Yoga Class

Dear dedicated reader,

So, I have finally given into the stereotypical ‘white person searching for spiritual guidance in the east’: Today was the first day of my first Indian yoga class.

Of course, this is not your typical yoga class. It is a six day seminar that was made known to me by Sejalben that is being put on by the local temple who has brought in a special teacher from outside Kadod.

In agreeing to participate, I will admit that a few things did not occur to me: 1) That this seminar, taking place at a temple in Gujarat, would most likely be exclusively in Gujarati, and 2) that I’ve never really taken a yoga class before, save a few (lame) “gentle yoga” classes at my gym.

When the actual day of the seminar arrived, Sejalben backed out but in her place her mother in law, the principal’s wife, had decided to go.We made our way out of the school to the temple which lies just adjacent to the school. I had never been inside this particular temple, despite passing it everyday on my way to the market. Up the stone steps, she led me to a hall that lies just behind the temple sanctuary. The hall was enormous: 18 ceiling fans were needed in order to keep the place cool. Inside, I could see a raised wood platform at the front, and atop it, a plump (or, as Indians would say, ‘healthy’), happy looking woman wearing eye-shadow and a salwar kameez.

Across the floor of the hall, a gigantic tarp had been put down and atop of it sat forty or fifty middle aged Indians, both men and women, cross legged, palms resting on their knees in the expected fashion. We were a little late, and a few looked over at us as we came in. I gave them a weak, embarrassed smile.

The man in charge of taking the money showed us where to put down the sheets that the principal’s wife had brought for us. He led us to the back and my presence immediately caused the level of disruption that it causes everywhere: I couldn’t fill out the form for the class because it was written in Gujarati. Who knew there would be a form for something run by the local temple in Kadod? But as this is India, I suppose I should have suspected that there would be paperwork involved.

The daughter of the man in charge, a pretty, thin girl in a crease salwar, was assigned to help me fill out the form in Gujarati. “Will you be able to manage to understand?” She asked me in Hindi. I shook my head, but tried vainly to explain that I wasn’t overly bothered by this. It was, after all, just meant to be a new experience more than a sincere effort to learn. My response, however, did not sit well with her at all and she hurriedly went to consult with her father. Meanwhile, the instructor with eye-shadow had begun expounding on some topic in Gujarati using a microphone at the front and my distraction at the back was not making me any friends in this class.

When the daughter returned, she explained that she would be assigned to sit with me and give me the directions in English or Hindi, whatever she could manage. I felt terrible, as it looked as if had been planning to participate. I didn’t have too much time to feel bad, however, as the next thing I knew she was shouting at me, “Run!”

As I was too startled to respond, she grabbed my arm and pulled me up, while at the same time I was almost trampled by the very same middle aged Indians who had been sitting so peacefully on their sheets only a moment before: now they were jogging around the perimeter of the room in a frenzied way. I joined the throng as the instructor on the front shouted a phrase which I only later realized was, “Fire on the Mountain!” over and over, to which we were expected to shout loudly while jogging, “Run! Run! Run!” Periodically, she would stop and random women in saris would grab at my open hand shouting, “Groups! Groups!” This happened a number of times before the activity was halted and we were given our groups of ten to stay in. The purpose of this group has yet to be revealed, but we have been told very strictly that we are not to switch our groups for any reason.

After this small diversion, we returned to our mats and the instructor at the front began to expound again. I caught the Gujarati/Hindi words for “life”, “wealth”, “advantage”, “happiness”, and “peace”. I can only guess at the opportunities for eternal wisdom that I missed by not fully understanding her message.

“Stand!” I was instructed and once again pulled to my feet. I looked around confused as people, stood, stretched and left their mats. It was time for a break.

“She wants to see you,” The daughter told me, taking my hand and leading me across the hall towards the wooden platform at the front. I meekly followed.

The instructor looked me over. “You understand what is going on here?” She asked me.

I thought it best to be honest. “Er, not really.” I replied with an embarrassed shrug.

She gave me the briefest of overviews of what she had said in English. “We must not look for reasons to be happy, we must be happy just because. Opposites are complementary. You see?”

I nodded, afraid to do anything else.

She had given us 3 places to put our hands for breathing exercises in her lecture and those I had absorbed through watching other people, so according to her I was now all caught up. “You shall sit here,” she indicated the space directly in front of the wooden platform, “so that I can help you.” I started to protest: if she moved me I would no longer be able to see what anyone else was doing and mimic them, but she cut me off by saying “And now it is time for you to visit the urinal.”

“Excuse me?” I said, not sure I had heard her correctly.

“This break is compulsory, you see,” she said. “You must use the toilet so you have no physical discomfort. Drink some water, also.”

The principal’s wife and I walked back to the house. When we returned from the ‘compulsory break’ and re-entered the hall, I saw that my sheet had been moved to the front and center space of the front row. We were, again, a little late and so I had to walk across the hall with all eyes on me and take my place directly in front of the instructor. I shifted uncomfortably, unable to find a good position for my legs after sitting for so long on the hard floor.

We were told to do three different kinds of breaths. As the instructor said the syllable “So” we were to breath in, and as she said “Hum” we were to breath out, forcefully. At first, the sensation of focusing on my breathing was pleasurable. The intervals of her voice saying “So” and “Hum” alternately made me feel fresh and my head feel clear as I breathed deeply. Unbeknownst to me, she slowly increased her speed and before I knew it, my breaths were simulating hyperventilation as she let out a steady stream of “Sohumsohumsohumsohumsohum-“

Finally, mercy came. “So” she said slowly. She paused. “Hum” she said, slowly. I gasped for air, light headed.

This pattern of slowing down and speeding up continued for an undetermined period of time. To me, it felt like it would never end. My legs hurt, I was dizzy and the room was spinning – my body felt a little like it didn’t belong to me, like each part had been detached and reattached. I tried to slow my breathing, to breath at my own pace and not at the beck and call of these two oppressive syllables, but every time I deliberately slowed myself down, a voice would loudly say directly into my ear, “Keep breathing!” and the instructor, bent over, would breath loudly into that same ear until she could hear my breathing pick up pace again.

Finally, the madness ceased, and we were told to lie still on our sheets on our backs. I illicitly opened my eyes as I lay down and stared up at the fan circling directly overhead, free from the rhythm of “So-hum”. The instructor told the participants in Hindi that if they wanted to laugh, they should laugh and if they wanted to cry, they should cry, to let their emotions be free.

A loud, choked sob floated through the silent room. It continued, a woman’s cry, undisturbed. It came in waves, sometimes strong, sometimes whispering, but it was the distinct sound of human pain. I winced; to hear a cry like this was to want to comfort it and yet I was a captive here on my sheet, staring up at the circling ceiling fan.

The sob subsided and the silence returned. It was not long though before this was broken by a clear cackle: someone was laughing. Even I smiled at this sound. The cackle was joined by a deep, sonorous guffaw and soon small giggles and healthy has echoed around the room. My laugh was even added to this as I contemplated the ridiculousness of my even being in this situation, lying on this bug covered floor, staring up at a bird’s nest atop a circling fan, listening to the laughter of Kadod’s spiritual crowd.

The silence eventually returned and was broken by the instructor, who told us that class had finished for the day, that tomorrow’s class would be four hours instead of the three it had been today and that in the meantime we were not to have tea, not to read the newspaper, not to watch TV and not to eat after 3 o’clock.

All I could think was, only 5 more days of this experiment.

Best,
Cat