The Evil Eye

Sweat trickled down the length of Anna’s spine. She mentally followed the single bead, gliding down, until it met the base of her back, joining the pool that had already been soaking into the waistband of her yoga pants for hours. Two hours and 43 minutes to be exact. That’s how long Anna had been sitting crossed legged on the floor. The cloying scent of incense filled the small room, the smokey streams visible in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the windows. As instructed, she was desperately trying to access that ‘peaceful corner of her mind’, to walk within the ‘zen garden of her thoughts’. However she was finding this increasingly difficult surrounded by all of the distractions.

When Anna first enrolled onto the seven day long ‘Vipassana Meditation Silent Retreat’ she was genuinely excited. When sharing this idea, her family looked at her with an expression akin to if she had sprouted a second head, but to Anna it sounded like bliss.

As a high school teacher, she craved nothing more than pure silence. She would actively seek it out; in dark supply cupboards, in toilet cubicles, in the 30 seconds between one class ending and another one starting. She would drive home in complete silence, radio firmly muted. High schools in general were hellish places for people with an acute sense of hearing. A constant cacophony of clamour. The sounds of brain-drilling bells, the shrieks and screams from children that would suggest that they were being tortured - rather than playing, the echoing gym halls, the droning hum of petulant teenage conversation and of course, not forgetting, the endless plea for attention in the form of “Miss, Miss, Miss Miss!”. So yes, all things considered, she was genuinely looking forward to a week of silence. 

But three days in and she couldn't believe how noisy the place was. Sure, you weren’t allowed to speak. But that didn’t stop people from bumbling about their days making a racket. Tapping, banging, coughing, sneezing, yawning! Anna had never actually realised how irritating a yawn could be until it was coming out of the face of a certain individual whose name badge declared him as ‘River’. Anna hadn’t yet quite worked out the point of the name badges, as they weren’t allowed to speak to one another. She could only assume, particularly in River’s case, that it was simply to attach a name to a face in your mind so that when all this was over you could go home and gossip to friends and family about how annoying people were. 

Anna tried to re-focus her mind back to her metaphorical meditation forest when she was once again abruptly yanked from her imaginary sun-dappled woodland by that yawn. She exhaled, in the least aggressive way that she could possibly manage, and slowly turned her head towards the culprit. They locked eyes for a second and he gave her an impish, faux-panic smirk.

Urgh. He made Anna’s skin crawl. She grimaced back with what intended to be a smile but didn’t quite meet her eyes. River shrugged and smugly closed his own eyes, resuming his meditation. 

Anna took a moment to survey the room. Around twenty or so souls on board this one way journey together. Over the past few days Anna had been closely observing her fellow silent participants and had invented background stories for some of them (what else was there to do? Phones, television and books were strictly off limits). She considered these fictional personal profiles now.

There’s Jenny, a stressed-out mum of three all under five, trying helplessly to access the ‘zen garden of her mind’, but is too busy worrying about whether her pathetic husband has remembered to sterilise the bottles. She hoped this would give her a break but she’s brought all of her baggage with her.

Up next, Helena. Forty something, life-long vegetarian. Has a lovely home and carefully manicured garden but very few friends. Owns a spaniel named Henry. Goes holidaying in Dorset every summer, but it’s just not the same now the children have grown up.

Then there’s Eric. Retired, bald, and very pink in the face. Probably drives a Porsche, or something just as equally embarrassing. He would usually be coming up to the 9th hole by this time on a Wednesday morning, but The Wife (Lily, also here. Alarmingly beautiful but also alarmingly young) wanted him to try “something new”. He’d first heard about these silent retreats when Chris Martin appeared on an episode of Top Gear. 

Anna scanned around the room again. Ah yes. Then there was River. She doubted this was his real name. He looked like he’d been plucked straight out of someone’s gap year. From head to toe, a walking display of cultural appropriation. A paisley bandana half exposed some poorly cared for dreads. Around his neck hung not one, not two, but three strands of prayer beads. His vest (if you can call the gaping piece of material a vest when his whole rib cage was visible) boasted the inspirational message “the Diem ain’t gonna Carpe itself”. His questionably tattooed arms, clad with fading festival wristbands and Evil Eye bracelets, rested on his Batik (true Indonesian authenticity dubious) harem pants. Definitely owns an acoustic guitar and this is definitely not his first silent retreat. Probably spent some time living with Buddhist monks in Cambodia.

Anna sighed. As this went on she had a suspicion that this place was having a negative impact on her capacity for empathy. Being in such close proximity to these strangers without speaking was stifling. It had sent Anna’s imagination into overdrive.

But what did people like River expect? Strutting around the place like he’d just stepped off a beach somewhere in Thailand. At this point during Anna’s internal monologue River flinched. It was like he had sensed all of her negative energy charging his way. He shook himself, as if physically ridding himself of the bad vibes. As his wrist rattled, Anna noticed the Evil Eye glaring at her.