A passage to holistic peace in India

I'm not the most noise-intolerant person in the office. That accolade must go to the hardliner who surreptitiously introduced an unattended, incessantly ringing mobile phone to a cup of coffee. But, as my home is on a main road, near a fire station and directly under the Heathrow flight path, I find I have become increasingly aware of being peace-deprived. So the opportunity to learn how to achieve absolute silence through meditation on a five-day retreat in the Himalayas came as music to my beleaguered ears.

When I arrived at midnight, Delhi was 36C and most of its population seemed to be on the streets - driving, walking, chatting, shouting, or sleeping on the pavements and verges - enjoying a small respite from the day's heatwave.

At 7am, the hubbub at the station to board the train to the holy city of Haridwar was bubbling nicely and when we pulled in at lunchtime, it had reached a cacophonous boiling point. With senses engulfed - the heat, the jostling, the din and the smells: smoky, pungent, sweet, fruity, ripe, rotten - I was beginning to think I'd made the most hideous mistake, when a man wearing a spotless white-cotton Nehru suit and a red turban appeared at my side and whisked me off to an air-conditioned 4WD for the drive along 16km of the hairiest of hairpins to the hotel.

First impressions were good. Ear-poppingly high at 1,000 metres, Ananda is set in a stylish maharajah's palace above the town of Rishikesh and the Ganges. This stretch of the mighty river was where the Beatles came on their eastern spiritual quest - so it has the right sort of history. But it was hardly silent. First, the birds: the main culprits a woodpecker drilling, a pair of peacocks with their peculiar otherworldly shrieks and a 24-hour-clock cuckoo; then, at sunset, a frog chorus with a cricket orchestra; and, in the background, sounds carrying on the still air from far below - two-tone horns from gear-grinding lorries toiling up the twisting, tortuous road, the putter of scooters, children laughing. But it wasn't city-soundscape hell, this was more of a bucolic blast. Maybe it wasn't silence I craved? Maybe I'd just been bombarded with the wrong kind of sound.

Day one of the course dawned bright and noisy, and I joined my fellow silence-seekers, all of us in hotel-issue white-cotton pyjama suits. Beside my own highly strung self sat (cross- legged, of course) a potter from Singapore; a Frenchman working for Chanel in India; an English presenter of a particularly frenetic children's television show; an Indian businesswoman; an American entrepreneur; and finally our teacher, Swami Anubhavananda, and his Indian assistant.

Dressed in peach-coloured robes, stroking his long grey beard, Swamiji (as we called him as a mark of respect) looked exactly as a master of enlightenment should. After a sung prayer, he began: "In the beginning was the silence" - the introduction to a discourse on what absolute silence (compared with relative silence) is. With instruction on posture, breathing and the meaning of the chanted word "Om", we then attempted to meditate. Most of the others had had some previous experience, but mine was limited to a term of yoga evening classes some years ago and I found the line between meditation and sleep a very fine one at first. By the end of the first day, I was exhausted by my attempts to relax.

As the days wore on, it became easier as our group bonded. Swamiji's spirituality and wisdom impressed us all: we were told never to try to control the mind if we want to be happy - we must try to educate and discipline it instead. That the most miserable search is the search for happiness. That overexposure to noise tires us, and because we live with so much of it, we cannot tolerate silence. And, most importantly, that we must live in the absolute present - never in the past or the future. And it was all imparted with wit, humour and a desire not to preach. Our unquiet American helped: "Wow, look at that full moon. It's so auspicious, so spiritual, it signifies a whole new beginning. What do you think, Swamiji?" "That it is also the time when all the lunatics come out." "What is the best way to manifest love, Swamiji?" "Share your ice cream with the group."

Our days were filled with serenity. We would have an hour and a half morning and afternoon with Swamiji - he would talk, we would listen and question. Then, in between, we could practise yoga outside in the small, stone amphitheatre or in the exquisite marble pavilion in the rays of the rising or setting sun, or (my favourite) aqua yoga in the pool. And if you wanted someone else to do the work for you, there was always the Ayurvedic spa.

On the evening of our third day, we decided to go to watch the "Ganga arati" - a nightly ceremony in Rishikesh to honour Mother Ganges. Cradled in a particularly voluptuous curve of the river, the vibrant little town was steamy and crowded. We were led to the riverbank through a huge crowd by Swamiji, well known to the Hindu worshippers. Taking off our shoes to enter the temple, we sat on red carpets covering dusty white marble terraces that led to the fast-flowing water. Opposite, a silvery white statue of Shiva, cross-legged and serene, glimmered on a rocky island in the greeny-gold river. Seated in front of us, rows of saffron-robed boys, students from good brahmin families, raised their shrill little voices in chants, songs and prayers to the gods, as a priestly couple, husband and wife, threw handfuls of sesame seeds into a tiered fire pit, the pink and orange flames twisting high in the half light. As soft, fat, tepid drops of welcome rain began to fall, we were each given a small boat of woven green leaves, crammed with orange and pink flowers and lit by a small candle. After making a wish and touching the waters of the Ganges to our lips, we placed the boats on the dark water, and watched the pinpricks of warm light swirl away in the enveloping darkness.

On our final day, we once again took to the road. Switchbacking past unequivocal signs such as "After whisky driving risky" and "Alert today, alive tomorrow", the American decided to eat several rich chocolates. Ten minutes later and declaring himself strangely nauseous, he demanded to know whether any of us had a mobile because he needed to call Thailand. Oddly, none of us did.

An hour later, at the deepest point of a thickly wooded valley, we walked deep inside the cave shrine at Vashishtha Gupha, one of the holiest places in India, where we sat in darkness apart from a solitary flickering candle set on a rocky altar shelf. We meditated here, the silence profound, the weight of the rock above palpable. Later, in the steamy heat of the night, sitting in a circle on the cold sand next to the water, we ate a picnic and meditated until the full moon rose.

And now that I'm back, can I feel the difference? You bet. I'm completely, astonishingly re-energised. I'm not bothered by the busy road, the fire station, the flight path. Really I'm not.