THE OPPOSITE OF HOOTERS


Today's Kannada Phrases:

Wanda Naygaloo = thank you

Tumba Chennai G’day = very good

Mugeetoo = stomach is full




Today (Tuesday) was Guruji’s birthday – he seemed quite pleased at my gift of chocolate in the midst of all the flowers – and I wore a pink sari because, at the last minute, every Indian person I know came out of the woodwork to tell me that wearing black to such a function would be a bad omen. So much for the fabulous new black sari. The night before the birthday puja-cum-party (which began at 10:30 AM) I took my pink sari from 2002 next door to be pressed (Rs 12) and had dinner with Matrika at the Southern Star, where there was a huge function for bankers and MPs – money and power – that of course got rained on.

Then after an unsuccessful attempt to track down the genius tailor who has a fever and half of my clothes in his possession, we flew down to Devaraj Market just before closing to get a princess kit (matching and rather flashy pink earrings, necklace and bindi). I hate it when you ask for pink and they pull out green and say “take it” but it also has its charm….

I brought it all over to Three Sisters to see if it would work out and they were all quite pleased with how the jewelry matched up with the sari. The color pink was a huge hit, but of course they wanted to know where I got the sari and how much it cost. It was fun, acting like girls – like I never did when young, what with being raised by wolves and all.

And today was the big dress-up. Shashikala (middle sister) draped my sari and Harini pinned it in a million places. I'd put my hair into a ponytail but of course it was falling all over the place. I put on the bangles (12 gold ones on each wrist), the ankle bracelets, the sari pins, the bindi and princess kit and went back to the hotel to show the woman down the hall. She gave the head-shake that said it all looked good. Then she knocked on my door. I let her in and she showed me a hair clip. She undid my hair , asked for a comb, sat me down on the bed and proceeded to re-do my hair. It looked quite good when she was finished – like Sonia Gandhi’s younger sister. Then she re-draped my sari, with fewer pins (not so good for the 6km scooter ride to the shala).

When I went back to 3 Sisters (which is three doors away), I showed Harini, who said, diplomatically, “Everyone has a different way of doing the sari.” Nagarathna (eldest sister) put a string of orange jasminy flowers in my hair, and Shashikala – who studies with Guruji at the old shala – and I made our way to Gokalum, where the puja was already in progress…of course it started to rain on the way there.

The place was packed. Lots of westerners and Indian women in saris. During the puja, which revolved around a big, smelly fire and lots of Brahmins in white, I noticed that all of the Second Series Guys were also in white, and seated in front. A Western caste system. (We are also just as big of busybodys as any of the Indians; if a student farts in Gokalum, they hear about it in Chevalamba Agrahara within the hour). There was a Bollywood dance performance by some students – Phillipa really stood out – and then the gift-giving and photo-taking.



After paying respects to Guruji we went downstairs to eat in shifts. Downstairs in their garage, which is bigger than any garage I’ve ever seen and has a long sink with several spigots for a hand-wash. As with the 2002 wedding where I ran into Guruji and family, there were plastic chairs set in front of narrow tables, and you ate facing another group of people. It had a certain game show aspect to it. There was a banana leaf at each setting. Once we were seated, barefoot Brahmin guys wearing nothing but orange dhotis, sacred threads and moustaches ladled out some of the best food I’ve ever eaten, including FIVE types of sweets. FIVE. It was exquisite, plus I sat between two people from ’02. In the midst of eating I realized it was the opposite of Hooters – instead of nearly-topless women pushing beer and steak, we were being served saatvic food designed to help control the mind by topless guys. I like the turnabout.

Later I learnt from a long-time student that this birthday was far more intimate and, in many ways, more special than last year’s big fete for Guruji’s 90th, which had some 500 people in a rented hall. This year there were between 150 and 200, and it took place in their home – which, we noticed, has its own elevator.

By 2PM it was over, and I went home to sleep it off. But not before I told both Sharath and Saraswati “Wanda Naygaloo” and “Tumba Chennai G’day” and “Mugeetoo.” To Sharath --- who usually adjusts me in Pasasana -- I added, “Well, always Mugeetoo. But now more Mugeetoo.”









On Monday I had an entire conversation in Kannada with the doorman at the Southern Star – who has a full moustache and perfect posture and is dressed in full Raj-era regalia, including tall, elaborate hat with feathers and tassels, long military dress-style jacket with braided ropes and breeches. Afterwords Matrika (WHO, CONTRARY TO SHALA GOSSIP, IS NOT MY PARTNER) asked, “What was that all about?” A translation:

DOORMAN: Have you finished your meal?
CACA: I have finished my meal. (pointing) Stomach is full.
DM: Good, good.
CC: Have you finished your meal?
DM: No, meal not finished.
CC: No meal? What time meal?
DM: 8 o’clock
CC: 8 o’clock? (in English: Coming! Good!)
DM: Yes
CC: See you soon.
DM: Come back soon.
CC: Good night.
CC: (pointing at sky) Full moon!

ONE TEACHER TAKING

Today’s Vocabulary Words:

Shala = yoga studio

Saucha = cleanliness

Samskara = subliminal impressions."veil of illusion". karmic impressions from previous lifetimes

Kundalini = “coiled one” cosmic energy, that lies dormant in a coiled form in the muladhara chakra at the base of the spine. this extremely subtle force, also described as the supreme goddess, is awakened and begins to purify the entire being.

Pratyahara = ("withdrawal"): sensory inhibition, the fifth limb of Patanjali's eightfold yoga path

Pranayama = breath control, the fourth limb of Patanjali's eigthfold path

Maya = Fear-driven illusion or false belief

Asana = yoga poses



SOME HIGHLIGHTS FROM GURUJI'S CONFERENCE ON SUNDAY

(NOTE: Children were running around, screaming, playing with loud toys, dancing, etc. and I have trouble understanding Guruji anyway, so I only heard bits and pieces. In other words, I missed more than I caught. Also, flashbulbs were popping throughout, since this is the only time photos are allowed in the shala).

First off, a man was in the middle of asking, “Guruji, what is your definition of a dumb question?” when his cell phone started ringing. Oops. Guruji made him come closer (“COME HERE!”) and his answer went something like, “….Samskara, samskara, samskara…. 100 years possible…. mind control… nine holes controlling…”

Then the man asked, “What is Mula Bandha” (aka Kegel muscle). “Anus control…practice, practice, practice…. battling enemies is gone…. You take practice, practice, practice.”

Someone asked, “What if Kundalni is awakened?” All I caught was, “Inside practice, outside practice…. Don’t think bad…. Maya. Pranayama…. You don’t take practice, no use.”

The next question was about self-practice at home, vs. with a teacher. “Once it is perfect you can do. If once teaching, your practice is gone.” This last was met with laughter. Then Sharath clarified: “You should follow only one method.” And then Guruji continueded, “One Guru you take. One guru your health is very good. Two gurus your health is very bad.” At this point I turned to Jammu (it was loud in there anyway) and said, “One wife taking.” And sure enough, Guruji said something like, “One wife good, Two wife bad.” A bit later Sharath said, regarding teachers, that a piece of paper means nothing. “Experience. Learning. Philosophy” are far more important. “First of all you have to be student 10 years.”

Since I was not up to having the whole room turn around and stare at me, Jammu asked Guruji to talk about saucha (funny; afterwards two people came up to me and said, “Good question.” Apparently the odor problem isn’t limited to the front row). Guruji said it means body inside, outside clean. Thinking God. Pranayama. Clean. Sharath added, “Saucha means you have to think good, both of self and others.” One suspects they too knew who was really asking the question.

Someone asked Guruji what he eats. “Very small….. Milk everyday….Two litres.” Sharath added, “No spicy food. Food affects your mind also. Non-veg is not good.” Guruji picked up the ball. “Fruits… you first eating… God has given food. God is in here (points to stomach). God is eating.” Sharath said, “In our caste we don’t eat others’ food. They touch it and we don’t eat it.”

Not sure how we got to the next subject, but Sharath said, “Getting rid of maya (magic) very difficult. Only way to get rid of it is by thinking good.”

Someone asked what to do about pain when practicing. The only thing I caught was Guruji: “No problem…. Inhale/exhale, asana you take.”

It ended with Guruji’s usual, “Thank you! Thank you!” followed by the scramble for feet and photo-ops.

WHAT PART OF "SAUCHA" DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Today's Vocabulary Word:

Saucha = Sanskrit for "cleanliness"

As usual I was in the front row at Friday's led primary series class. It all seemed to be going well until the man next to me and his adjacent buddy were told to stop at the Marichyasanas (ie, before the halfway point). Instead of sitting still and facing forward or meditating or pretending to meditate, they turned around and made a big show of watching the class -- which was facing them -- continue their practice. Their heads turned this way and that as they stared at various people struggling to do the various poses. As if that weren't annoying enough -- and it was -- they began talking to each other! I shusshed them while in Supta Kurmasana -- no small thing while you are face down, legs behind your head. I think I actually said, "Shut it!" But they started up again a short time later.

(Someone also shusshed Flatsie the other day in the closing room, when she was doing her noisy and verboten kapalabhati breathing).

Today one of those Mr. Natural types plopped down his mat next to mine. He already smelled of body odor. As the practice progressed it became so strong I almost gagged (which in hindsight probably would have helped me with uddiyana bandha -- the abdominal lock I'm trying to engage in backbends). I wanted to ask, "What part of saucha don't you understand?" since one of the basic tenets of ashtanga yoga is keeping one's effing body clean.

Which brings us to today's print-n-clip-n-save entry:



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SHALA ETIQUETTE

Do your pre-practice warmups at home.

Practice saucha, which is one of the yamas and part of the eight limbs of yoga. Keep your mat, towel and person clean. Bringing bad smells to class is not part of the ashtanga practice. If you have a faulty sniffer, err on the side of being too clean rather than too dirty.

Use mula bandha. Contain your farts.

No homesteading. Space at the shala is scarce. Leave the extra wide mats and rugs at home. Live with the fact that there will only be an inch or two between your mat and the person next to you. Same goes for the closing room.

No bullfighting. Whipping around your mat before putting it down creates the equivalent of an icy, gale-force wind for the people who are already practicing and have built up heat. Unfurl your mat slowly. Same goes for the closing room.

Don't come to class sick. The shala is a humid petri dish where everyone is (or should be) focusing on their breathing. By coming to class sick, you infect everyone else and, even worse, could get Guruji sick. And when you do come to class sick (and you will), don't put your dirty snot-rag on someone else's mat.

Don't eat a lot of garlic or onions the night before class; it's non-sattvic and offensive to your teachers.

The shala clock is fast. About 11 minutes fast. Set your watch accordingly.

Don't come before your scheduled time. If Sharath says 6:45, come at 6:45 -- not 6:35. If you do come early, wait for the others to go first. Order is not determined by who gets to the shala first but by the date of your first practice.

Don't come after your time, or Guruji will ask in a hurt voice, "Why late?"

If you sweat a lot, bring an extra towel for the teacher.

If you smack or kick someone, apologize so they know it wasn't on purpose.

Even if it was on purpose, apologize anyway.

If you get stopped partway through the series in a talk-through class, practice in the back of the room so you don't disrupt those who are continuing.

Getting stopped partway through the series should not be interpreted as an opportunity to practice other poses or to catch up with friends. Be still. And maintain silence! There are signs posted to this effect all over the shala, in case you forget.

Don't do savasana (corpse pose) backwards, or someone may stomp on your head.

Don't do extra poses in the closing room. You signed a contract agreeing that you would stop when told to stop. Honor it.

Respect the culture. Don't dress like a slob, harlot or street person outside the shala. A woman wearing a single toe-ring on one foot denotes a prostitute; one on each foot means you're married. A woman's bare shoulders/ankles/calves are considered obscene. No public displays of affection (unless you want to find out what the jails are like). Use your right hand to eat and hand people money. Do some research before you come.

Say hello to others who greet you. Acknowledge their existence. Show that the divinity within you recognizes the divinity within them -- even if you don't like them.. That's the real yoga.

"YEGGS BAD!"*

Today's Vocabulary Words:

Pure Veg = no-egg vegetarian

Mutton = goat or sheep meat






For breakfast my stepmother used to make the bacon first and then fry the eggs in the leftover grease -- which made for tough, chewy eggs with chalky yellow centers. Some people like this. I found it to be the most vile concoction ever created -- worse than baked halibut -- and every time she made them they'd get stuck in my gullet and I'd throw them up right there at the table, in front of everyone. Yet they still made me eat them (well, at least I wasn't forced to eat my own vomit). One morning after one of these fried egg ordeals, wanting to mend fences, I asked my stepmother what we would be having for breakfast the next day.

"We're going to try fried eggs again," she said, teeth flashing. She was the type of woman who used a cattle prod to discipline her children.


Every time it comes to standing up from backbends, I feel the same inward cringe I used to get on those fried egg mornings. My victory Wednesday -- when my back hurt and Sharath had me skip dropbacks -- was a pyrrhic one. The next day I had a great spot in front of the stage. Janice and Stephen were on either side of me, and KenTheRolfer was in the spot behind me. Just as I finished my third backbend, Sharath stood in front of me -- so there was no chance of my pushing up too hard and tripping over the elevated stage a few inches in front of my mat. Everything was in place so that I could come up from backbend -- good vibes from people I know, Sharath's magnetic self in front of me -- and yet it was like my body was made of lead. I simply could not do it. The first couple of times my hands barely left the floor. The third time I got some air but lost the nerve to go up all the way. Sharath finally helped me stand up and then immediately had me do half-dropbacks.

Another failure.

Or was it?

After talking with some long-time students / teachers about their back problems and Sharath's own disc problems and those of other senior teachers** (apparently Peter Sanson has been told he needs surgery), maybe I'm better off giving it up.

There's such a fine line between slacking off and doing the right thing...

Although they also said that if I tucked in my tailbone and worked the bandhas (energy locks) and abs very hard, I could come up safely.

And KenTheRolfer has said I should add nauli*** (an abdominal exercise that recalls the workings of a washing machine) to my at-home practice in order to strengthen the abs and protect my lower back.

If nothing else I'll come home with abs of ghee.



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*Guruji once said at a conference that "Yeggs" are bad. Like all observant Brahmins he avoids eating eggs, which are not "pure veg." They also avoid non-sattvic foods such as onions and garlic. Many western yogis have also adopted the sattvic diet. I think I may have had some bad yeggs at the Southern Star this morning.

**Senior teachers Tim Miller and Chuck Miller have also suffered acute back problems. So has Graeme Northfield, although I'm not sure if his came before or after The Ashtanga.

***Guruji has also said, repeatedly, that ladies should not take nauli (apparently it's not good for making babies). Oops.

NOT REALLY KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES

Today's Vocabulary Word:

Mallay = Kannada for rain

I was on Deva Raj Urs Road (a big shopping strip) today and the skies opened and I had a Mysore Moment -- the good kind. The rain was so heavy everyone ducked into doorways. I found myself in a men's clothing store with a woman in a sari, two police officers and a bunch of short men with moustaches. The proprietor indicated that I should sit my arse down on a very dirty white stool, which I did. And I watched the show outside as the rain created a muddy river that ran down the street. To negotiate it women hiked up their saris and showed their ankles (this is considered indecent and usually means you have to go to the bathroom). Some men covered their rickshaw in tarp and took refuge inside. Traffic disappeared. More people ducked in. Those that walked by tried to stay under the awnings. The air became clean and cool and the rain went on and on and on..... but eventually I got up and braved the rain and did what I came to do -- buy some Frooty and whatnot at Food World for a dinner party.

Prior to that I had gotten my nerve up to buy beer for said party. Because Matrika and other women have been barred from ordering a glass of wine at the Metropole Hotel because they were not accompanied by a man, and because the only thing I've seen in front of bars are scores of drunken drink-slamming short men with moustaches, I was hesitant to go. And when I say bar I mean drink dispensary; there's no TV or seating or anything like that; you lean against a splintery piece of wood, drink, and leave. And there are no women. Ever. It's very seedy and most people here look askance at drinking. Anyway I went to the alcohol dispensary near Niru's -- he's the little person who used to do shipping and faxing for westerners but has now moved on, which has left me in quite a quandary. There were only two patrons who didn't stare too much (it helped that I was still wearing my helmet). They were nice, and changed my 1,000 rupee note without batting an eye.

So much for expecting the worst.

My trip to the post office today was equally painless. And I'd been putting it off for months.

I finally learnt the identity of The Blondes. You know, the bevy of blonde women and puberteens who paraded through the studio on the final day of filming, plopped down their pink mats and received many adjustments under the hot gaze of showbiz lamps. Apparently they were the (Aussie) wife, family and friends of veryrich American trader Paul Tudor Jones II. The wife is an ashtangi and apparently the Joneses fly Guruji around in their private jet for emergencies, safaris, etc. and are quite close to "the family." Apparently a verylarge diamond was given to Guruji on his birthday last year.

Yet somehow the $5, battery-free, shake-it-and-it-works very time flashlight I recently gave Guruji did elicit a wee bit of enthusiasm from him.

Or maybe he was just being polite.

I suppose I could offer to drive Guruji around in my 92 Civic, should he ever come to Chicago...

Which brings to mind the image of Guruji, Saraswati, Sharath, Shruti, Sharda, et al staying in my vintage one-bedroom apartment.

Sure, it's not as nice as Sting's or Mike D's place. But it's comfortable and veg and there are even a couple of TV's.

And many fans are there.

"I THINK YOU ARE BECOMING FAT,"
OR FABRIC IS THE NEW SMACK


Today's Vocabulary Words:

Note = 100-rupee note
Lakh = 100,000
Crore = 100 lakhs (10 million)
Grand = fancy


Jammu (of 2004 trip's Jammu and Kashmir) arrived on Monday and we've been shoping ever since.

The bright blue salwaar kameez depicted in my profile picture is ripping apart at the seams because 1) the fabric is cheap and paper-thin, and 2) I'm rough on clothes. So Jammu brought me to a flashy-dressing fabric-wallah named Mansoor, who was wearing all black and a Harley Davidson belt.

But when I was explaining to him what I was looking for and showing him how my current dress is falling apart, he said, with a straight face, "I think you are becoming fat."

Which I think tops last month's unsolicited "Looking very old today, Madame."

Lucky for Mansoor that in addition to perfect English, he had the perfect replacement dress.

He also has every fabric you could want (except raw silk and saris with silver trim, which are scarce in Mysore). I also picked up some lovely homespun cotton or khadi. Even Matrika was impressed with the selection. I call it the porn shop; she dubbed it the opium den. And it's just steps away from Sachin, the best tailor in Mysore -- don't tell anyone -- whom I discovered in 2002 with the help of the surly guy at VT Fabrics.

Yesterday I had my second rolfing session with Ken (more on that soon), who introduced me to his new roommate. "This is Reena," he said. Realizing she was a fellow blogger, I said, "REENA? MEDIC IN MYSORE REENA?" and she said yes, and I whispered in her ear, "I'm NosleeptilMysoreCaca." I can't wait to get together with her, but alas! her medical work gets in the way.

Today Sharath told me to start coming to practice at 5:45 AM. I've been sleeping in until the 5AM call of the mullah and leaving for practice at 6AM. During that hour I heat the coffee / induce an elimination round, complete my toilette and do my first practice of the day -- a very soft pre-practice practice consisting of S-I joint exercises, hamstring stretches, lunges, and easy backbends. Now I'll have to start the whole rigamarole at 4:30.

I remember hearing senior teacher David Roche say over coconuts in 2002 that he did pre-practice warmups and thinking, "Why would anyone want to practice before practice?"

Uh, because one is not just looking but feeling very old today, Madame.

My third practice of the day is another relatively soft one and is not done in the closing room, thankyouverymuch. It focuses on Pasasana -- still too fat to clasp hands on the second side -- and backbending and wall-walking with a block and a strap (don't tell anyone) and doing the exercises that Ken-the-rolfer has recommended.

Today in class my lower right back hurt like hell in backbends, and after doing about five of them the way Tim Miller showed me (going onto the head first and putting the knees over the ankles and pulling in the elbows) I asked Sharath, who has his own back problems, what to do. Without missing a beat he said, "Paschimottanasana" -- which meant to skip dropbacks and go directly into the counterpose. My back was thankful. But it was hard to slack off like that.

It seems at some point it's better to do less and avoid permanent spinal damage -- even when in Mysore, where it's all about making "progress" and getting the next pose.

Yet despite all this, and my recent failure to stand up from backbend, Sharath gave me a new asana this week -- bhekasana -- which actually makes my back feel good.

Go figure.....

THIS JUST IN

Today's Vocabulary Words:

Minister = politician
Pundit = religious leader ("pandit")
Camp = workshop

Mysore has a new evening newspaper, called The Mysore Mail, which competes with the more established Star of Mysore.

The latter's movie listings are more accurate, but the former has headlines like these (all from today, Monday 3 July 2006):

Man Axes Wife to Death [another dowry death]

Snake Bite, Two Hospitalized

Elephant Electrocuted in Nanjangud

Minister's Car Catches Fire, Unhurt

Spoken English Camp

Free Piles Check Up and Screening Camp





It always comes back to the piles, doesn't it?

Speaking of which; my friends Janice and Stephen* have come up with a surefire way to induce an elimination round before class: heat up milk and a double espresso purchased the night before at Cafe Coffee Day. Their coffee so rich and fresh (and grown in nearby Coorg) that it makes Starbucks seem like Nescafe.

I am now a convert.


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*To see an historic photo, taken on the roof of the old shala, go to Janice and Stephen's website and click on "workshops."

WAYS IN WHICH MYSORE = COLLEGE (GOKULAM VERSION)


-Mattress on Floor

-Makeshift Seating

-Heating Coil in Room

-Ramen

-Homesickness

-Indian Bedspreads

-Shared Bathrooms

-Bikes & Scooters

-Minimal Mixing with Townies

-Care Packages from Home

-Public, Regrettable Hookups

-Cutthroat Competition to Obtain Best Housing

-Everything Revolves Around Class(es) -- And Currying the Favor of the Teacher(s)

-Instead of the R.A. or Housemother Keeping Watch, One's Activities Are Monitored by the Landlord, Maid, Coconut Wallah, Flower Man and Everyone Else in Town.

-"Where are you from?"

-"Where do you study?" = "Where did you prep?

-"What poses are you working on?" = "What's your major"

-Seniors Can't Be Bothered with Freshman

-Cliques (Frats)

-Road Trips!

LIGHT ON SHALA TERMINOLOGY


“Put inside.”
Your mat bag belongs in the changing room, not next to your mat.


“Take your toe.”
You must grab your big toe in triangle pose, regardless of alignment.


“Don’t dance.”
The student should not lose their balance and jump around in Uttitha Hasta Padangustasana (a standing one-leg balance).


“Don’t break window.”
The student should not lose their balance and put their hand or foot through the window in Uttitha Hasta Padangustasana.



"Don't leave your leg."

A. Your hand should not let go of the foot that's on the thigh in Ardha Baddha Padmottanasana (a standing half-lotus balance) until the final exhale.

B. You should not let the leg drop to the floor in Supta Padangustasana (hard to explain) until the final exhale.



“Don’t change your leg.”
You should not widen your stance when moving from Warrior I (forward lunge) to Warrior II (side lunge).




“Don’t touch”
Your knees should not touch your elbows when moving from Utkatasana (standing zigzag pose) to Caturanga Dandasana (pushup pose) – ie, don’t do Bakasana but, rather, a half-handstand.



“Loose your feet”
Your feet should be together (ie, closed) in poses such as Pachimottanasana (sitting forward bend) and Karna Pidasana (ear squeeze pose).


“Up!”
Pull the legs through the arms and directly back into Caturanga Dandasana (pushup pose), without touching the floor..


“Don’t let knees touch.”
The knees should stay off the floor when moving from Chakrasana (a backwards somersault) to Caturanga Dandasana (pushup pose).



“Don’t move your head.”
The head should remain static when going from Matsyasana (a lotus backbend) to Uttana Paddasana (same pose with straight arms and legs).



"You have insurance?"
We're not responsible for any injury that may befall nearby students when Caca tries to stand up from backbend.


"Take back your hands."
Drop back from standing into backbend.



"Move back! Move back!"
Move foward on your mat so we can cover your sweaty body and give you a foward bend adjustment.



“Take up!”
If you come down early from backbend or headstand or the final interminable lotus arm balance, you must act like you’re trying to lift up or the count will slow down and the rest of the class will suffer (and no one will talk to you at breakfast).


“Thankyouverymuch. You go home take rest.”
Savasana is over. Give your respects to Guruji and get out of here.

YOU ARE MY SONIA*

Today's Vocabulary Review:

Innerwear = underwear

Loose Motions = diarrhea

Make a Move = to leave

Doo-Doo = Kannada slang for money

Gante = Kannada for time


As I write this, yogis from India, New Zealand, Australia, Japan and America are watching the World Cup soccer match between Germany and Argentina at the Southern Star bar.

Some of them left the Metropole Hotel and its many wide-screen TV's before the game started -- and just after they learnt that you cannot watch the game if you don't get the buffet. No one laughed when I said, "You can't have your pudding if you don't eat your meat." Yogis....

The Metropole is getting quite a reputation among westerners for surly service. They seem to have a lot of Indian guests and probably don't need our business. On the other hand, the man at the Southern Star (the other upscale hotel, which is next door) asked today, "Why not coming? For two days you have not come." People keep track of you here. The guy I buy the newspaper from every day said on Monday (after my road trip), "Where have you been? For two days you have not come!"

Which reminds me - yesterday I was driving past Aunty's -- the place across from Kaveri Lodge where I used to eat lunch quite often back in 02 and 04 -- and I saw her husband, and waved. But I haven't eaten there yet this trip because I'm sticking with Three Sisters in order to stay healthy. Now I'm afraid to show my face. But I'm even more afraid not to....

Today senior Australian yoga teacher Dena was getting a coconut after led primary series class when her husband Jack pulled up. He was on a bicycle with their two children perched in front of him, Indian style. Soooo cute.

Yesterday afternoon I managed to make the stonefaced shala guard laugh out loud when I arrived to pay Guruji and said to him, "Doo-doo gante!."

Guruji was resplendent in Brahmin white and smelled lovely when I hugged him. One of the joys of the old shala was waiting while he counted your money. He was meticulous, and it took forever. But this time he put my Rs 17,900 (around $400) into the money-counting machine that David Swenson gave him last year. I talked some Kannada to him but neglected to ask about authorization. Oops. Outside, in the shala, I saw Sharath reading the paper on the stage while some Indian students practiced in the front row. Between them Sharath's wee daughter stood on a pink mat, doing a slooppy version of traingle pose.

Today at lunch Harini of Three Sisters was explaning how to reheat halwah (an Indian sweet). Apparently you put some ghee (clarified butter) in the pan first. Apparently the person she was explaining it to wasn't getting it quickly enough. "You don't have Indian brain!" she finally exclaimed.

Less than an hour later the woman at the sari shop told me I must color my hair. "You must put black. It would look very nice." She said this while her co-worker was braiding Matrika's hair, Indian-style.

And later, the fine-looking Muslim men at a different sari shop concurred that I indeed look remarkably like Congress Party leader Sonia Gandhi (who's from Italy) once they got me into a very grand black sari and wrapped the end over my head.

They did not look so happy a half hour later, when Matrika helped me negotiate the sari, choli (top), petticoat, sari webbing and stitching for Rs 1575.

I think that means we got a good price.

Also today: I ate breakfast** next to blogger Joey at Shakti House. He was non-reactive when I told him I've been stalking him.

Maybe I should start dying my hair again.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


*"You Are My Sonia" is the title of the hit song from the fillum Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham . I learnt at breakfast that Joey, et al will perform a not dissimilar song, "Maahi Ve," at Guruji's 91st birthday on July 11. I knew it well enough to sing along with him. Maybe that's what scared him. Details of how the performance came about here.


**This was the same breakfast at which Matrika confessed that she'd envisioned him as demure woman from Hong Kong.

SLANTED & DISENCHANTED
Today’s Vocabulary Words:

Tube Light = fluorescent light (used widely here because it does not emit heat)
Mess = cheap restaurant
Military Hotel – cheap non-veg restaurant


On Tuesday the film crew was in class shooting the documentary about Guruji. Every single light was turned up high in the shala (usually it’s rather dimly lit). I got a spot in the back row and never once felt the camera on me – which is good, since I had yet another mediocre practice.

During practice my dristi (gaze) was all over the place. I noticed Flatsie doing Virasana (a warmup) before starting her practice. I don't even know what series the pose is in, if any. I think we all know it's verboten to add poses to what we do in the shala; any warm-ups should be done at home, before class. We do a set program and that's that. Then I saw The Japanese Hairdresser going into pidgeon (another warmup) before starting her practice. I also saw Sharath tell her to stop. Both women are well into Intermediate Series. Both also have the bodies of borderline Anas. It makes one consider going on a crash diet and stop playing by the rules.

I struggled for some time with pasasana – long enough for my calves to start to hurt – before Sharath appeared. “Too many chappatis,” I said, explaining why the deep twist was a problem for me. After giving me an expert adjustment, he smiled and said, “Now chappatis digesting.”

Dropbacks sucked. I could drop back, but not come up. Saraswati saved me from myself. I work on backbends every day after practice and still it’s not working. My back is still tight and it still hurts. I think I am living in fear of throwing it out again. I don’t think this fear is unhealthy or unfounded but here I am in Mysore, where for some reason moving forward hinges on standing up from backbends. What am I thinking?

Near the end of practice Sharath’s daughter appeared wearing a pink John Lennon t-shirt; she was waving around the Amma doll that Miss Y sent as a gift for Guruji. A short time later we were treated to The Parade of Blondes, in which of two perky adult women trailed by a bevy of preteens – one of whom was carrying Sharda like a favorite doll -- marched across the shala to the changing room. After a few minutes the parade reversed its route, until its members put down their mats in the first few rows. It was quite a show. I’d never seen these Blondes before. The puberteens all had bright pink mats; one had written “Dottie” on hers.

After practice I stood around waiting to talk to Sharath. I’m about to start my eighth month in Mysore and am still working on Kraunchasana (the pose after Pasasansa, or the second pose in the intermediate series. Think of it like this: Primary Series is Teaching Little Fingers to Play, and Intermediate is the First Grade Book). But I recently learnt that someone’s who’s been here less than one month and has stood up from backbend exactly once has been given Pasasana. So I decided that it was finally time to talk to Sharath.

It was after 7:30 AM – when Sharath and Guruji are usually gone and Saraswati is holding fort – but they were still in the shala. So were the cameras. Guruji was in his seat on the stage saying goodbye to people and nodding off, while Sharath was tending to The Blondes; this one needed help in Mari D, that one needed to be stopped and told to do backbends; this one could go all the way to baddhakosana but her feet were too far away from her; she could also drop back on her own, like it was nothing. Many adjustments were there -- and the cameras caught it all.

It made me think about the three dogs that hang out in front of the shala, waiting for food. I felt a bit like the one f-cked up one with the sores that watches the others get the bulk of the treats.

Maybe The Blondes are the film’s producers. Yeah, that's it.

Finally Sharath had a spare moment. I told him I’d thrown out my back and was having trouble standing up from backbends, which I USED to be able to do. He asked if I had pain. I said yes but that I was afraid that there would be more and I would throw out my back and what did he suggest. He thought for a moment, and then said I should take an extra breath in each BB and try to relax the back. I laughed.

Then I asked about where in the series should stop my practice, since last time in Mysore he had me stopping in Kraunchasana and in NYC he said to stop at Kapotasana. He said Kraunchasana, since, apparently, the Mysore practice in Mysore, India is “different.” Then he said, “Tomorrow, Salabasana,” which is a shallow backbend and the third pose in Intermediate Series. I said that doing the smaller backbends before Urdvha Danurasana (the one I’m trying to stand up from) makes it easier. He nodded. Then I asked if he had back problems, and he said yes.

I did not feel good begging for the pose. It made me feel like one of the three dogs that hangs out in front of the shala....

But I will keep begging if necessary.

Prior to this, and after backbending humiliation, I skulked off to the women’s changing room to do my closing sequence. This is the freezing room and upstairs loft where we change clothes, use the bathroom and do our finishing sequence of shoulderstand, headstand, sitting and savasana. It was going well until Flatsie appeared, plopped down her mat near me and began doing the Intermediate Series headstand sequence. When she was finished with that – her breathing is all exhale, no inhale, like a choo-choo train – she proceeded to do the middle part of Intermediate Series – in other words, the poses that come after the point where she’s stopped in the shala. Without vinyasa (the sequence that links the poses together)! All of this is strictly forbidden – to practice at the AYRI we must sign a form that says we’ll stop our practice where they tell us to stop. Yet there she was, breathing loudly and ruining the energy of the room. The rest of us were helpless to stop it. Only later did I realize what a vindictive person could do; get Saraswati and point out what was going on. I wonder what she would do….


Over coconuts I talked a bit to a nice gent from Colorado and then ambushed poor Michael Halsband. He’s the photographer with the studio near NYC’s Midtown Lofts, where we sat on the floor and ate a divine $7 Indian breakfast every day after Guruji’s workshop in March. I thanked him for loaning out his place and asked about the Guruji documentary – which he’s making. He said it’s a feature film and will require over a year of shooting, including several more short trips to Mysore.

The previous day, the long-time student who was staying in the room next to me banged on my door and accused me of stealing her “neekkas-uh.” I couldn’t understand what the hell she was saying, what with the accent and all. After some time I figured out that she thought I had stolen her knickers. The following morning I gave her a ride to the shala. She didn’t wait for me so we could go in together. No, the minute the vehicle stopped moving, she jumped off and ran inside and secured her spot in line.

But she got busted and was told to come later from now on.

BTW I just learned that the requirements for getting official authorization to teach ashtanga vinyasa yoga have changed. I was under the impression that one must study in Mysore three times, for three months each time. But I heard today that it’s FOUR times, for as little as one month.

Plus you have to pay Rs 10,000 on the spot and every 1.5 years thereafter to maintain authorized status.

No word yet on whether losing one’s job due to too many trips to Mysore wins any kind of consolation prize.

Or whether in a few months it will change to five or six or seven or eight times.

Woman plans, Mysore laughs.

PITCHERS

Today's Vocabulary Words:

UPS = backup battery used to fuel Interweb cafes, etc. during power cuts

Snap = photo



I'd half-composed a rather vitriolic post, but I'm visiting Prashanth's new browsing center. It has all new equipment, a USB port or two, and brand new everything -- which means I should be able to post pictures. But it just knocked me off Blogger and it's late and the bedroom beckons. In any case the vitriol will have time to fester a bit.






The obligatory cow photo. Here in Karnataka state, the cows say "Ambaa" -- not "Moo." They are unpaid the members the city's Streets and Sanitation division, for which they mow grass and clean up trash. The end result is a cleaner city and of course cow pies -- which are dried and used as cooking fuel. Unfortunately they're not unionized.





When Caca goes to see a fillum she buys a ticket by talking to a hole in the wall. Literally. There is a man on the other side who may or may not be a prisoner of some sort. Either way, you gets your ticket. The sound system at this talkies, The Rajkamal, is chennai g'day.






The famous clinic near the fabulous albeit habitually late tailor Sachin and Bharath Labs, where Caca plans to get a mammogram -- her first -- for Rs 600 (around $13).






ROAD TRIP!!!!
When I told Prashanth that we'd ridden scooters to the jungle he was aghast. Apparently it's not uncommon for tuskers to attack people on two-wheelers In fact, not long ago one went after a yoga student on a motorcycle, and put a big divot in his seat. In fact, Matrika knew this and did not tell me until long after we'd arrived at the jungle lodge.

SURFING IN INDIA

Today's Vocabulary Word:

Browsing = internet cafe



BROWSING RULES:

The place will be full when you arrive.

If it's not full, there will be one remaining computer -- the one with the keyboard where the space bar sticks.

The browsing center doubles as the unofficial headquarters of the city's mosquito population.

The sole computer with a USB port will be the one using Windows 98 --and incapable of uploading photos onto your blog.

The computer that can upload photos won't have a USB port for your thumb drive -- where all the photos are.

Once you sit down, five friends of the person next to you will arrive, pull up plastic stools, and read every page you look at and every word you type. One may pick his nose.

Once your blog is composed -- just as you're about to hit "PUBLISH" -- the power will go out.

At least one computer will be playing the soundtrack from "Fanaa" at full volume.

Service will be slower than dialup.

The speed problem is always with "server in Bangalore" -- the cyber-center of India -- and never with the browsing center.

Once you're finally able to get to your e-mail, you will have to urinate.

PART OF THE PROBLEM

Phrases and Vocabulary Words of the Day:

Litter (of pigs) = three or more baby pigs
Double road = four-lane highway
Pass and come = Urinate and return
Bun-EE = Kannada for “come” or “follow me”
Chennai G’day = Kannada for “very good”
Aitoo = Kannada for “I have finished”
Nimdoo = Kannada for “And you?”


Fact of the day:

Many animals roam the streets of Mysore: cows, horses, pigs, burros, and dogs. It’s not clear to whom these animals belong, if anyone; it seems they’ve been left on their own to forage for food and return home, wherever that is, at the end of the day. Many wind up feasting on the garbage and plastic bags they find in the cement garbage pits; others keep the grassy roadside nicely mowed while still others go begging. Many of the cows wear halters made of rope and a few of the dogs have collars (no nametag), but ownership is something of a mystery – to me anyway.



***



This morning at the 5AM led primary series class I did not see any cameras. All of that primping for nothing….

Actually I forgot my yoga shorts again, and wound up practicing in what Doug-from-Brighton calls my kung-fu pants. They're red and feature a big embroidered dragon on the right leg and are so hot (in the literal sense) they were dripping by the time class ended. Even poor Guruji recoiled from my enbrace.

Sharath led the class, which meant that the pace was slow and at least my breathing was good. I arrived late with a Mysore veteran ("15 years coming") from Greece, who’s staying next to me, on the back of my scooter; the only reason I found a spot was because I parted two mats that already had a wide gap between them and made space for myself – further alienating my yogic brethren.

My accelerator-side shoulder and wrist hurt throughout practice, as did my lower right back, and to top it off I was weak and fell to the floor after Sharath hit “9” in utpluthith (the pose where we sit in lotus and balance on our hands for 10 breaths or an eternity, whichever comes first).

Overtired and crabby, I talked to no one afterwards at the coconut stand…. Although when Beck’s packet of bright yellow straws took a death-leap onto a particularly cesspool-ish bit of asphalt and he put the filthy things back into their bag, I said to no one in particular, “Something to look forward to tomorrow.”

Thud.

Then I realized that the Second Series Students (hereafter referred to as “The SS”) were still in class, being filmed, and would have to suffer through the dirty straws when they came out. And I did not stick around to warn them.

Nope, I did something far, far worse.

Something that makes me cringe and will keep me feeling guilty and driving like an old lady for a very long time indeed.

At about 7AM, on the drive back to the hotel, I saw a litter and sow step off the curb and into the four-lane road. I honked (surprisingly, most animals respond to vigorous honking and get out of the way) but they ran very quickly into the middle of the road -- right in front of my scooter. I slammed on the brakes. I swerved. I held my breath. But it was too late.

Thud!

I looked back and saw an adolescent piglet on its side, squealing and moving its legs like it was running. I thought, “Oh no, I’ve seriously injured it. Now I’m going to have to kill it to put it out of its misery. But how? With what?”** I turned the scooter around and got a closer look. The pig was still on its side, but was thrashing its way towards the side of the road. I made a gesture as if to help it to the easement, and one of the men who was watching shook his head and made a gesture that said, “If you help it you’ll be bitten (and get rabies and die, since we all know there’s a shortage of rabies vaccine here in Mysore.)” So I stood there dumbly, watching out for oncoming traffic and willing the pig to the side of the road and wondering if I could catch it and take it to some vet-- and beating myself up for causing unnecessary suffering and praying that it wasn’t in too much pain and would somehow be OK.

In the meantime a bigger crowd had gathered. All men. But no one did a thing except look back and forth between the pig and me and back at me again. Their expression said it all: Bad lady. Bad guest in our India. Yankee going home now.

But somehow the pig made it to the curb and onto the grassy area beside the road. It stood up, wobbled, fell over onto its side, and thrashed a bit more. Then it got up again – and ran off. It ran fast, with hardly a limp.

The crowd dispersed. After watching it go I stood there for some time, thinking about all of my negative thoughts and lust for speed and “progress” in yoga and felt quite awful indeed.



I’m not sure how this is related but after another laconic breakfast I went to Apollo Hospital to inquire about an exam, Pap smear and mammogram. (For those of you not keeping score I have catastrophe-only insurance back in America and cannot afford regular checkups AND trips to India; hence the many visits to the dentist here to clean my teeth, deal with new cavities and replace old fillings).

I’d left my registration card at home – Apollo is my hospital of choice when ill in India – but my name was in the computer and they issued me a new one and sent me to their head OB-GYN. I waited 45 minutes to have my BP and weight recorded, then was told to come back after 12:15. I showed up at 12:30 and the waiting room was packed with women in saris with jasmine in their black braids. All of the chairs faced the same direction – the doctor’s office – and it looked like some weird audience. I took my place and hunkered down with Lucy Edge’s exasperating “Yoga School Dropout” (about her Indian yoga quest) and tried not to fall asleep. After a half hour or so I heard “Miss Caca” and looked up and was waved towards the door we’d all been staring at.

”Pass and come,” said the pretty woman in the green sari (the administrative staff was all wearing green saris today. Tomorrow they’ll be wearing oxblood or some other color).

”What?” I said.

“Pass and come,” she said, pointing to the door.

“WHAT?” I said, following her gaze. “What should I pass? Should I pass through the door? Why?”

“Come,” she said, and brought me inside.

The doctor sat behind a desk and greeted me warmly and offered me a chair. I sat next to a young woman who was discussing the results of her exam. After learning that I just needed a simple checkup, she asked where I was from and told me all of the places in the Midwest where she had family members (Michigan, Ohio, Chicago). Then she said that I needed to “Pass and come back.”

Huh?

“When did you last urinate?”

Uh, an hour ago.

“Then you must pass urine and come back, so that the bladder is empty and we can do the exam.”

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! OK.

So I passed and came back and had a seat. The first patient was still there. Then a young Muslim woman came in from the examining room, and the doctor started asking her questions. Apparently she was feverish and quite sick. Apparently this had something to do with the fact that she had just gotten married.

I’ve heard time and again that there’s no word for “privacy” in India. But I’ve always suspected that it’s an old traveler’s tale….

In any case I was moved into the miniscule exam room behind the curtain and told to “remove panties and pants.” Part of the brilliance of the salwaar kameeze outfit – apart from the fact that it’s cool and comfortable and hides bulges and dries quickly and comes in great colors – is that the top also serves as a hospital gown. I got on the table and was told to scoot down. And down. And down – just like back at home.

But in India there are no stirrups with hand-knitted covers. Instead there are cold thin metal bars that you wedge against your shins as you keep lowering your ass towards the assistant. It seems there’s an assumption here that everyone uses a squat toilet and has open Achilles tendons and calves and can do Pasasana (a deep squatting twist that I find impossible). It took us some time to get me into place. There were no cute butterfly mobiles or affirming posters affixed to the ceiling. The exam was quick and to the point and took about five minutes.

During it I learnt that the doctor’s husband is also a journalist, for the excellent south Indian newspaper, where he was a Bangalore Metro reporter. But he’d had to retire because she was “too busy” and someone (he) had to take care of the family.

After dressing I sat back down in front of the doctor. The other two women were still in the office. The Muslim woman, in a black hijab, put her head on the desk and closed her eyes.

I looked around. There was a poster of a cherubic, light-skinned boy using a cell phone and the words, “Please Keep Your Mobile Off. We Wish You all the Best in Fulfilling Your Dream.” It was signed by the doctor. On the other wall there was a poster of a beautiful beaming light-skinned woman: “Diane 35. The Contraceptive Choice for Clearer and More Beautiful Skin.”

“That is for the woman who has an irregular cycle,” the doctor explained to me. “Also for the unmarrieds.”

“And for good skin!” I chimed in.

She said that I should take the specimen in the dirty plastic case to the billing department and then to the lab, where I could pick it up after 5:30 and then bring it back to her for the results – which she thought would be normal. Then I asked about a mammogram; she gave me a scrip to get one at the lab near the Piles & Fistula Clinic. Maybe I could make a day of it.

The exam was Rs 100 and the pap Rs 330. The mammogram will cost Rs 600. The grand total: less than $25.

Take that, Northwestern University Physicians Group!

After lunch I got a much-needed nap and dreamed of suffering pigs and specimens of swine blood. Bad men were breaking into the Kaveri Lodge when I got home, and I had a mouth full of pig’s blood and all of my right-side molars were falling out and I was trying to spit the lot of it into the pig blood specimen case so I could get it to the lab on time.

But I suspect that even that could not put Humpty Dumpty back together again….

At the appointed time I returned to Apollo Hospital for the pap smear results; the lab doctor who handed them to me told me they were negative and not to worry. Then I went to the doctor’s office, where a nearly full house sat in the chairs and stared at her door. After some time my name was called and I stood by the assistant’s office with some other women – all but one wearing saris. The assistant, by the way, wore a white lab coat over a white salwaar kameez.

She grabbed a pile of medical records and told us to “Bun-EE” or follow her. She led us down the hall and up the stairs, where she was stopped with inquiries at regular intervals. She led us to a large room that was filled with people in chairs and sitting on the floor with bags of food and thermoses of milky chai and coffee. I looked up: “Labour Room.” After awhile the doctor emerged and talked to the white-clad assistant, who told me to remove my flip-flops and come in. The doctor was wearing a green surgical cap above her red bindi. She apologized for the delay and told me she was about to perform a C-section. I apologized for bothering her with such a small thing, especially since the results were negative. When she confirmed this I said “Chennai g’day,” which made her smile and shake hands. After inviting me to come back for another exam if I was in Mysore in one year’s time, we said goodbye and I passed the expectant families and went down the stairs and out the door and through the cool evening air to the scooter, where a wee lad hit me up for the Rs 2 parking fee.

“Two rupees for 12 hours,” I said. “I paid.”

“Yes but it is after 6PM.”

“Oh. OK,” I said, and handed him Rs. 2.

“Coffee, madam?” he asked, after tearing a newsprint chit and handing it to me.

“Coffee aitoo,” I replied. “Nimdoo?”

“Aitoo,” he said, smiling and doing the South Indian head bob that looks like “no” but means “yes,” and walked off.

And with that I put on the helmet, started the scooter and drove very slowly the whole way here.


--------------------------------------------------------------------











*When I was young we (ie; my father) raised Hampshire pigs and showed them at the county fair – where mine won Reserve Champion Litter and Grand Champion Gilt (guilt).


**I had to put an animal out of its misery when I was 12. Long story. Suffice to say it's why when I get back I’m going to donate to Spay and Stay.

In the meantime today I gave some biscuits to the stray dogs behind the Kaveri Lodge and some bananas to a woman asking for food and dropped a measly Rs 100 into a box designated for “blind and poor patients” and stopped many negative thoughts; I also plan to donate something significant somewhere before I leave.

Still the guilt does not ebb.

ROAD TRIP, INDIA-STYLE

Today's Vocabulary Words:

Lungi or dhoti = A lungi is a long sarong worn by men and often paired with a button-down shirt. A dhoti is a lungi that's pulled up between the legs.

Salwaar Kameez = long dress worn with a matching shawl over baggy pants.

Hair Dresses = barbershop

Gaur ("gore") = Wild bovine creature that resembles a fat, muscular buffalo

Sambar = large, muscular deer (not to be confused with the lentil sambar that's eaten wtih iddly)

Ha-NAY = Kannada for elephant

Tusker = male elephant

Ma-LAY = Kannda for rain

Chandon = sandalwood

Madame = crazy lady wearing a poncho and driving a scooter in the rain




***************************************




Since 2002, I've spent eight months in India.

Lucky me!

But it wasn't until this weekend that I actually *relaxed* in India.

For a moment, anyway.

I'm far too wrecked to write much now, but the 80 km trip to and from the jungle was on scooters over newly-paved roads that wove through villages and very green countryside dotted with fields where cotton and goats are grown.

Many goats.

And where men in dhotis and turbans hang out at the chai stalls and talk.

While not tending to the goats.

While the women carry things to and fro on their heads.

And tend to goats.

And to the men.

The last bit of the trip to the lodge was bit dodgy, over a muddy and pockmarked track that required some serious two-wheeling skills. But Matrika on her Scooty Hog and I on my more powerful Honda Activa made it in two pieces.

We both drove in salwaar kameezes, plus I wore a lovely filigree necklace and bangles -- with my helmet and bright-orange poncho.

Of course it rained during the trip. Monsoon is here, Madame.

Apparently Sharath has spent some time at the Water Woods resort on the Kabini River, where we stayed. It's actually a home, but the owners were out of town. Rumor had it that some Second Series Students (these would be the seniors and AP students, if the Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute were a high school) were going there with him this weekend. These students were also privy to the puja at Guruji's village last weekend. But they didn't show, which meant more food for us....

We were greeted by a lovely staff and sweet, milky South Indian coffee and an airy, exquisite home -- where we were the weekend's only visitors.


After a nap and chai we were taken on a jeep safari through the Rajiv Gandhi National Park (aka Nagrahole) with two spotters and the cook's new wife and brother. Apparently the couple married last month. No word on dowry.

We saw birds, sandalwood, bamboo, rosewood, teak, several types of deer, guar, other jeeploads of (all Indian) tourists and of course ELEPHANTS. Plenty of elephants. As we drove we all scanned the forest for signs of wildlife but the two spotters -- one of whom was driving -- did all the work. Suffice to say they found a group of elephants -- three cows and a calf that stuck close to its mother -- that we sat and watched some time. These were Indian elephants, big and dark gray with the small ears. As with fishing, we had to be very quiet (I was actually shusshed at one point, much to my embarassment). Other jeeps (all Indians, no westerners) came and went. It got darker. Mosquitoes started coming. But the waiting paid off when the quartet ran out of whatever it was they were eating and crossed the road right in front of us. If technology ever becomes my friend -- and I sense it will, soon -- I'll post the video I took. Amazing. Real live elephants, in the wild.

And they didn't even attack us.

PART II of Caca's Safari Adventure tomorrow....

Pictures are also coming.

In five minutes only....

....Or at least after tomorrow's led primary series class, where the documentary crew will be a-filming our yoga practice.

I'm off now to wardrobe, and then the stylist.

Because you never can look too fat or too haggard at 5AM Indian Standard Time.

THAT SAID....

Today's Vocabulary Review:

Make a Move = to leave
STD = phone booth
Fast: promiscuous

....Tomorrow I'm going for the jungle with Matrika. On scooters. Bad lady me for bailing on the anatomy workshop, but the call of the elephants, tigers, poisonous snakes etc. is strong, and the prospect of not one but two safaris cannot be ignored.

Today I was named a "regular customer" at the Southern Star restaurant and given a 20 percent discount on the bill. How this happened is beyond me, but like getting an unexpected yoga posture one does not question. I signed my name on the chit in Kannada, which elicited smiles all around.

Recently Overheard:

"They just give them to us."

--Male yoga student marveling at how easy it is for westerners here to obtain very dangerous four-stroke weapons (ie, scooters).

"Are you going to Regaalis?"

--Male yoga student asking a peer if they plan to swim at the Southern Star, which recently changed hands and was renamed (and now has a new favourite customer).

"What's Regaalis?"

--Female yoga student

"I Just can't get enough of their chicken sausage."

-Male yoga student, referring to the Southern Star's infamous East-meets-West buffet.


"She got Lasic surgery in Bangalore and can see perfectly now. It cost her $850 US"

-Male yoga student.


"What's Guantanamo?

--A fellow yoga student. From America. Asking Satya C. what the hell she was talking about when she read aloud from an article about US Senators calling for an end to the unconstitutional detainment and torture of suspected (but never charged) terrorists at the US detention camp in Cuba.


Deafening distorted helium-y Bollywood-y temple music amplified to a painful decibel level that breaks local laws as well as the 1949 Geneva Conventions accords regarding torture.

--heard at this very moment up and down the street and inside every building along the way. Yet no one has taken up arms.

OLDIES STRUGGLE TO EXTEND SELL-BY DATE*
(“You are looking very old today, Madame”)**


Today's Vocabulary Words:

Doomee = Kannda for "fat lady"

Madame = Dried-up sharp-tongued dummy operated by Wayland Flowers who became a popular guest on American TV talk shows in the 1970's and eventually got her own show, called Madame's Place.



Today in the middle of class Sharath’s wee daughter ran in, yelping. She was naked, and carried her pyjamas under her arm like a football as she charged between the mats.

The giggles began near the door and soon flooded the room.

Yesterday I practiced next to Flatsie, the bendy, fully-posable, impossibly cute tall tan woman who wears miniscule yoga togs and makes me feel short, stiff, stocky, stodgy -- and like my size-10 feet are normal. Apparently she has a cold because at regular intervals she would blow her nose into a chalk-white towel -- which she would then throw onto my mat. Which I would shove back over to her mat. Which she would use again, fully emptying her nose, and then throw onto my mat. Which I would then push back over to her mat. Which she finally noticed, and moved it to the other side. I wanted to say, "I don't hate you. I just don't want to catch your cold. YOU'RE PUTTING ALL OF US AT RISK BY COMING HERE AND BREATHING ON THE REST OF US -- LET ALONE TARGETING ME BY PUTTING YOUR SNOT AND GERMS ALL OVER MY MAT." Because the thing we fear most here, other than not getting noticed/adjusted, being overcharged by the rickshaw driver, having the maid steal our stuff, etc. is getting sick.

Later, she put this same white towel over her knees so that her arms wouldn't slip off her legs in Pasasana (an intense twist). As if snot saturation would somehow create some friction.

Yesterday during dropbacks Guruji dropped my friend’s husband and he fell onto his back. Ouch.

Today in backbends G. nearly fell on top of my friend, and she asked him to please stop.

His 91st birthday is July 11.

Yesterday I managed to clasp hands without help in Pasasana (noose pose, that intense twist), but with my heels off the floor. Saraswati came over and said, “You did?” Yes, I replied, but with heels up. "American heels," I said, pointing. So she helped me do it again, with my heels down. Then I did Kraunchasana and proceeded to backbends.

After some trial and error I stood up sloppily from backbend and dropped back twice on my own. As I jerkily stood up from the second one, Guruji, who was helping someone nearby, looked at me and said, “Eh! Slowly!” As I stood on the front of my mat trying to catch my breath so I could do a third (who says ashtanga doesn’t attract masochists?), he came over, held my waist and said, “You go back” and expertly assisted me in three dropbacks. It was so nice to have his support. Then I rocked back four times and brought my hands to the floor. He had me walk my hands in, said “Breathe!” and counted to five. After bringing me up to standing he gave me a hug – again counting to five, in coordination with my breathing –and then said “Thank you” before adjusting me in the counterpose.

Sharath was nowhere in the vicinity, but I’m sure he saw the whole thing.

Today I was on my way to class, thinking, “Man, it’s been awhile since I’ve forgotten something stupid, like my helmet or my key or the lock to my room.” Then I realized I didn’t have my sticky mat. Oops. But it was too late to turn back and get it. Besides, I had my top-mat, and decided I could practice on that.

I alienated even more fellow students (and probably my teacher) when Sharath said “One more” and looked at me – and I refused to take the newly-vacated spot in the back row -- the only place on the shala’s marble floor that’s not covered by cotton rugs (which would have been a nightmare for my thin top mat). After waiting a minute I found another spot on the shala rug and proceeded to do a lackluster practice, thinking, “Will I ever get to do other poses again?” and “I’m exactly where I was 2.5 years ago.” And “Oh god, backbend is coming – will my back hurt? Will I be able to do it? Will it be harder without my mat? Will Sharath give me any other poses today?”

The answers were Yes, Barely, No and No.

Sharath helped me in Pasasana, and watched me do Kraunchasana out of the corner of his eye. (If he were going to give me another pose – a backbend called salabasana -- it would have been at this point). Redfaced, ashamed and on the verge of tears, I began doing backbends.

Just as I was getting ready to struggle with standing up, I saw a pair of feet amble from the office towards my mat. Guruji! He pulled me up to standing and again helped me drop back three times before doing the usual sequence. I don’t know why he came -- maybe he’s seen me struggling, maybe I’m just at the right place at the right time, maybe I’m not as heavy as I think I am – but I was so relieved. As I wrote in my 2002 Mysore diary about the times he’d help me instead of Sharath, “Guruji doesn’t seem to care whether I’m standing up or not, and I don’t feel like I’m letting him down if I don’t.

But Sharath is the one who did and does make me work the hardest.

After breakfast I went back to my room and worked on backbends. I dropped back three times easily but could only stand up once before tweaking my shoulder, which made things even bleaker. I felt like a fuckup and a loser and was on the verge of tears for the remainder of the day.

And I couldn’t help but think, “The backbending nightmare would be so much easier if I could do it after Kapotasana (a very intense intermediate series, and the point at which Sharath told me to conclude my pre-backbend practice in 2005).

And I also thought, “I’ve been so good, doing backbending homework in my room and not going on excursions and being disciplined and going to bed early – and for what??

“Maybe I should start trying to have fun again.”

So what do I have planned for the two-day weekend?

Not a trip to the jungle to see tigers.

Not an shopping trip to Bangalore.

Not a weekend at a spa.

Not even a brunch at the Southern Star or a trip up Chamundi Hill.

So what do I plan to do?

Attend a two-day workshop on anatomy.

Whoo-Hoo!!

Perhaps Madame should just chug a gallon of tap water, and end it all right now.


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*This was the headline for a story about ageing footballers in today’s New Indian Express newspaper.

**While on a fruitless salwaar shopping quest with Dr. Disco near KR Circle today, a young boy tugged at my arm and pointed to my gray hair while delivering the message that Madame looked quite old. “Madame IS old today,” I replied. “Madame is old EVERY day.”

THE READING LIFE

Today’s Vocabulary Words:

Hello! = excuse me
Tank = lake
Specs = glasses
Tariff = rate

It seems the only time I get to do much reading is when I come to Mysore, where I average about a book a week (so now you know why my fake Indian name is not Evelyn-anda Wood-eyar*). On previous trips I’ve focused on Indian authors, starting with the oeuvre of Mysore-based author RK Narayan; this time around I’m focusing on memoirs by western authors who’ve lived in India. I've also brought the current darling of the yoga community, Shantaram, but can't seem to get past the first few pages -- which recall a firangi Million Little Pieces. Unfortunately I somehow forgot the one book that straddles both camps: Suketu Mehta’s brilliant Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, in which the author grows up in Bombay, leaves at 15, and returns as an adult to uncover why it’s changed. Oops… Maybe they have it at Geetha Bookhouse.

First off the shelf was Rumer Godden’s “A Time to Dance, No Time to Weep.” (Godden is the author of “The River,” a novella about growing up in India that was made into an utterly engaging film by Jean Renoir). This book is about growing up in India and returning later as a young adult. It’s a bit disappointing – she gives very little of herself – until the end, where she spends a large chunk of World War II, including winter, living in a house in rural Kashmir with three children and no electricity or other amenities. In a section about her reading material, she discusses “The Secret of India,” which, she writes,

“’…leaves me cold, and I have come to the conclusion that, if you want to do Yoga properly – not dabble in it, how I hate dabblers – you would have no time left in which to live and, more and more, it seems to me the most important thing is to live.”

Elizabeth Gilbert’s recent “Eat Pray Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia,” is quite popular among Chicago yoginis, and follows Ms. Gilbert’s year off after a messy divorce. I at first found the blonde Ms. Gilbert annoyingly unctuous – she tends to go for the easy joke; plus the first thing she did upon arrival in Rome was ditch her “serious” and “long-time” yoga practice. Dabbler! But she started to grow on me during her extended stay at an ashram outside of Bombay. Early in the book she picks up where Godden left off:

“What was more important? The part of me that wanted to eat veal in Venice? Or the part of me that wanted to be waking up long before dawn in the austerity of an Ashram to begin a long day of meditation and prayer? The great Sufi poet and philosopher Rumi once advised his students to write down three things they most wanted in life. If any item on the list clashes with any other item, Rumi warned, you are destined for unhappiness. Better to live a life of single-pointed focus, he taught. But what about the benefits of living harmoniously between extremes? What if you could somehow create an expansive enough life that you could synchronize seemingly incongruous opposites into a worldview that excludes nothing? My truth was exactly what I’d said to the medicine man in Bali – I wanted to experience BOTH. I wanted worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence – the dual glories of a human life. I wanted what the Greeks called Kalos Kai Agathos, the singular balance of the good and the beautiful. I’d been missing both during these last hard years [ie; her divorce and breakup of the rebound relationship], because both pleasure and devotion require a stress-free place in which to flourish and I’d been living in a giant trash compactor of nonstop anxiety. As for how to balance the urge for pleasure against the longing for devotion…well, surely there was a way to learn that trick.”

I didn’t realize how annoyingly American her thinking is – wanting it all, at any cost, as if it’s all somehow deserved because of a couple of rough years – nor how refreshing her humor could be until I got to Elizabeth Kadetksy’s “First There is a Mountain: A Yoga Romance.” It’s a rather dry but comprehensive account of her two trips to India to study with BKS Iyengar in Pune. In it, Kadetsky alludes to a research trip to the Asthanga Yoga Research Institute in Mysore (where I’m currently studying). There she ran into a fellow Iyengar student taking classes; apparently the student panicked and begged Kadetsky not to tell Iyengar that she was mixing styles. Dabbler!

[Note: In Iyengar yoga the focuses is on alignment and poses are held for a long period of time. The use of props – blocks, bolsters, straps, furniture and hanging harnesses – is encouraged. In ashtanga yoga poses are held for short periods of time and linked together with sun salutations to create heat; there’s a very specific type of breathing, and the use of props is discouraged].

The anorexic Kadetsky uncovers a financial link between Iyengar and the very scary Hindu fundamentalist politicians that Mehta investigates in Maximum City. But more relevant here is Iyengar’s relationship to Pattabhi Jois (both were students of the legendary Mysore-based teacher T. Krisnamacharya; from what I understand Jois was with him for over 20 years while the sickly Iyengar, a relative, stayed for just a few).

[WARNING: If you’re not into yoga, you may want to stop right here and go back to work].

At one point the author and her guru are discussing a book; from the context it seems to be “The Yoga Tradition of the Mysore Palace,” edited by Norman Sjoman. Suddenly Iyengar becomes agitated and begins ranting:

“’This book. Full of lies….

“‘Why would he lie? He says I am his student when I am not his student at all. Now what can I do? Tell me.’

“I blinked. ‘I don’t know, Guruji. What man? Teaching what?’

“‘Pattabhi, that man!’

“Pattabhi. Of course. Iyengar was referring to a brief reference in thebook to Pattabhi Jois. Jois was a contemporary of Iyengar’s who, like Iyengar, had studied with Krishnamacharya in the Mysore Palace. He now taught what he called ‘Astanga Yoga’ to a fashionable [ha!] and primarily American [not true] clientele at a school not far from the one-time yoga headquarters in Mysore. Along with Desikachar in Madras and Iyengar in Pune, Jois had been responsible for bringing Krishnamacharya’s teachings to America. The embrace of Jois by such celebrities as Madonna and Gwynneth Paltrow had recently thrust Jois into an international spotlight that Iyengar was once accustomed to occupying alone. Jois was quoted in the book as saying that he and Iyengar studied with Krishnamacharya at the same time. Jois, being Iyengars senior by three years, had been Iyengar’s guru, the interloper held.

“I believed Iyengar’s protest that Jois’s statement was false – I eventually spoke with several people who hung around Krishnamacharya’s studio in those same years who all remembered Jois studying with the master only briefly and primarily for Sanskrit, not yoga [Huh? Who?]. And Jois’s memory was famously unreliable [Huh?]. He once claimed that he and Krisnamacharya traveled to Calcutta together in 1934 and retrieved a lost yoga text written on palm fronds called The Yoga Korunta. In that document, he said, they discovered a lost ancient form – the sun salutation. The Korunta, however, was still lost, and many cast doubts on this story. In any case, sun salutations appeared in the Aundh mahajara’s treatise, Surya Namaskars, which predated this supposed excavation by six years.

“But Iyengar’s disgruntlement seemed out of proportion to the misrepresentation, and I wondered if it didn’t have something to do with other, deeper-seated rivalries with Jois. “

Here she goes into a description of their differing Brahmin lineage; according to her Pattabhi Jois is a Tamil Brahamin of the Shiva/ Shakara tree and Iyengar a tamil Brahmin of Vishnu/Ramanuja lineage.

“Even that explanation failed to satisfy me, however. Both teachings expoused ‘embodied’ yoga, after all. And in the following weeks, Iyengar’s concern for the matter of Pattabhi’s falsehoods reached a pitch of obsession. Iyengar stopped me regularly after class to complain about the book. In practice one day, he was demonstrating on a student in sirsasana [headstand] but drifted to the topic of Pattabhi. ‘He says he went to Calcutta for this, this Yoga Korunta,’ Iyengar said, his hand sweeping the air emphatically so he nearly toppled the student. The others seemed mystified by his non sequitur. ‘Krishnamacharya and Pattabhi never went to Calcutta. First of all, that you should know….You mean I did not know where my Guruji went? I am a student of my Guruji since 1934 [NOTE: Iyengar opened his Pune shala in 1938. You do the math, since Kadetsky did not]. Guruji went somewhere in 1934 and I did not know? I don’t want to say the name of Pattabhi even. He is copying my book. Even. Let him at least be honest.’

“Pattabhi, Pattabhi, Pattabhi. The word became a mantra, uttered in practice, snorted from the back of the room, groused about with Geeta and Pandu and Gloria….

“I couldn’t help thinking that somehow at the root of Iyengar’s irritation lay the history of his painful rupture with that patriarch. In this world where loyalty was as central a marker of spiritual character as one’s daily performance of ritual, Krisnamacharya had gone to his death in 1989 believing that Iyengar had been a guru drohi – a guru betrayer….

“…Although Krisnamacharya eventually submitted to appear at the dedication of the institute in Pune and wrote a prologue to Iyengar’s Light on Pranayama, what was memorable about their relationship today was that Krishnamacharya nursed a lifelong grudge against Iyengar for what he did.

”What Iyengar did was grow increasingly estranged from his guru while simultaneously winning fame, connections, and intimacy with others – new patrons, a wider foundation of clients and, ultimately, the West.”

Despite all that, Mr. Iyengar put aside is differences and came down to Mysore last July to wish Pattabhi Jois a happy 90th birthday. It was a momentous occasion and many photos were taken; one of them appears on the cover of Namarupa magazine. I found Guruji looking at the magazine after class the other day, when I went into his office to pay my respects. I pointed to his picture on the cover and said, “Nice picture of you! Tumba Santosha!” (Much happiness). He laughed and said, “Yes, Yes! Thank you!”

In the photo, Pattabhi Jois is smiling -- and BKS Iyengar, standing next to him, is scowling.

Near the end of the book, Kadetsky goes off to “a small community by the ocean near Sril. Aurobindo’s ashram” to write and winds up taking classes with senior ashtanga teacher Karen Haberman – with whom I did a week-long Mysore-style intensive (my first) back in 1998.

She writes, “Karen had been with Jois in India for several years and then left his school in Mysore because she didn’t trust him any longer….She’d felt betrayed when she understood that her guru was not infallible, not immune from cultural chauvinisms, not a role model or a stand-in for father or family – and in this way she was like me too.

“Karen still revered the practice if not the messenger, though, and she taught it to me…Sometimes when I couldn’t do a pose, I’d assume I still couldn’t do it the next day, and then I’d surprise myself when I found I could…..I learned new poses, ones I’d lonely read about in sequences that I’d never reached in “Light on Yoga.”

Which of course she got in trouble for from Iyengar when she told him; as a form of public shaming he made her demonstrate Pattabhi Jois’s “jumpings” in front of the whole class.

One can’t help but wonder what style of yoga she’s doing nowadays.

Dabbler!



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*Evelyn Wood is the name of a speed-reading course that advertised heavily on American television in the 1970’s. Wodeyar is the surname of the Mysore royal family. Ananda means bliss.



.

SLOUCHING TOWARDS NON-ATTACHMENT


Today's Vocabulary Words:

West Asia = The Middle East
Windies = The West Indies
SoMA = South of Montrose on Ashland*


Last Tuesday after backbends, Sharath asked if I'd done Pasasana (the first pose in the intermediate series, which students in Mysore are not allowed to do unless they can stand up from backbend). I said no, and he said, "Tomorrow." So on Wednesday I tried doing the pose (a deep squatting twist) but failed; I am currently too fat. Fortunately Saraswati saw my struggle and put me into the pose in no time. Sharath was nowhere to be found, so I continued to the next pose, Kraunchasana -- which I'd been "given" in 2004 -- and that was it for intermediate.**

Then it was time to stand up from backbends. It's definitely harder when Sharath's not around. But making it a thousand times more difficult was the baldie-sour guy behind me. He had flipped his body around to do Savasana (corpse pose) so that his head was at the head of my mat. -- WHO IS TEACHING THIS? PLEASE TELL THEM THEY MUST STOP -- I noticed his head where his feet should be while I was in backbend and thought, "If I start to fall while standing up and catch myself, I'll wind up stomping on his head and killing him." I had a hell of a time standing up with that thought in my head; I finally did it but had to run *sideways* to catch myself. I even managed to do it two more times, very badly, but without injuring the guy.

Class was cancelled on Friday for some puja at Guruji's village -- which many students (not this one) knew about and attended. Anyway the impromptu day off meant that my next crack at intermediate series poses would have been today.

But it was not to be. Ladies Holiday came to visit Sunday, just after led primary class. (When a woman menstruates she's considered dirty [at least by certain Brahmins] and is supposed to stay away from the shala for three days of "Ladies Holiday," lest she defile it. As a feminist I have a lot of problems with this, but it's their shala and they make the rules. However, many female students in Mysore "skip" their periods when they're here). Believe-you-me I thought about ignoring it This is the first week in ages in which we have four self-practice classes, in which new poses are awarded. And after these few weeks of struggling with backbends, which I'd previously "mastered," I'm more than ready to move forward. But I stayed away. It helped that my stomach hurt and that there was an early morning thunderstorm. But man, it was hard to do the right thing.

Later I went to see the popular, long-running Kannada (local language) film My Autograph. It's been playing for over 100 days, which is huge. But it's a ripoff of a Tamil film. Which reminds me -- the films I've been seeing are not subtitled,and you have to fill in the blanks. This one was about a guy who revisits the three (two?) loves of his life in flashback, while handing out invitations to his wedding. One woman is from school times, one is veena player from his college days in Kerala (the lush state south of here that abuts the Arabian Sea), and the third is a friend from work who's a dead ringer for Chicago yoga teacher Bridgett Piacenti. It was quite sweet and had me thinking about all of my exes. But that would be a movie that never ends....In other words, a sit-com.

My movie companion was J.-the-tough-coconut-girl. Her family runs a little store / coconut stand; they're friends with my teacher, Suddha. Last time I was here J. told me she was never going to get married and "be some man's slave" and I was, like, "Right on, sister." But now she's engaged and will be married in October. I think I met the man before leaving today; he has a good vibe and according to her he has either five houses or a five-room house, I'm not sure which. In any case the coconut family is still living in the single room behind their store. They have a new cabinet emblazoned with the word Videotron that takes up much of their sleeping space. It seems to be a refrigerator-cum-TV stand; whenever I come over they usher me into this back room (even if the father is asleep on the floor), and the younger sister gets me a chair and flips through the TV channels. Usually there's a film featuring the beloved Kannada actor Raj Kumar. When he died earlier this year there were riots in the streets of Bangalore. In the meantime J.is outside with the machete, hacking the tops off green coconuts, putting in a straw and serving them up to walk-up customers. If technology ever becomes my friend, I'll make a video of this and post a link to it.

Which reminds me. Yesterday all of Beck-the-shala-coconut-guy's straws fell into the filthy ground. After students picked them up, Beck returned them to their plastic bag... and then popped a particularly dirty one into my coconut!

Anyways....I missed lunch today because of the movie and felt like crap all day -- it's weird and alienating not going to the shala, and it didn't help that a couple of fun things I'd been planning (like going to the jungle) have fallen through. But I've been revived somewhat by consuming a fluffy omelet, fresh lime soda and chocolate cake at the upscale and air-conditioned Southern Star hotel.

Now, on to the foot-wash (I can't put into words how good cold water on dirty feet feels after a long, sweaty day in India) and the final episode of Deadwood.




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*Ha! Trick vocabulary word: SoMA is not really used in India but, rather, in Chicago, where it denotes a sleepy north side neighborhood that's home to an inordinate number of scribes -- ie; our version of Park Slope (where, to quote Suketu Mehta, "You cannot throw a rock without hitting another writer").


**There's some confusion about where I should stop in the intermediate series. It's a long story that has to do with Sharath telling me a couple of years ago to stop at Kapotasana (a deep backbend several poses after Kraunchasana) in my home practice.

THWARTED


Today's Vocabulary Words:

Five Minutes = never / in several weeks
Parwageela = Kannada for "No problem"



After not one, not two, but THREE trips to his out-of-the-way shop near the Piles and Fistula Clinic, the genious rock star tailor Sachin STILL has not finished stitching my dresses, which were to be completed by Friday. In fact, I found them sitting on the counter today -- in the same (unmade) condition they were a week ago. When, o when will I learn?

I spend a good part of the afternoon putting off my backbending homework and penning a long post about all of the fabulous books I've been reading and putting it onto the portable thumb-drive. Lucky for you (and much to my chagrin), the only interweb place with (a single) ISB port is closed this evening.

The writing took place after the chai came -- an hour after I'd asked for it.

Did I mention that it took 30 hours to get water last week? Five minutes my ass....

I've been ordering 20-litre bottles of the supersafe triple-sterilized H20; usually I call in the morning and it arrives in the afternoon. But last time it never came -- despite repeated calls, including a couple to the boss. By hour 28 I'd finished my four backup litres and was parched. Yet I was loathe to purchase another small bottle or two to tide me over -- too wasteful. But I was dying of thirst and becoming livid over the unkept promises of "five minutes coming Madam, no problem." So at 8PM I got on the scooter and rode over to the Lakshmipuram Nilgiris -- the formerly fancy supermarket that has become quite dirty (and the employees quite surly) in recent years. The cool air felt good, and I picked up two five-litre returnable bottles of Bisleri, one of the best brands. While checking out I came out of my funk long enough to notice that 8PM seems to be prime shopping time for the city's tall hot young male Bollywood types, which further improved my mood.

The water finally came long after my bedtime -- at 10PM.


Today Sharath led the 5AM primary series class (usually Guruji leads on Sunday), which was a treat because his counting (ie, how many breaths we take in each pose) is slower and links up nicely with my breathing. Guruji was in Bangalore, so Sharath also led the intermediate class that followed. One cannot help but wonder if that came as a surprise to the film (not video) crew that was there to shoot it for their doc about Guruji.

Later there was a long breakfast at the Green Hotel, which hosts an organic market every Sunday at 10AM. Westerners filled every seat at the outdoor restaurant, and everyone was chattering. At one point we starting talking about Questions People Would Like to Ask at Conference But Don't Dare. I won't list them here -- too dangerous -- but feel free to add your own in the "comments" section. Suffice to say there are many rumors that are itching to be cleared up: Is Guruji building a shala in Bangalore for (granddaughter) Sharmila? Will he teach there a couple of days each week? Is Sharath building another shala in Mysore? What happens if a lady on holiday (ie; menstruating) defiles the shala? And of course there's the Pandora's Box of questions about Guruji and asana (doing the poses) and if / when / why he gave up that part of the practice....

That said, there was no conference today.

It also came up this morning that according to both Pattabhi Jois's Yoga Mala and BKS Iyengar's Light on Yoga, just about all of the poses in the ashtanga primary series -- which I've been doing almost daily for the past nine years -- help get rid of piles.

At least there's that....