Singing Bowls

Author: Anup Poudyal
Publisher: The Middle Way Publications
Edition: Authorised Machine Accessible Edition
Section: Chapter 1
Chapter Title: The Magic of First Sound
Copyright: © 2026 Anup Poudyal. All rights reserved.

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Chapter 1
The Magic of First Sound

It was 2008, and I was working at a finance company in Perth, Western Australia. When I first played a singing bowl in my office, I was not expecting anything unusual to happen. I had brought the bowl in to show my colleagues, more out of curiosity than anything else. I gave it a gentle spin and let the sound rise and fill the room. After about thirty seconds, I stopped and looked up, only to realise that something had shifted.

The entire floor had gone quiet. I hadn’t noticed the silence while I was playing because the bowl’s sound was so close to me. Once it faded, the absence of chatter and movement felt almost startling. Someone let out a heavy sigh. Another person made a small remark. Those brief responses said enough. Everyone in that room had just shared a moment they could feel but not quite name.

At the time, very few people in Australia had even heard of singing bowls. When I played, my colleagues were immediately drawn to it. One colleague even offered to trade me his books for the bowl I had just played. That moment stayed with me. It became certain that accounting wasn’t my life’s path.

The First Spark

My interest in singing bowls began two years earlier in Nepal. At that time, I knew nothing about their history, construction, or tuning. I only knew how they made me feel. I imagined playing for others, chanting softly alongside the sound, and watching people pause and calm. I didn’t know then that this simple image would pull me across continents and away from a desk job.

At home, I owned three bowls: a small one, a medium one, and a hand-beaten bowl with a deeper, rougher tone. I spent hours experimenting, circling the rim, striking the metal, and singing along in a language without fixed form. My voice found notes and syllables that belonged to no familiar song, yet felt perfectly matched to the bowl’s vibration. It was a private joy, a way of exploring sound without rules or expectation.

From Desk Job to Market Stall

The first day I took singing bowls to sell at a market was a shock to my system. I had moved from an office desk into a busy outdoor environment, and the shift was far more than physical. I was suddenly surrounded by noise, colour, and constant movement. Tables and tablecloths, coins and notes, paper bags, an EFTPOS machine, business cards, and a steady flow of curious strangers filled the space. It isn’t easy to convey how completely different this feels if you have only ever worked in an office.

In an office, there are systems, rules, and a title to lean on. Your role fits into a larger structure, and if you make a mistake, it is usually contained within that structure. An email can be sent again. A form can be redone. At a market, there is no safety net and no corporate shield. There is only you, your stall, and whatever you have chosen to place in front of people that day.

What became clear very quickly was that a singing bowl meant something more to people than the object itself. Whether I realised it or not, I was standing there as a representative of an entire culture. That felt both humbling and unsettling. I had not grown up with singing bowls as a family tradition. No one in my family had heard of them before. I had not inherited their usage through stories or instruction from an elder. I had learned it myself, slowly and curiously, piece by piece.

With that came an undeniable pressure. If I got something wrong, I wasn’t just misrepresenting myself. I risked misrepresenting a tradition that had been evolving for more than 2,500 years. That thought still stops me at times. A careless claim or a clumsy explanation can easily add to the noise of misinformation that already surrounds these instruments.

The responsibility is not abstract. It is present in every interaction. The way a question is answered. The tone used. The history I choose to share. Each choice either honours the heritage or distorts it. There is no neutral middle ground.

All of this was unfolding in the middle of a lively, unpredictable environment. There were questions that tested my knowledge. Sideways glances that stirred self-doubt. Moments that cut straight through the routine, such as a customer telling me that this was the first time they had felt peace in years. I would respond as myself, but also as a custodian of something much bigger: balancing the personal with the cultural, and the practical with the sacred.

I had no script. I wasn’t even sure there was one. In those early days, I felt like a leaf carried by a fast-moving stream, light enough to be taken anywhere, with little control over where I might land. The market had its own rhythm and invisible currents. Customers drifted in and out, their attention drawn as easily to the bowls as it was pulled away by the smell of coffee or the sound of a nearby busker. I felt small in that sea of voices and movement, trying to find my footing.

Then came the internal questions that had nothing to do with singing bowls. What if people laughed? What if my accent didn’t match their expectations? What if they thought I did not belong? What if they were rude, dismissive, or walked away halfway through a sentence? What if they asked something I couldn’t answer? These thoughts lived just beneath the surface, always ready to rise.

The market is a merciless teacher. Within days, those fears stopped being imagined and became real. People did laugh. Faces tightened with impatience. Voices turned sharp. Eyes rolled and moved on. There were questions I stumbled over, and moments when I wished I could disappear into the crowd. Each encounter left its mark, a reminder that this work wasn’t only about selling bowls, but about standing exposed in front of strangers.

Yet I kept returning. For every awkward moment, there were others that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds. A customer’s eyes lighting up as a bowl sang in their hands. Someone closing their eyes mid-note, shoulders softening as if a weight had lifted. The quiet pause that followed the sound’s fading, as though the world itself had stopped to listen.

Even in the busiest markets, I always found my people. Our eyes would meet across the crowd, then a smile and an immediate sense of recognition would follow. With them, connection was effortless. Over time, I learnt that my role was not to convince everyone. Even the most outstanding teachers in history didn’t reach every person. I only needed to be present for those who were open to what I had to offer.

The First Sale

I still remember my very first customer. She was a well-known television actor, although I never asked her directly. She arrived with her young daughter in a pink pram, accompanied by her secretary. Without hesitation, she pointed to two bowls and said, “I will take that one and that one.”

For a moment, I thought she might be joking. People before her took the time to listen, to compare tones, and to feel their way towards a decision. She chose as if she already knew. Her secretary handled the payment while I fumbled through wrapping the bowls and processing the sale. When they left, I let out a long sigh of relief. The transaction was finished, but the feeling stayed. My first singing bowls had gone out into the world, carried by someone who trusted the sound enough to decide in an instant.

Finding My Rhythm

In those early days, I practised constantly. My three bowls, the small one, the medium one, and the hand-beaten one, became my teachers. I learned not only how to draw sound from them, but how to shape an experience for others. A sustained tone seemed to ground people, while a single, clean strike at the end brought them back to reality. The latter acted like a gentle tap on the shoulder, returning attention to the present moment. When people asked why I ended that way, I told them: “It is to bring you back here.”

Occasionally, someone would mention feeling vibration in their chest or elsewhere in the body. That became my cue. I would fill the bowl with water and let it sing, watching their eyes widen as the surface rippled and splashed. What they had felt internally was now visible before them. Those moments taught me that demonstration carries a clarity that words rarely do. People forget explanations. They remember what they have felt and what they have seen.

The Places You Don’t Expect

Over time, I found myself selling bowls in places where, on paper, it seemed like a poor fit. The Royal Darwin Agricultural Show or a dusty market near Alice Springs were such events; focused on livestock, crafts, or local produce rather than on meditation or healing. And yet, without fail, someone would pause, listen, and lean in.

It didn’t matter how far I was from a yoga studio or a retreat. Somewhere in every crowd, there were people ready for the sound. Sometimes they were farmers in worn boots. Sometimes tourists with cameras around their necks or parents with children tugging at their hands.

The Web of Connection

What surprised me most was how many real friendships grew from these encounters. Some began with a single shared moment of sound and unfolded into years of conversation and return visits. The bowls were never the whole story. They were simply the opening. My role was to bring the spark close enough for something already present to catch.

Over time, I became known as the Singing Bowl Man, not by title, but by repetition. I learned how to meet people where they were. In a market, you do not get the luxury of a long lesson. You have seconds before attention drifts. Playing a bowl beautifully is one skill. Teaching someone to make it sing within moments is another.

Learning in the Weather

Some lessons came from unlikely moments. One rainy day at the markets, hardly anyone showed up. Out of two hundred usual stalls, only a handful remained. My marquee leaked, and I kept wiping the table every few minutes. A fellow stallholder asked why I bothered. “It’s going to get wet again anyway,” he said. Without thinking, I replied, “We do what we can do. The rest is up to the Universe.”

He later introduced me to the Mind Body Spirit Festival, one of the largest alternative festivals in Australia.

When I first exhibited there, the difference was immediate. The crowd never seemed to thin. At any given moment, there were ten people in front of me, with others standing behind them, listening, watching, and asking questions. Some questions were imaginative. Others were deeply personal. I couldn’t always tell whether those at the back could hear me, yet the exchange continued, hour after hour.

Just rows away stood a Tibetan monk who had been selling bowls for decades. We were in friendly competition, adding our own notes to the same hum. For four days straight, I spoke, demonstrated, and listened for nearly ten hours a day. Some stallholders said the energy felt overwhelming. For me, it was different. Amidst the noise and movement, I felt a steady calm, as if the outer chaos and my inner stillness had finally learned how to move in harmony.

Stories You Couldn’t Make Up

Of course, not every encounter was profound. For every heartfelt exchange that left me quietly reflective, there were a dozen that belonged in a comedy reel. Customer jokes ranged from awkward to overused. Endless comparisons to wine glasses or mortar and pestles were charming the first few times, but by the three hundredth, I could mouth the punchline before it arrived.

The real gems, though, came from encounters so strange they could only happen at a market stall. Now and then, someone would step up, pick up the striker, and without touching the bowl at all, begin circling it slowly in mid-air. They would hover a good inch above the rim, like a magician preparing for a grand reveal. The concentration on their face was absolute, as if they were about to summon a spirit from another dimension. Sometimes they even closed their eyes, fully committed to the performance. I would stand there, torn between admiration for their confidence and curiosity about whether they believed the laws of physics had taken the day off.

When I gently explained that friction was essential, that the stick actually had to touch the bowl, some would nod politely and try again. Others would straighten up, look me directly in the eye, and insist, “I can hear it, I can hear it.” Their conviction was unshakable, even though the only sound was the wind passing by the next stall. I would smile, nod, and say, “Yes, that sounds beautiful.” Moments like these reminded me that curiosity is a wonderful thing, but sometimes it needs a gentle nudge to catch up with reality.

The Harmony and Hustle of Market Life

By this time, life had already nudged me firmly towards singing bowls. The numbers spoke clearly. One weekend of market sales could match or exceed an entire week of accounting work. Leaving my desk job became an obvious choice. It wasn’t only about income. It was about alignment. I was building a life around something I believed in and could share in a way that left people better for the encounter.

Not every year was smooth. When COVID arrived in 2020, uncertainty crept in for the first time since I had started in 2009. Markets stopped, lockdowns spread, and at the same time, several banks in Nepal, where my savings were held, collapsed almost overnight. A lifetime of earnings disappeared in a handful of headlines. That money represented years of physical labour: hauling heavy boxes through muddy fields, standing for hours in the heat and rain, absorbing the casual insults and jokes that sometimes came with the work, and smiling through them because I believed in what I was building. All of it vanished.

When I first heard the news, I waited for panic to arrive. The racing heart. The sleepless nights. The spiral of dread. But, it never came. Days passed. Then months. Then years. Eventually, I wondered whether something in me had shifted. Perhaps the Buddhist understanding of impermanence had settled more deeply than I realised. Or the reaction was still waiting somewhere ahead. So far, it hasn’t arrived.

What hurt more than the financial loss came later. In 2025, when my father passed away, it was not only grief that struck me, but the knowledge of what he carried with him. He worried about me, about my well-being, about my financial loss. The thought that his final moments may have been coloured by that concern still troubles me. That experience taught me something I had not fully understood before. Hardship is rarely carried by one person alone. Beneath it sits a quiet web of connection: family, culture, and shared hope.

The Journey Within the Journey

While I am still reconciling certain things, the unresolved alongside the grateful, the beauty of the journey has always run in parallel with its difficulty. Even in the hardest chapters, moments of light were quietly waiting to be noticed.

During the COVID lockdowns, life unfolded in unexpected ways. The birth of my first child brought both joy and stillness. He taught me more about presence than any meditation ever could. In his early days, I discovered the delicacy of life, the music of breath, the tenderness of touch, the quiet miracle contained in a yawn. Watching him sleep and stretch reminded me that even the most ordinary moments carry something sacred.

Around the same time, I began filming a masterclass series on singing bowls, capturing the sounds, stories, and science that would eventually be featured in this book. I designed a square-wheeled travel bag, born of the simple need to move heavy bowls more easily. I also began a regular meditation practice. Over time, it became a way of returning, a reminder to listen before speaking and to feel before explaining.

Looking back, these moments didn’t happen apart from the struggles. They blossomed within them. Creation and healing were never separate. The sound of the bowls, my son’s laughter, and the calm breath between words all became instruments in the same orchestra.

Where Sound Meets Soul

From here, the story shifts into memories that still make me smile when I return to them. Looking back on those early chapters, what stands out is not the sales or the festivals. Those were only the surface. What stayed with me were the threads of connection, the invisible lines that formed between the people I met. I can still see the quiet teenage girl, standing among the bowls, her hands hovering just above them as if she were listening for one to call her. She moved slowly and thoughtfully, testing each sound with care. It took her nearly half an hour to make a decision. When she finally spoke, her voice was hesitant, her English broken but clear enough. “This is for my dad. He is suffering from depression.” The mix of hope, love, and quiet urgency in her voice left a mark I still carry.

There were countless moments like that. The satisfaction of helping someone make a bowl sing for the very first time never grew old. You could almost feel their thoughts as it happened. The hesitant beginning. The uncertain motion. The brief flicker of frustration. Then, suddenly, the clear and steady hum. Their face would soften, their eyes widen, and a smile would appear before they even realised it. It is the same feeling that comes when something, once thought impossible, suddenly becomes effortless, like riding a bike for the first time or hearing your own voice fall into harmony. That brief disbelief, am I really doing this?, melts into wonder, as if a hidden ability has been uncovered, one that was always there, quietly waiting.

Then there were the light-in-the-eyes moments, when someone realised they were not just buying a polished piece of metal to place on a shelf. They were taking home an experience, a living sound, a companion in stillness, a tool that could meet them in joy or grief. I have seen people cradle a new bowl like a sleeping child, and others who couldn’t stop playing it as they walked away down the market lane. Those moments stitched together the fabric of my early years in this work. They made it feel less like a business and more like a shared journey, one bowl and one person at a time.

Reflection Exercise

If you own a singing bowl, find a quiet space and sit with it for a few minutes. Close your eyes and play a single tone, then allow it to fade completely before playing again. As you listen, let your mind drift back to the first time you heard the sound of a singing bowl.