Yogis and yagyas

Stephen Makin went to Maharishi School and rebelled by deciding to study medicine. Here, he explains the impact that transcendental meditation has had on his life

To the outside world, transcendental meditation is the technique popularised by a small Indian man clad in a robe, practised by the Beatles and Deepak Chopra, among others. Yes, the people who bounce up and down cross legged on foam mats and call it flying. Transcendental meditation is a non-religious technique of meditation that includes internally repeating a mantra, which leads to relaxation and a clearing of the mind. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi brought the technique to the West. Many meditators go on to learn advanced techniques, including flying and other aspects of vedic culture that the movement promotes. These may include jyotish, a means of astrology, and maharishi ayurveda, a healthcare system based on traditional Indian medicine. Some meditators, including my parents, choose to live in communities of meditators, and for their children to be educated at a Maharishi school, with other children from the same community.

Flying for world peace

As a child, both at home and at Maharishi school, I was brought up to believe that transcendental meditation reduced the risk of all illness, that the flying technique guaranteed world peace, and that these claims were all supported by scientific research. Perfect health could only be achieved through ayurveda and yagyas, an expensive procedure done by pundits in India, which they believe helps to avert undesirable events. My parents, both artists, could not afford ayurveda, at more than £60 ($100; €85) for a consultation, or yagyas, which could come to many thousands of pounds. When we fell ill our mother would mutter about how dreadful it was that her choice of health treatment was not available on the NHS, take us to see her friend who would ask questions to a pendulum, then dispense herbal remedies. When this failed we would end up at a local general practitioner's surgery.

When I was 10 or 11 years old, I began to question things at school. Why did transcendental meditation have a ® symbol next to it when the Church of England, my grandparents' faith, did not? Why did it cost a large amount of money to learn transcendental meditation? Could it all be designed to get money out of people? I stopped actively participating in the group meditation sessions, instead, spending the time reading a book under the desk, or playing games with anyone I could distract. I decided I wanted to be normal--not a meditator. And conventional Western medicine--without massage oil, acupuncture needles, or a pendulum in sight--was the most normal career I could think of. My best friend was horrified, and spent a full 20 minutes lecturing me on the evils of Western medicine. My parents told me it was a dreadful job, but if I really wanted to they would support me. After some louder questioning, and no more group meditation, the school suggested that I left.

Music can lead to rain

The transcendental meditation movement declares that it is not a religion, stating that the health benefits and some of its other claims are proven in scientific fact. They also imply that the more outlandish claims, such as the belief that some music can lead to rain, will soon be verified scientifically.¹ Most of these studies have not been published in peer reviewed journals; those that have are often seriously flawed.² Personally, I find that without belief in the scientific validity of the claims, it is impossible to actively believe in the rest of the movement's claims.

Medicine requires that I believe what is proved by science; transcendental meditation requires that I believe that flawed science is correct. As a result, studying medicine makes it impossible to remain actively involved in the community I grew up in. Fortunately my family and friends within the transcendental meditation community have been supportive of my decision, though some see it as teenage rebellion, and hope that one day I will return to the fold and practise ayurvedic medicine.

Stories for the pub

Growing up in the transcendental meditation movement has affected the way I see medicine. In my first year, my upbringing only supplied odd tales to tell in the pub. However, with time I noticed that it had affected me in other ways. I find it easier to understand why some patients, who prefer to consult a complementary medical practitioner, may be suspicious of doctors. The experience of questioning the authority I grew up with makes me question received wisdom more readily. Critically reading the large volume of questionable research produced by the transcendental meditation movement means I am less easily convinced by glossy promotional material from drug reps.

Though I no longer attend group meditation, community events or take part in anything that could be seen as promoting transcendental meditation, I still occasionally practise the technique. One part of the hype has turned out to be true, you do not need to believe in any of the claims to practice transcendental meditation and feel calmer as a result. I know that meditation will not bring about world peace or stop me getting cancer. Non-cultic forms of meditation or sitting with my eyes closed may be just as beneficial--but it is less harmful than half a bottle of wine when you're stressing about imminent exam results.

1. Orme-Johnson DW, Farrow JT, eds. Scientific research on Maharishi's transcendental meditation and transcendental meditation Sidhi programme. Vol 1. Rheinweiler: Maharishi European University Press, 1977
2. Canter P. The therapeutic effects of meditation. studentBMJ 2003;11:176-7.