In my first year at university in London, I became aware of consciousness while taking the tube. One morning, I noticed a woman in her early thirties sitting across from me. I had seen her before, but this time, the empty seats beside her stood out amidst the crowd.
She looked tense, muttering angrily to herself and oblivious to everyone around her. Her gaze was fixed downward as if she were addressing someone invisible. Though I don’t remember her exact words, her rant went something like this: “Then she said to me… and I told her, ‘You’re a liar! How dare you accuse me when you’ve always taken advantage of me! I trusted you, and you betrayed me!’” Her voice was filled with anger, like someone fighting to defend herself against an unseen enemy.
When the train reached Tottenham Court Road, she stood up, still talking, and walked off. This was my stop, too, and curiosity led me to follow her. She continued her imaginary argument as we made our way towards Senate House, the university’s main administrative building. I was stunned—was she heading to the same place? Was she a student, professor, or staff member? I didn’t know.
I followed at a distance, but by the time I entered the building—famously the “Ministry of Truth” in 1984—she had vanished into an elevator. I was shaken. At 25, I saw myself as an aspiring intellectual, believing that all life’s problems could be solved through thinking. It hadn’t occurred to me that thinking without awareness was itself a problem. I saw professors as sages and the university as a temple of knowledge. How could someone like her belong here?
Still thinking about her, I went to the men’s room before heading to the library. While washing my hands, I thought, I hope I don’t end up like her. Then, to my shock, I realised I’d actually mumbled the words aloud. The man next to me glanced over. Oh my God, I thought, I’m already like her. My mind was always racing, too, just in a different way. Her thoughts were loud and angry; mine were quiet and anxious—but both of us were trapped in our minds.
For a brief moment, I was able to step back and observe my thoughts from a distance. Staring at my reflection, I laughed—not out of mockery, but with sudden clarity. Life isn’t as serious as my mind makes it out to be. But the insight was fleeting. The next three years would be marked by anxiety and depression. I even came close to suicide before awareness returned—this time, more permanently. Eventually, I freed myself from compulsive thinking and the false, mind-made sense of self.
That woman on the train gave me my first glimpse of awareness but also my first doubt about the power of intellect. A few months later, that doubt deepened when a professor I admired took his own life. He seemed to have all the answers. His death stunned me. I still believed intellect held the key to life’s problems, unaware that thinking is just a small part of who we are. I didn’t yet understand the ego nor how to recognise it within myself.