Yoga Class, Day 2

Dear dedicated reader,

The rules were simple: no medicine, no television, no newspaper, no chai or coffee, no food after 3 pm. Yet, somehow, I managed to break all of them before yoga class started once again at 6 pm.

And this is how I became acquainted with the concept of “punishment”. When we arrived at the class, we were asked to gather around the feet of our eye-shadowed instructor and she asked those who had faithfully followed the homework to stand. This directive, while not repeated in English, seemed clear enough, so I did not stand up. She asked the standing third of the room to move to the side. Then she turned her steely gaze to the rest of us.

She said some things in Gujarati and everyone remaining stood up. Being the GFL (Gujarati as a Foreign Language) student, I slyly mimicked them. Her further instructions must have been to get into pairs, because all of sudden, lines were forming and I found myself dragged by a plump Indian woman in a purple salwar into position across from her.

“Kaan pakaro!” Eye-shadow yelled (Take hold of the ears!)

My nervous system reacted as the woman across from me firmly took hold of my earlobes between her pudgy thumb and forefinger. After a dazed moment, I gingerly reached forward and took lightly grasped her earlobes as well, smiling apologetically. My partner, however, was all business.

I watched as the instructor yelled something further out and began to count purposefully in Gujarati. “Ek! (One!)” “Be! (Two!)” “Tin! (Three!)” As she counted, the pairs around us began to slowly bend their knees and descend towards the floor, wait a moment and then rise again as she counted on.

I felt myself being pulled downwards by my earlobes and quickly let the rest of my body follow. This exercise having been completed 10 times, the woman in the purple salwar grabbed my arm in a manner I’d become accustomed to in this class and said simply, “Run!” We were sent to run 5 laps around the length of the hall. This exercise was more welcome than embarrassing, though I was clad in an easy to move in salwar while many of the women were wearing saris and quickly stopped to walk to the remaining laps.

This reign of terror could be instituted at any time during class: if the instructor received an answer she did not like, if someone disagreed with her, the cry of “Kaan pakaro!” could be heard and the person would immediately grab hold of their own ears and do awkward knee bends.

The instructor gathered us once more around her feet and began to expound on a different topic (I assume) than the day before. She would pepper her speech with periodic participatory questions and hands would raise with a loud shout of “Ha! (yes!)” At these times, I too would raise my hand, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

The most confusing would be when she would ask a question and only half the group would raise their hand with a hearty “ha”: I was beginning to understand how my students feel when I ask broad, general questions in class: what am I saying about myself by raising my hand? What message am I sending by not raising it? Is there anyway out of this binary?

For the beginning of her speech, I amused myself by looking out of the door of the hall into the temple courtyard where some of my students were playing happily. They smiled and waved. I thought a little about how when I first arrived here, I had lamented the lack of neutral public space to just sit and relax (think coffee shop at home), not even realizing that the temple in fact served this function. The noise of the children, along with the persistent ringing of the temple bell, prompted the closing of the garage style hall door, effectively locking us in. There was nothing left to do but turn my attention back to the front, where the instructor was in the midst of punishing someone who had too ardently challenged her point.

The offender having been dealt with, my musings were interrupted by the only English phrase the instructor uttered in her one and half hour lecture: “You see,: she said, looking directly at me, “Responsibility is your response. You understand?”

I paused for a moment, and then slowly nodded yes, not wanting to rock the boat.

The compulsory break came soon after this enigmatic statement, so I did not have much time to contemplate its meaning.

During the break, Melissa and I attempted to set our blankets up in the back of the room in an empty spot once more, hoping that no one would notice and that we would be allowed this level of inconspicuousness: however, it was not to be.

One of the instructor’s assistants came to us and pointed to the fan: “It doesn’t work” she said to me in Hindi.

“That’s okay,” I replied, “We don’t mind.”

“The mosquitoes will come,” she said ominously, taking our blankets out of our clutches and walking back up to the front. There was nothing for us to do but follow.

After one and a half more hours of the oppressive so-hum breathing exercises, we were let free with the understanding that this time, ALL should do their homework or else risk more punishment.

We shall see.

Best,
Cat