My second Vipassana - Two weeks between sensation and reaction

This was my second 10-day course of Vipassana (which means seeing reality as it is). I had been to Dhamma Arunachala in Tiruvannamalai a couple of times for short courses and liked the place, so I decided to do this 10-day course there. This time, I expected it to be different because I went as a sevika (to serve).

Dhamma Arunachala is set in the remote village of Perumbakkam, about 20 km away from the Tiruvannamalai bus stand. Accessibility is difficult but not impossible. This distance from the city is what gives the place its raw, unmanicured beauty. Surrounded by fields, the centre itself is set amidst a dense overgrowth of trees.

Arriving there on Day 0, I was ready to immerse myself completely in the experience and unplug from the world. After helping out at the registration desk and settling everyone into their rooms, I met my own roommate, a lady from Bangalore. Unfortunately, she took ill and had to leave the next morning.

So, of the three sevikas, only two remained—me and another lady who had come exclusively to serve a blind student. Her ability to help and support was therefore limited. Most of the responsibility for the first couple of days, when the needs of the students are the highest, fell on my shoulders.

The first shock was a frog in the commode. It wasn’t unusual—I had seen frogs in the bathroom during my previous visits. But one in the commode made things a little more difficult. I made an agreement with her, and she didn’t bother me, though she did leave behind a few little children in my bathroom.

Soon, almost every student complained about frogs in their bathrooms. I didn’t have a real solution to offer other than asking them to adjust. If you want raw nature, you have to accept what it brings.

Days 1 and 2 were spent helping students get comfortable—arranging extra cushions or chowkis for their long hours (over 10 hours) of meditation. Meanwhile, we were able to recruit a reluctant volunteer from among the students to help as the third sevika.

By the end of Day 3, almost everyone had settled down except a couple of ladies—one was unwell (with severe spine issues), and the other was unhappy with the lack of facilities. Both left by Day 5.

After that, things fell into a steady rhythm. People got over the initial adjustment and began to accept things as they were.

My own experience was different this time. I knew what to expect from the long hours of meditation. I was also physically in a better place and was able to sit cross-legged on the floor, unlike last time.

Every morning, I was greeted with the fragrance of spring—pink silk tree, gulmohar, flowering mango and neem trees, frangipani, night queen, fig, jasmine, wild jasmine—all at various stages of bloom. The fragrance was intoxicating.

The buzzing of insects—spiders, bees, wasps, flies, mosquitoes—the chittering of birds such as owls, kingfishers, hummingbirds, parrots, sparrows, koels, cuckoos, crows, woodpeckers, jungle babblers—and the rustle of reptiles like lizards, geckos, skinks, and snakes as they moved through fallen leaves, revealed the immense variety of life around us.

When the sun rose and touched all this with a gentle brilliance, it lit up the heart with gratitude and an appreciation for the delicate balance in nature. That is what I had gone to observe, but not crave.

The beauty was contrasted by the ugliness of construction within the campus—cement and brick lying around, constant hammering and scraping. It brought a certain balance to the place, and to our own reactions. If you can accept the beautiful, you must also accept the ugly.

Meditation was deeper but less frequent due to my responsibilities as a sevika. I used the 4:30–6:00 am slot to meditate in the pagoda cell, and it was pure bliss.

On the 6th or 7th day, when I opened my eyes after meditation, I saw a large spider sitting perfectly still next to my cushion. I quietly left without disturbing her. The next morning, she seemed to be waiting outside my cell, and when I finished, she was again right next to me along the wall, perfectly still.

Clearly, the size of my amygdala had reduced—there was less of a fight-or-flight response. Anxiety and stress levels were lower. I even found myself silently conversing with the plants and animals.

It is not unusual for people to cry during a 10-day course. It usually happens around Day 6, when the Vipassana technique is taught and deeply buried sankharas (emotional imprints or traumas) surface.

I didn’t cry for that reason this time, but there were two instances when I was moved to tears.

One day, after serving everyone, I sat down to eat my lunch. It wasn’t unusual to miss out on certain dishes because quantities were limited. As I was eating, one student came by, took the empty katori on my plate, and returned with it filled with a curry I thought was over. Apparently, it had just been refilled. I was so touched by her kindness that I folded my hands, with tears in my eyes.

On another occasion, I was reminded of a friend who listens patiently to whatever I say without interrupting—something that is rare, even among Vipassana sevaks.

I had two key takeaways from this course.

First, while observing sensations in the body, it is equally important to observe my reactions to those sensations. That awareness is essential to maintaining equanimity.

Second, Metta—the sharing of peace and goodwill—needs to be practised fully and daily, after every sitting, beginning with oneself.

I can already feel a significant change in myself compared to the first course. I hope these effects deepen and last longer with each course I undertake.