The Concert

Show Notes

In this episode, Kunal shares a surprising discovery: his most profound meditation experience happened not in his carefully curated meditation space, but in a plastic chair at an Ed Sheeran concert, surrounded by 70,000 people and eating potato chips. Key takeaways: - The infrastructure we build around presence—perfect conditions, quiet rooms, ideal timing—can become a form of control rather than support - When all exits close (no phone signal, nowhere to go, sound too loud to think), presence becomes effortless rather than something to achieve - We're already present; the real question is why we keep choosing to leave the moment we're in Subscribe to How to Live wherever you listen to podcasts and visit howtolive.blog for more insights on finding presence in unexpected places. Timestamps: (0:15) Introduction and the unexpected meditation at a concert (1:20) The infrastructure built around meditation practice over ten years (2:35) When perfect conditions become a form of control (3:45) How the exits closed—no phone signal, nowhere to go (5:10) The monastery and the concert: two different doors, same room (6:25) When volume becomes a kind of silence (7:40) Solitude in a crowd of 70,000 people (8:50) Stop choosing not to be present (9:45) Closing thoughts on infrastructure and presence

What is How to live?

This podcast is my public journal, where I share reflections on leadership, mindfulness, technology and culture.

INTERVIEWER: Welcome back to the How to Live podcast. Today we're sitting down with Kunal Gupta to discuss an unexpected meditation experience he had at an Ed Sheeran concert in Sydney. Kunal, welcome back.

KUNAL: Thanks for having me. It's great to be here.

INTERVIEWER: So, Kunal, you describe this moment at the concert where you realized you were meditating. That's... not exactly where most people would expect to find that kind of presence. What was happening?

KUNAL: Yeah, it was completely unexpected. I was slouched in a plastic chair, eating potato chips, surrounded by seventy thousand people. Music blaring, lights flashing, someone talking behind me. And suddenly I noticed—I was actually present. More present than I often am in my perfectly curated meditation space at home.

INTERVIEWER: That's fascinating. And you've been meditating for more than ten years, right? So this wasn't, like, a beginner's luck kind of thing.

KUNAL: Exactly. Which is what made it so striking. I've spent a decade building what I call this 'infrastructure' around meditation. The quiet room, the specific lighting, the temperature set just right. The perfect time of morning. And here I was, in literally the opposite environment, experiencing something deeper than I often do at home.

INTERVIEWER: I love that word—infrastructure. It sounds almost... protective? Like you were building walls around your practice.

KUNAL: That's exactly what it became. And I don't think it was wrong initially, you know? That care taught me a lot. But sitting there in the stadium, I started wondering if the ritual of creating perfect conditions had become a subtle form of control. Another thing to get right. Another way of telling myself that presence is fragile and needs protection.

INTERVIEWER: Mmm. So instead of the infrastructure supporting your practice, it was almost... limiting it?

KUNAL: Right. I'd treated presence like something that requires preparation. A runway that needs to be cleared before the thing can land. But the concert showed me I'm capable of being exactly where I am without any infrastructure at all.

INTERVIEWER: So what was different at the concert? What actually made this possible?

KUNAL: The exits closed. That's the best way I can describe it. My phone had no signal—seventy thousand people trying to use their phones at once, the network just gave up. So there was no scrolling, no checking, no drifting into feeds. My partner was absorbed in the music. I couldn't really move. The music was too loud to think over. There was literally nothing else to do but be there.

INTERVIEWER: That's such a powerful image—the exits closing. It reminds me of... actually, you make this connection yourself to monasteries, right?

KUNAL: Yeah! That's what struck me. A monastery removes distractions by design—by architecture, by schedule. The concert did the same thing, entirely by accident. The doors were different, but the room I'd arrived in felt remarkably similar.

INTERVIEWER: I'm curious about the loudness itself. Because, you know, when most of us think about meditation, we think quiet. But you describe the volume almost becoming a kind of silence?

KUNAL: That was the most surprising part. At first, the volume felt like an intrusion. But after a while, this wall of sound stopped being something to listen to and became something to rest inside. There was nothing to scan for, nothing to track. My mind, which usually fills quiet spaces with its own noise, had nothing to compete with. It surrendered.

INTERVIEWER: Like it was so total that your mind just... stopped trying to manage it?

KUNAL: Exactly. The way it sometimes does near the ocean or in heavy rain. Not because the sound stops, but because it becomes so complete that there's nothing for the mind to do except let go.

INTERVIEWER: That's beautiful. And there's something you noticed about Ed Sheeran himself—just standing there with a guitar and a loop pedal. Seventy thousand people watching one person with relatively simple production.

KUNAL: Yeah, and there was something in his simplicity that mirrored what I was discovering in the audience. He didn't need much infrastructure either. Just a person, a few tools, and a voice. Watching someone do so much with so little made me wonder what else I might be over-engineering in my own life.

INTERVIEWER: Mmm, I feel that. We do that, don't we? Build these elaborate systems around things that might not actually need them.

KUNAL: We do. And sometimes those systems become the thing, instead of supporting the thing.

INTERVIEWER: You also write about this particular kind of solitude that exists in a crowd. Can you talk about that?

KUNAL: It's this way of being alone that doesn't carry the weight of loneliness. Seventy thousand people, all facing the same direction, all hearing the same songs. But each person somewhere entirely their own. You're held by the presence of others without being asked to perform for them.

INTERVIEWER: Nobody needed anything from you.

KUNAL: Exactly. Nobody expected conversation or connection or even eye contact. I was free to simply sit inside my own experience, surrounded by thousands of people doing exactly the same thing. It's a kind of permission, actually.

INTERVIEWER: There's this line near the end that really struck me. You write: 'It's not that I need to choose to be present. It's that I need to stop choosing not to be.' That feels like such an important distinction.

KUNAL: It is. Because we think presence is something we have to work toward, something we have to achieve. But actually, we're already here. The question is: why do we keep leaving? What are all the ways we're choosing, consciously or not, to exit the moment we're in?

INTERVIEWER: So for someone listening who's built their own infrastructure around presence—their perfect morning routine, their meditation corner—what would you say? Should they tear it all down and go to a concert?

KUNAL: [laughs] Not necessarily. I think the infrastructure can still be valuable. But maybe the invitation is to notice when it becomes a requirement instead of a support. To test whether you can find that presence in imperfect conditions. To see what happens when the exits close, wherever you are.

INTERVIEWER: I love that. Kunal, thank you so much for sharing this. It's given me a lot to think about.

KUNAL: Thank you. It's been a pleasure.

INTERVIEWER: And to our listeners, thank you for joining us. Until next time, keep exploring how to live.