishing that the people I care about encounter this practice as early in their lives as possible. Not because it promises a miracle, but because it offers a method whose different steps I could personally connect.

It was torturous. It was extremely rewarding.

And, for me, it may have been exactly what I needed.