My first impression, as I entered the retreat wing, was of a particular quality of silence. It had depth and density, as though a prolonged absence of sound had seeped into the building’s fabric and embedded itself.

My cell, at the corner of an L-shaped corridor, proved to be tiny and windowless, with bare floor boards, white walls and ceiling. It contained a single bed, chair and small table: nothing to distract from the task in hand. I knew that most people who came here spent their time in practices designated by a monk, or one of the visiting lamas. But I had no agenda other than to meditate and think, and perhaps write down any thought that seemed of consequence.

The rules allowed no reading material. Mobiles, laptops and radios were also off limits, as was caffeine or any other stimulant. Consequently I sat alone throughout that first day, undergoing several types of withdrawal. I soon realised how much my thoughts had been fed by things external. My mind flooded with memories, jealous of its connection with the world I’d left. Then slowly, as hours passed, I began to feel respite from the activities of my life, and the scrutiny of others.

Lacking daylight to guide my sense of time, I was glad I’d thought to bring a clock. Morning became afternoon, then evening. Sensing darkness outside, I left my cell to take the permitted shower, and saw her. When a day contains no events, even a wordless encounter in a corridor can assume significance, and I averted my eyes for fear of intruding. Perhaps because of this, the vague image I was left with seemed enigmatic. But when I returned to my room she had gone and, suddenly exhausted, I slept soundly until morning.

To keep a sense of structure I had opted to replicate the practice of the Centre’s community, and had just risen from my first meditation when a note slid under the door. I wasn’t surprised. I’d been allocated a ‘retreat friend’ to prepare my food and, in all probability, check I wasn’t cracking up. Her first message had read: ‘What jam would you like? (for tea).’ Alone in that sparse room, I’d found the question strangely affecting.

But the new note was from a different source. It said: ‘Hi, I’m Kallie. We passed in the corridor. How long are you here for?’

This, then, was the person I had seen and who, as I remembered, had given no indication she wanted contact, if indeed contact was allowed. On the other hand, if you were here for a long time, involving yourself in life-changing practices, surely it would be hard not to reach out to others separated by only a few hollow walls? And perhaps in these circumstances it was the done thing to pass notes? I seemed to have entered a space in which laws might only become apparent once transgressed.

Nevertheless, I’d quickly realised that there was a hierarchy in every aspect of life at the Centre. For those entering retreat, this was determined by the length of one’s confinement. When I arrived, I heard stories of aspirants who had emerged, pale and in one case voiceless, after six months or more in isolation: spiritual heroes whose fortitude, it was made clear, far exceeded my own. Was Kallie one such? If so, would I be expected to lend moral support?

I tried again to remember what she looked like, but could only bring to mind a small ethereal presence. Did she have dark hair? Tied back? Possibly.

I decided to reply: ‘Only ten days I’m afraid. The general impression at tea on Monday was that this doesn’t amount to much. I take it you’re in for a longer stretch?’

I folded the message with the text inside and slipped it under the door she’d been standing beside as I went for my shower.

The next note arrived the following morning. It was from my retreat friend. It read: ‘The habit of admiration helps the young to feed their aspirations. It helps the old to retain faith in human goodness. Always find value in the virtue and kindness you encounter. You have come across it for a reason. Lama Jamyang Ombu’

I considered myself neither young nor old, nor, in fact, aspiring or faithless. However, as my retreat friend probably knew, seclusion can be fertile earth in which to plant a thought. Perhaps Kallie was the true giver, deserving of admiration. Perhaps she was the one offering support, rather than seeking it. I began to imagine her in her cell, free from earthly constraints and radiating loving-kindness.

Her next note arrived the following day. It said: ‘Don’t worry about them – they’re assholes. I’ve been here for two months and in theory should stay for another two but it’s not as if I signed a contract. I’ll stop when I’m ready. What are you practising?’

I pondered the note – jagged writing slanting across a sheet of crumpled paper. A subversive or possibly troubled mind? Or just the sort of phase you work through in retreat?

I continued with my meditations, but the thought of my reply kept intruding.

‘Self-restraint mainly.’ I wrote eventually. ‘I’m not a Buddhist – just here to meditate and see what happens.’

The next note came back in an hour. I realised I’d begun to listen for footsteps. As the folded sheet slid into view, I had a vivid impression of the person on the other side. A strong psyche, perhaps chaotic? Is it possible to sense such things through a closed door?

The note read: ’My God, how did you manage that? I didn’t know the Lamas took bribes. I bet they wanted something in writing before they agreed. Someone smashed up their cell two years ago, and since then they’ve only taken people with recognised teachers.’

Behind me I heard a Palaeolithic gurgle – the radiator limping into effect. I realised how sensitised I’d become to sound. Also the dictates of my imagination. I pictured the other cells, inhabited by the crazed, the delusional, the psychotic. Would a recognised teacher really be a safeguard?

But then I reasoned with myself. Other than Kallie there had been no sign of anyone in the retreat wing. And there were the retreat friends, doubtless trained to monitor spiritual upheaval and respond to its worst effects.

I decided to wait before replying: the exchange needed to be paced or it would dominate my time here.

‘I’m a stained-glass artist. For part of the week anyway.’ I wrote, later in the day. ‘A friend who knows the secretary suggested I could make the Centre a glass mandala in exchange for a retreat. So I did.’

I heard nothing else until the following morning, when, emerging from meditation, I became aware of a fresh note, this time on a piece of blue card.

‘Wow, I’m impressed. I bet they hope it will fend off hungry ghosts. In a way I shouldn’t be here either because I can’t buy into all that. I’m much more Zen. Clear perception of reality – no illusions. Mantras and prostrations can only take you so far. What do you think?’

What did I think? She didn’t really believe in the Centre or its practices, but came here, perhaps repeatedly, despite. A strange way to rebel, if that’s what she was doing. But then, wasn’t I doing the same? I knew that Buddhism, though interesting, would never be central to my life, doubted the value of many of the teachings, but was willing to suspend my scepticism in exchange for new experience. What were her motives? Curiosity made me post a note immediately.

‘I’ve never tried Zen, so I can’t really say. But if you feel like that why don’t you go to a Zen monastery?’

Two days passed without reply. As the lapse extended, the unpunctuated time began to feel like a void, and I started to wonder if the exchange had ended. Despite, or perhaps because of this, I noticed the effect of my practice taking hold, with the regular meditation slowing my breathing and pulse, and my thoughts growing quieter and less cluttered. Then, lying in the silence before sleep, I heard a faint rustle of paper beneath my door. I rose immediately to read it.

There was no explanation for the hiatus, but the note said: ‘I did try that, but the problem was the monks – I hated the bastards. They thought it was okay to chastise you if you weren’t standing in the right mindful attitude while you waited for the kettle to boil. How many more days are you here?’

Suddenly I felt very sad for her. Right conditions to thrive: everyone needs a context, but how often does the context meet the need? Perhaps, though, that’s the essence of seeking? You look, you read, you talk, you travel. You spend your hope on practices to help you arrive and find: a tortuous process even if you know where you’re travelling and what you might be looking for.

Unavoidably, this lowering train of thought begged a question. What, here and now, could I hope to learn? Empathy and compassion for a confused young woman? How to be still and confront myself, while embracing a modicum of self-denial? Or simply that I didn’t much like other people’s rules, and was evidently not alone in that? I fell asleep with these thoughts, and in the morning woke with them.

 After meditation, I wrote my answer.

‘I’m here today and tomorrow then rejoin the centre for breakfast before going home. I think I’ll miss you.’

Without trying, I had learned to walk silently, and once again stepped into the corridor to deliver my message. Her reply came in the early afternoon.

Would you like to see my shrine before you go? I’ve been making it since I came here. If you would, just tap on my door this evening.’

I hadn’t seen this coming. A spiritual invitation or the most exotic chat-up line I’d ever encountered? My pulse and breathing forgot to be calm. The clandestine nature of our exchange had made it seem intimate, the simple passing of messages assuming a mesmeric quality that I knew would remain in my memory. Did I want to violate that? 

The answer proved simple.

Early that evening I tiptoed down the plain, silent corridor, knocked, and waited. There was only further silence. I hovered, knocked again, willed the door to open, then turned and walked back to my room, feeling utterly deflated. The whole experience of retreat, it would seem, had been squandered in a silly game.

In the morning another message arrived.

‘I’m so sorry – the time just wasn’t right. But I’ve thought of something else. At eleven o’clock tonight, go to the window at the end of the corridor and look out. I have a present for you.’

Determinedly, I spent my final day in meditation, willing peace to descend. Apparently, whatever the game was, it would have a conclusion.

At eleven, with the centre asleep, I opened my door and felt my way down the darkened passage towards the window. I stopped just before reaching it to tend to my breathing, which had developed a will of its own, then edged forward to look out onto the small enclosed courtyard beyond.

There, sitting on a woven mat with her back to me, was Kallie, naked and quite motionless. Her dark hair hung twisted across her left shoulder, and her skin shone, almost transparent, in the silver glow of the moon. Apart from the barely perceptible swell of her ribs as she breathed, she might have been a sculpture. I looked on, mesmerised, in the deep stillness, until finally turning away, aware that the air outside must be cold, knowing not to disturb.

About the Author: Mike Fox has co-authored a book and published many articles on the human repercussions of illness. Now writing fiction, his stories have been nominated for Best of Net and the Pushcart Prize, listed in Best British and Irish Flash Fiction (BIFFY50), and included in Best British Stories 2018 (Salt), His story, The Violet Eye, was published by Nightjar Press as a limited edition chapbook. An illustrated collection of new stories is being prepared for publication by Confingo Publishing in 2024. www.polyscribe.co.uk