Slipper Slip Up

Do these slippers belong to you?


My original slippers.


Today's topic is as light and frivolous as flip-flops, literally. With the sea of flip-flops parked around the shala steps, some mishap is sure to happen, accidental swaps and so forth.

So, if you're thinking, hmmm, that first pair (pictured above) looks awfully familiar, like a lost pair, I'm sorry. Maybe you have my pair (the second photo). It's cool. Not fussed. A small practice in non-attachment. If you don't have my pair, again, I'm truly sorry.

It started at last Friday's led class. Or rather, after. When I went to fetch my flip flops, they were gone. I searched all over, around the steps, investigated the feet around the coconut stand but to no avail. I suddenly understood why some students chose distinguishable footwear. Still, there were few cream colored slippers around, nothing like the common black flip flops. I thought I would be safe.

There was a pair, similar in color and metallic hue of thong strap, both Haviannas. They were slightly bigger, strap slightly smaller and less golden. But they were in the same area as I left my own pair. Having brought no other alternative footwear, I crossed my fingers that the owner of this pair had mistook my own and that I would not continue a chain of events in which other folks would loose their footwear in the process. Oh well, best foot forward.

At first I felt odd wearing another person's footwear, thinking the strangest things. Who might own it, what might the state of their feet be? Then I thought with the frequency we all go barefoot around here, it didn't really matter.

The mysterious thing is they haven't turned up. Not even at conference, where I'd left the slippers with a small little note for the owner of my borrowed slippers. No cigar. It fits well enough. I've already gotten used to it.

Maybe I just have to accept the strange exchange. Maybe part of being here in Mysore is forcing us to walk in another person's shoe. It might be very similar and only slightly different, but every shift offers us a different footing in our own experience.

Conference: Newly Certified, Faith, & Eat Vegetarian

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Today we witnessed a rare occurrence at the shala. Sharath explains that it’s been over 3 years since someone was certified. And this afternoon, he shares with the room, two students are bestowed the privilege. Australian teacher Mark Robberds is called up to the stage to receive his certificate. The room applauds wholeheartedly. I think everyone feels as I do, how much he deserves it. Mark is such a light and grounded person with a most inspiring practice—I remember waiting for my “One more” at 5:30am and just watching him gracefully move from one insane asana to the next. It’s always shocks me when men can do splits! Well done, mate! Not present is another student: Jorgen Christiannson based out of Los Angeles, who also receives applause.

He talks a little, explaining that older generations have gone. And now these certified and authorized teachers play an important role in continuing ashtanga yoga, that they are key bearers of this yoga tradition, now spanning 4 generations.

Sharath sits, taking his place on the chair he pulls out. This conference, I am a good distance from him. I usually like to sit up front so I don’t miss a word (I’ve long learned to embrace my inner-geek). And from where I am sitting, I am struck by the brightness of his dark eyes. His demeanor changes throughout conference depending on his topic, he moves from serious to authoritative to sheepish when he is being humorous. But the deep pool sparkle in his eyes is a constant light.

He returns to his favorite recurring theme: lineage. He mentions again a saying: a student with two gurus means there is one dead student. He explains that its like when there are too many cooks in the kitchen. What happens, he asks? The dishes go bad. He quietly laughs saying we are the dishes. When you have two gurus, you receive instruction from one and another set of instructions from another. The result is confusion.

Then, Sharath talks about faith. He says that it is important to have “faith in the practice” and “faith in your teacher.”

This strikes a chord with me. I’m big on faith. And I feel that so much of this crazy practice requires quite a lot of it. Faith, a healthy amount of devotion and surrender, whether its getting dropped back, waking up early each morning, tailoring diet to the well-being of the practice, working and saving every peso to get here, or prioritizing India over seeing family this Christmas.

These sacrifices, whether big or small, seem worth it, to be in the shala, to be in Sharath’s presence. Its part insanity, I sometimes think, being here, spending this amount of money to be knackered by 2-hours of practice and, let’s face it, what seems like a very small amount of personal attention. But the moment Sharath’s in front of me, the seemingly impossible task of reaching for my heels from behind my back seems to be not such a daunting one-—sure, it’s still hard, but not impossible. Time is not an issue. Its quality not quantity.

The last time he adjusted me in supta kurmasana, as well. I felt an energy and self-confidence that really is not typical. It wasn’t a deep adjustment but once he’d lifted my legs I was shocked to find myself easily hoisting myself up and into bakasana with none of the usual elephant-like difficulties. Such is his grounding energy. I trust him. The faith makes all the difference.

He also stresses the importance of having the blessing of your teacher also. He shares a story from the Mahabharata. (I don’t remember names and I’m totally paraphrasing here). There was a warrior who went to a great archery teacher. Because the warrior knew that the teacher would only accept a brahman, he lied. So he was accepted and was trained wholeheartedly by the teacher. One day, the warrior was sitting, his teacher asleep on his lap, when a mosquito lands on his leg. The warrior stays really still and doesn’t mind when the insect bites him and draws blood. His teacher gets up right away and confronts him, “You are a warrior.” (Sharath breaks from his story here to let us in on the joke, that brahmins are not known for their courage, he laughs a little, enjoying the joke himself). So, falling out of favor with his teacher, the warrior is unable to properly recall the mantras necessary to successfully shoot his bows against the good guys, Arjuna and the side of the Pandavas. He adds little comment. As it is with our asana practice, he lets us stew the story in our own juices.

He takes questions...

Someone asks for advice on diet.

“You must eat vegetarian,” says Sharath. He states two key reasons. The first, I think though I may be wrong here, because of lightness such a diet creates in our practice. The second is ahimsa or non-violence. Over the last couple of conferences, Sharath has been adamant about practicing the other 8 limbs, especially grounding ourselves in the yamas and niyamas.

And besides, he quips, “Human teeth are like cows.” Later, maybe upon seeing that we are taking his line of reasoning quite seriously, he adds, “I’m joking (about the teeth).”

He does stress the importance of milk and ghee. That it is tradition for Indians to eat a spoonful of ghee with every meal. He adds that the daily consumption of milk will result in a long life.

He then describes an energy drink not to be found at your local Jamba Juice. He holds out his right hand, fingers curled up creating a cup size proportion. He says to take that much moong dal, wash it carefully, and soak it in a copper pot over night. The following day, blend the moong dal, adding two bits of jaggery. He says this is very good for us, especially for backbends. A new spin on the protein shake to be sure!

Another student asks about sweating? If it’s ok not to sweat?

“Everybody sweats,” he says, as if swallowing a laugh.

He says that not sweating can be a result of improper breathing. He reiterates breath with sound, deep and even breaths. We shouldn’t even wipe away our sweat. In fact, we should be rubbing our sweat onto our body and that this process will help detoxify us. He recalls a famous politician who drank cow urine and lived a long life of 105-years old. Much to my relief (I was afraid he was going to add to cow piss to our list of dairy food), he said that wiping our sweat would result in the same benefits. Phew!

At some point Sharath’s children, Shrradha and Sambhav, unabashedly come in and join there father on stage. Shrradha casually addresses her dad in Kannada as if there weren’t a roomful of yoga students fixing their eyes on her back, Sambhav, who is so small and adorable, a mini Sharath—-bright eyes and all, though his is the bright eyes of all children that age—-puts on a show, jumping down from the stage, his bulbous eyes looks at his audience, filling him with the need to step up on stage again to jump. While his father talks, he does this several times, ending up at some point rolling around on the rug below.

Throughout, Sharath is patient and unbothered, he continues to talk to us. At some point, Sambhav is in his father’s lap. He is in a strop with his sister and kicks her as she tries to take him. Sharath gently admonishes him. In retaliation, Shrradha flicks her pen on Sambhav’s head. He gently chides her too. He speaks in Kannada one final time, and the two are obediently off.

By himself on stage again, a student asks how does he balance his family life with his yoga practice?

He jokes, “When we moved here, the shala, I put them upstairs.” (or he says something close to that. On a serious note, he does say that it takes time and balance. He confesses it doesn’t always work.

I love seeing the Shrradha and Sambhav around the shala because it’s nice to see Sharath in another context. They very much look to him as a kind father figure, they don't seem afraid of him at all. I more or less get flustered whenever confronted by Sharath. I get these irrational nervous spasms.

(The other day he stopped me during backbending to ask me what my last pose was. I blanked. The name escaped me. I mentally went to my asana storeroom, looking for the right pose, afraid to say a pose too early and get demoted or a pose later and look dumb, or (aghast) presumptuous. If I had said exactly what was going on in my head it would have sounded: “You know, the one with the feet here and my hands here…” all the time, thinking "God, save me.")

Seeing him with his children--mind you this is just a few times now I’ve witnessed them together--well, they love him, which I know isn’t unusual. But they seek him out and they are allowed to. He doesn’t shoo them away, even when he’s working. He observes them, it seems. Totally patient, he looks kindly on their idiosyncrasies and gives them space to simply be. He is stern only when he needs to be and such moments are fleeting and still somewhat gentle. It reminds me a little of how he is with us.

Before the conference ends, Sharath makes another special announcement. He is being visited by a student of Krishmacharya. A.G. Mohan was a student of Krishnamacharya for 18 years in Chennai from 1971 to 1989. He has invited Mr. Mohan to stay an extra day to visit with us and share his stories of Krishnamacharya’s life after Mysore. We get to meet Mr. Mohan on Sunday, a special treat at the start of a new year at the shala.

A Mysore Christmas

I was resigned. Perhaps this year, there would be no “Christmas.” On Christmas morning, surrounded by children tearing into their pressies, I was happy to be wrong.

Predominantly Hindu, Christmas is not big in India. There are none of the familiar sights and sounds of the season: no decorated trees covered in tinsel, no wreaths, no carols, and none of the holiday consumerism, which dominates the west and the little Southeast Asian Christmas-slave I call home, the Philippines—and which I guiltily find comforting because, well, I am Filipino. My American side doesn’t do me any favors either in this respect.

In my tropical neck of the woods, decorations start to come up by late October and the general population systematically stuffs itself silly for a three-week period leading up to the big Christmas Eve feast. And quite some time after, as well.

Because the shala stayed open it was pretty much business at usual in Gokulam. The 25th was off only because it fell on a Saturday.

Generally, the shala students were pretty casual about Christmas. I guess we knew what we signed up for. Christmas itself could have passed us all by. In the days leading to Christmas Eve, a Friday, there were no definite plans. Quite suddenly though, there were dinners here and there, and at least one big party at Alex’s.

For me, it almost felt as if we were forcing the issue, scrambling for a way to observe the holiday. Still, I treated myself to as many heart warming indulgences as possible: chai in Amruth’s in the morning, lunch at the 3 Sisiters, homemade chocolates from Geetha and Trupti Coffee (a double whammy), classic holiday movies (It’s a Wonderful Life and Sound of Music) that I’d downloaded before leaving home in anticipation for a solitary Christmas. I did venture out too.

In the end, I joined a group dining at Windflower’s Olive Garden (no relation to the stateside chain) for a joint yuletide celebration and birthday party for Yan, also practicing at the shala. It was a surreal event at the garden establishment tucked at the bottom of Chamundi Hill. There, our party was ushered into a raised stage area, where they had prepared seating for cocktails. We were even visited by an Indian Santa. Half the party dressed in beautiful saris, some like glittering constellations. It felt a little like Junior Prom, someone said. Or the pre-prom dinner, arranged by our parents. Us "kids" disoriented by the so-called finery--what? tables not cushions? dresses not yoga clothes.

At Alex, we arrived just in time for caroling. Alex led, while Mark and Lars accompanied with guitar and harmonium respectively. The rooftop was full of students and together we sang a number of favorites, from Jingle Bells to Silent Night. This followed by dancing. It was a great little party.

The Eve was fun. Good company and happy vibes dominated the night. Still, it didn’t quite feel like Christmas.

In the morning I treated myself to a Christmas Day castor oil bath before heading out to meet a group going to Ashadayaka Trust, a orphanage for street children located 15 minutes away from Gokulam.

I was first introduced to the orphanage during the November fundraiser, which was organized by a handful of dedicated shala students. Over the last few weeks, I've joined some of the afternoon excursions to Ashadayaka. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, willing students meet at 4:15 at the coco stand to visit the children. We take them to the park and for an hour they are given hugs, time and attention. Anyone is welcome to join.

These children are so special. They may have been abandoned, they've had it rough in their young lives, but they are still children who like to smile, play, and take pleasure in having a grown-up hold their hand. And for that one hour, they are the center of the universe. I've seen the other neighborhood children stare in amazement as we walk with them down to the park. Sometimes some hang around the playground, inching their way towards our group, the desire to join in and play with us too shining in their eyes.

I was happy to join the Christmas gift giving that Deva had organized. I brought a present for Arathi (one of the girls who insists on holding my hand and wearing my sunglasses on the walk to the park)--a pink-clad barbie doll. Other shala volunteers brought presents, while donations from students and friends all over the world made certain that all the children would have something special.

We started with carols. Bo Chang, a classically trained singer and master gift-wrapper, led us in a cheerful round of carols. Though the English mystified the kids, their tongues glossing over the consonant sounds, they loved fa-la-la-la-ing to "Deck the Halls," which they screamed happily in our kirtan fashioned caroling.

Deva and Ursula brought in the bags of presents. And the distribution began. Shelly's daughters were present and helped give out the first batch. In an unusually orderly fashion (I've been to a few Christmas gift-giving events in the Philippines that could easily have turned into riots) the children came up when they were called, then returned to their spot in the circle, patiently waiting for the moment they could open them. Some curiously investigated theirs, shaking them trying to discern the weight or find an audible clue.

When all presents were distributed, we helped them tear into their gifts. Their faces then...the surprise followed by the elation at seeing a brand new toy (there were dolls, toy cars, balls, cricket bats), their brand new toy was Christmas!

For the next hour, we played. Shelly's husband Trevor taught basket ball tricks. Deepika and Mark played tossed around balls and played catch. Like myself, Deva, Ursh, Z, Bo, Shelly and her daughters moved around the rooftop, enjoying the company of children. Even our rickshaw driver joined in, he visits the orphanage too in his free time, he tells me later. The boys excelled in their sportsmanship. The two older girls with their hula hoops. The younger girls all investigated each other's dolls. The younger boys raced their cars.

Before we left, we gave out cake and they gave us their thanks. The children circulating within our circle, each giving us a hearty thank you and a strong handshake. Some more than once.

Many times over that hour, as I watched the scene, I wanted to bust out and cry. I felt so much love for these children and so much admiration for the fellow students there that day. This was the spirit of Christmas, of giving, and of receiving--that precious transaction of love that eludes us so many times in this modern day.

Get involved. To visit the children, meet at coco stand 4:15pm Mon, Wed and & Fri. Also, fore more info check out the Ashadayaka Trust group on facebook.

Counting Down, the Last Three Weeks

You can tell straight away when someone’s days are numbered at Mysore. For one, they know what the exact date is. They know this because they are counting down. I am trying not to, but at three weeks to my departure date, I too am starting to count the days. Each day is precious. Each practice is important. So is each coconut drink, tasty Indian meal, and yoga student gathering.

Thing is, we’re constantly reminded of leaving. There is always someone packing up, someone you like that you hate to say goodbye to. Even those you don’t form solid connections with, it’s difficult to see them off because they are somehow a part of the collective experience. They are part of the room, you’re familiar with their favorite spots, and they are contributors in that amazing morning energy.

Plus, you know at some point that’s going to be you. Everyone’s days are numbered at the shala. Everyone eventually has to leave. It is simply how it is. (Ok, excepting the special few that have managed to make a home out of Mysore, the lucky ducks! Still, such a fate is not for everyone).

That’s a part of the logic built into this place. It makes sense. You can come and practice, but you have to return home sometime. Part of the real challenge isn’t here in Mysore anyways. It’s back home and applying the lessons there. Though sometimes you simply wish that the rules could bend, that non-renewable visas were extendable, that jobs back home could wait, that family members and friends understand rather than worry that you’re in India or that you’ve joined a cult, that bank accounts could magically top up themselves, or that six months could stretch on indefinitely.

The farewells make it hard, particularly. In the beginning, especially for a first-timer like myself, it’s all “hello.” Every interaction is an introduction. A beginning. But once you’ve made it past the month mark, it’s more “goodbye” than anything. Every couple of days, some one is off (Though it’s not all doom and gloom, folks are happy to head home or to move on to another adventure too. But it’s sad to go regardless). There are leaving breakfasts, lunches and dinners. We’re lucky when there’s a gap of 5 days between such moments. It’s hard but I try to remember: non-attachment, non-attachment!

We were talking at one such leaving dinner this week at the Green Hotel, all of us with staggered departure dates: from tomorrow evening, next Friday, early Jan, mid Jan to March, all of us staring into the inevitable, the end of the Mysore experience.
Mr. Next Friday was adamant that he didn’t want to talk about it. Fair enough. I think if my time were up by the end of the week, I’d also rather not think about it.
In a conversation with my Sanskrit teacher’s teacher, a wise scholar in the Sanskrit college here in Mysore, he stressed how yoga is an experience, thus its personal. How I experience it is different from you or anybody else. I think that’s true for any experience. What seems sad for another person can be happy for another. Half-empty, half-full.

At the moment, with exactly three weeks to go, I still have room to be cheery about the imminent end of this Mysore trip. I say “this” because I know there will be more. I am committed to returning. And that makes me feel better, knowing that this is only the first leg of a great Mysore adventure, one that will span many trips, many years, and many future aches and pains —all of which I will sadistically love!

I remember attending my first real ashtanga immersion. Some of the students had been to Mysore before. Some of them, who hadn’t been to Mysore, had been around block, attending different workshops with different well-known teachers. And though none of them had met prior to this course, they had so many mutual friends and acquaintances. The common denominator: Mysore. I think that’s what began my fascination for this place.

Now, I’m here. Though soon enough, I too will be leaving, I feel like I also now have that Mysore connection. And that isn’t as transitory. I’ll take that home with me, that depth of practice, the lessons learned from Sharath, the energy at the shala, and the friendships and connections made here.

I suppose that by writing this I’m declaring how I want to see the end, how each goodbye is laced with the potential for a future hello. Many of those that I met plan to return too, and with much luck, the same time of year that we all seem to love. And when we meet again, we can skip the awkward introductions and slip into the Mysore ashtanga-heaven-stream-of-consciousness, friends reunited by our common interest.
So, to all those that I have had a pleasure to meet on this trip and who have gone back home or have since moved on, I can’t wait till we meet again!

Conference: Kriya Yoga, Savasana Demo & the Tortuous Uplutihih

Sunday, December 19, 2010

In fine form today, Sharath comes out of his office. Taking his time, he pulls out a chair and looks around. He looks stern and serious as he asks, motioning to the room, which is filling up with new arrivals everyday, "What you talk about?"

He cracks one of his subtle smiles and relaxes, “So loud!”

We laugh at his punch line, we move in towards the stage to make room for all the new students (there are a lot of new faces) and settle down properly to hear him speak.

Sharath launches today’s conference by putting emphasis on kriya yoga. In Sanskrit, kriya means action. He says action is important in our practice. He says there are 3 key actions: 1) tapas or discipline, 2) svadyaya or self-study and 3) ishvarapranidhanadva or surrender to god (whatever god that may be, he adds). He says also its good to do japa mala to the god of your own choosing.

He talks about the importance of effort. As is his way, when he talks about yoga philosophy, he analogizes using his own experience. He uses himself as an example of effort, saying that he is not before us today because he was born into a yoga family. Rather, he is here before us based on his own efforts, that he did not seek out being a teacher. He even intimates that if he had his own way he would prefer the role of student.

At some point in Sharath’s discourse, Sharradah bounces up onto the stage to speak to her father. They exchange some words in Kannada, and he sends her off. Once he is on the stage by himself again, he shares with the room, “She is asking if she can use my computer.” The timing in his delivery makes the cursory remark seem so funny.

I love conferences that have this lighthearted mood to it. Sure, it’s still serious. Everyone listens earnestly but there is something fun about it. It’s a pleasure to just sit there and absorb it all.

He talks about how yoga can alter one's life for the good. He asks us to look at the day of a non-yoga practitioner versus that of a yoga practitioner. There is a huge difference, he says. He speaks from his own life: he gets up early, her practices, he stays home, and doesn't go out. He admits it wasn't always so, that he used to love to go out and socialize, but that he's settled down since. Tapas, svadyaya, ishvarapranidhanadva.

He says that these changes are happening to us too. That at some level, our discipline is kicking in. That when 6 o'clock in the evening rolls around, we are thinking of going home, having dinner, heading to bed. This is true. My life seems to have changed dramatically since I started yoga, and for the better. More so since I've been in Mysore.

He starts to take questions:

Someone asks about whether there is a proper form to taking savasana and is turning around and having feet face the opposite direction more respectful? He answers, "It doesn't matter."

I was told this by a teacher so I felt a little embarrassed when he said it didn’t matter, "just lie down."

(These conferences are slowly undoing some habits I’ve picked over the years—-many from other yoga teachers. Already I’ve stopped sweeping my arms up from the floor in the ekam of Surya A and kicking up into a haphazard lift up into a semi-handstand after Warrior B, the later he even demonstrated as an easy going lift up which is actually a lot harder than what I was doing before.)

Then he actually corrects us saying that the pose that we’ve been referring to as savasana is actually sukhasana. Herm? He explains that savasana is not like you’re sleeping, you're not relaxed. Rather, it’s a dead man’s pose, where the body is still and straight as a stick.

He asks Alex Medin to come up to demonstrate. He shows Alex how to interlock his fingers. With hands cupped behind Sharath’s head, Alex lifts him. Sharath’s body, stiff as board, comes up easily to standing. Wild! We are all amazed and thrilled by the demonstration. In sukhasana, he answers later, it doesn’t mater if your palms are up or down, so long as you’re completely relaxed. Noted!

One student asks him whether its ok to take more than 5 breaths in the practice. He says, yes, its ok but jokes if everyone would do this turnover in shala would be too slow. He does say that if a person is finding difficulty with a particular pose, he can go up to 8 counts. Before moving on to another question, he jokes with the student, “Your breathing or my breathing?” He swiftly pumps his breath into quick bursts of inhales and exhales, then does his version, slow and controlled.
I look back to see that the student smiling.

Prompted by a question about padmasana, he talks of the importance of a steady padmasana, especially during pranayama. At some point, he shares a story about Krishnamacharya, who was traveling with a group of students up north. They visited one yoga school (he said he wouldn’t say which) where someone was practicing pranayama incorrectly with his left foot first in padmasana and using his left hand for nadi shodhana.

Krishnamacharya was upset by the sight, angrily he tells the man, if you're going to use that hand, you might as well eat food not through your mouth but through the other hole. Sharath leans in to the audience and takes up his left hand, "you know what you use this hand for?" Again, more laughter. Ashtanga students are very comfortable with toilet humor.

Another student, asks if it’s ok to “cheat,” to take extra breaths in uplutihih. Sharath usually starts counting “one” by the time a normal human being will have had about 5 breaths. Then he continues to count very slowly. He says there are two reasons why uplutihih is held for a long time: one, because it develops the mula banda and the udiyana banda and second—he pauses here for effect—“it’s fun!”

We all laugh, being on the receiving end of his good humor twice a week, doing our best to hold uplutihih for what feels like 30 breaths instead of 10.

Then he recalls something, provoking one of those quiet laughs of his. He shares a story of Guruji when they were on tour in Australia. Guruji was leading an intermediate led class, he tells. He says that touring was very tiring.

Guriji was up to “6” in sirsasana, headstand with legs halfway, when he fell asleep. He himself was quite impressed with the students, who where afraid to come down and pretty much continued to hold it. He snickers playfully that he let Guruji sleep for about 10 minutes before waking him up. He said that Guruji laughed loudly when he realized he was sleeping then proceeded to count “7”...

Sharath, it seems, is cut from the same cloth, coming from the same line of playful teachers. I am enjoying conferences more and more each time. I love these moments with him, hearing his little gems of wisdom, seeing his miniature demonstrations, and hearing his stories, his own and that of Guruji.

Doing the Body Good

I just posted on facebook: “castor oil bath works! Joints lubricated, check!”

My cousin Peebles posts back, “like C3P0, Kaz?”

And actually she’s right. Totally! For the last few weeks, I’ve become something of a rusty robot, motor skills seizing from hard labor (well, 2 hours of it a day anyways). My body, though strengthened and stretched by nearly 2 months of deep asana practice is also tired, worn out by the daily grind.

Certain muscles are tight. Joints are rickety. Like everyone else subjected to the daily practice and deep drop backs: my shoulders and neck are tight, my lower back is strained, the hips feel unhinged from being hauled into supta kurmasana by Sharath’s strong-armed assistants (to whom I am eternally grateful, regardless). During the last week, it’s almost as if I could hear my hip joints popping uncomfortably during the first few sun salutations.

I’ve been bad. I admit it. Before this last week, I’d had a total of one massage, a coconut oil rub down by two industrious ladies at Iora salon right across the shala. I had an appointment with Harini and her magic feet for a castor oil bath, but then I had to cancel due to my lady’s.

Then I got carried away, doing this, doing that, busying myself during my free days. After the first month of non-stop activity, the fatigue set in followed by pure laziness/procrastination. By last week, there was no denying it: I had neglected to take care of my tired bones and moaning muscles.

Luckily, last Wednesday, my long awaited massage with Aimee Echo was due. Aimee is also a student at the shala. She is a yoga teacher and a massage therapist back home in Southern California, specializing in deep tissue massage. She’s been booked up with needy students like me for weeks. To top it off, Aimee is an absolute sweetheart.
Aimee’s strong hands put me back in touch with the deep down parts of my body, which were both irked at being poked at and overjoyed at feeling release. As she proceeded to try and work out my kinks, which she said was pretty much shared by most of the shala students, I knew that I’d managed things badly. I hadn’t invested the time and effort to take care of myself. It was lovely and too short—as I had to run to another appointment with Ayurvedic specialist, Dr. Kumar.

In an attempt to know more about my constitution, I was off to visit Dr. Kumar of the Dixit Health Clinic & Research Institute, who is known amongst the yoga community here for his Ayurvedic treatments and for being able to prescribe the correct lifestyle advice for one’s particular dosha.

It’s easy to like Dr. Kumar. He has big, kind eyes, a straightforward face, and a bulbous bald head, which bobs side to side with a smile as I sit and introduce myself. There’s something comedic about his countenance and it is easy to be comfortable in his presence. He sits up straight and attentively listens as I explain to him why I’ve come to visit him: 1) to hasten my slow digestive system so I can enjoy a light practice and 2) to know more about my dosha.

I prattle on. When I am done, he asks for my arm, takes my pulse and asks me whether I’ve always been of slight build, how regular is my menstrual cycle and whether I have dry or oily skin. He pronounces me predominantly Vata as he writes “Vata +++” on my sheet.

I had answered a questionnaire once to try to ascertain my own dosha. The result was evenly vata/pita. So I ask him, about my pita side.

He says, “Only a little Pita,” writing as he says this “Pita +” on my record book.

“How about Kapha?” I ask.

“Very little.” His head bobs. He doesn’t bother to write kapha down in his record.
I’m baffled at how he would know all this at this point, so I go ahead and ask, “How do you know?”

“It’s very clear. You have all the signs,” he assures me as both hands gesture at my person. With his head confidently see-sawing from side to side, he seems sure that such signs are totally apparent. Well, he’s the expert.

I suppose he does have a point. Slender, check! Enthusiastic, check! Airy, check check check!

He then rattles off a list of things that are good for me and things that are bad for me, which kinda make sense.

Things that are bad for me: bitter vegetables, refined flour, refined sugar (jagery is an exception, thank goodness), anything cold, chili peppers (which though spice on the outside are actually supposed to be cooling—at least that’s what Doc said when I tried to contest), cheeses which are channel blocking, and chai (mon dieu!) which is constipation causing.

Things that are good for me: mong dal, white or brown rice, fruits, milk, ghee (everyday, he says), butter, all kinds of vegetables, all sorts of fruits like papaya, bananas mangoes and pomegranate, and generally all things warm. And pranayama.

He also suggested I curb my coconut water consumption, which was averaging at 6 a day, to at least half. And that I could continue to indulge in my most beloved food: chocolate—but with moderation, his eyes laughing at my question. Drats! Double drats!

I also consult with him regarding a criticism I get from some of my friends about how I am overly active and can get really really busy—a very vata trait. I ask, “Should I do something about this? Should I change? Or should I just embrace it?” Again, his head sways from side to side, this time in disagreement.

“You cannot change your nature! Embrace it. You can still do the things you do, just try to do them s-l-o-w-l-y,” he lets the last word drawl for emphasis. It feels good to have him say this.

To top off the week of wellness, I finally decide to self-administer a castor oil bath, which Sharath recommended at conference over a month ago. I’d put off the sticky process long enough. On Saturday, with the guidance of yoga teacher Mozart Reina (a top bloke with a wealth of knowledge that he is happy to share with others; we also have a Philippine/Alex Medin connection), who showed me how to mix the soap nut powder and instructed me on the proper procedure, I dove into the treatment.

The castor oil bath is supposed to have a variety of benefits that are good for yoga students. It detoxifies the body, pulling away toxins that are being released by deep asana stretches. It releases the heat in the body (the practice generates a lot of heat). And it lubricates joints. People say their practice improves with regular castor oil baths.

As I spread the gluey liquid from my scalp to the rest of my body, I wasn’t so sure if it was all worth it. I wondered how in the world the bowl of mushy soap nut water was going to rid me of the goo that enfolded me. I poured hot water over my head a few times then rubbed the oil deeply first into my scalp then eventually (after much milking the oil from my hair) into my muscles and joints, spending longer on my troubled hip joints. After the second round, I applied two bowls of the soap nut to scrub away the oil. I was pleasantly surprised as the soap nut really works wonders as it scrubs the castor oil film gently away.

After drying myself off, I bundled myself up in a shady area in the room as Mo instructed. Sun and heat of all kind is not advisable post castor oil rubdown. Sitting still, relaxing, my body still recovering from the sticky oil bath, I started to feel quite heavy headed. Throughout the day, I felt a variety of sensations. I felt out of it pretty much all morning. My limbs felt quite loose by mid-day. I felt very hot and tired in the mid to late afternoon, almost feverish like. And I slept like a baby that evening.

To top it off, led class the following morning may not have been easy but at least my hips didn’t feel unhinged not even during the first sun sals. I’m definitely sold on castor oil baths and have now purchased my own liter from the 3 Sisters.

My body feels improved somewhat from the trilogy of health treats. More than anything, I’ve woken up to the need to be good to my body, to support this amazing yet exhausting asana practice with things that will re-energize and nourish me. My body has served me well thus far, and it too needs and deserves tender loving care.



Castor Oil can be bought at Loyal World, as well as Soap Nut Powder. The castor oil I used, however, was from Three Sisters. Harini has it made special and Mo says it’s the best. Three Sisters: 08212522788

For Dr. Kumar, and the Dixit Health Clinic, visit www.ayurvedamysore.com or call 0821 424 4620. They also have a wide range of treatments and courses for those interested in Ayurvedic medicine.

Food, A Festival of Worship

We are eating in silence. It is so quiet. I can hear myself chewing. In my head, my own teeth gently crushing up each tasty morsel seems to echo across the wide room, which I know from kirtan there has great acoustics. I am self-conscious. Can everyone hear me too? Ever gnaw sounds exaggerated, as the delicious food gets masticated.

I try to focus on my plate and not look up at those around me. It appears as if they are doing the same. I try, as the exercise requires, to focus on the food. My right fingers handle the colorful food on my plate: bright and crispy grated carrots, cubed beet roots oozing with red juicy goodness, red rice topped with the smoothest lentil dish, a dazzlingly festive green that reminds me a little of guacamole. From my fingers to my mouth, each bite tastes of pure nourishing goodness.

James Boag has invited us, his Gita students plus friends from Prague to join him in sampling the exquisitely simple and healthy cooking of Ratna, who will be catering the food for his upcoming Beeja workshops starting in late December. He also wants to share a slideshow of his trip to Kashmir, to ashram of the self-realized saint of Lakshmanjoo, the home of his yoga lineage Kashmiri Shaivism.

Ever the teacher, no learning opportunity is wasted with James. Once all the plates are filled up with Ratna’s delectable dishes, he suggests that we apply what we’ve been discussing in class: yajna, which depending on the translation can be thought of as sacrifice, though we established in class the best way to think about it is “ishvarapranidhanadva” or surrender to the absolute.

In chapter 3, verse 15 of the Gita, we explored how every action is an opportunity for worship; that action with mindful gratefulness can lead towards the divine. Today, we are eating consciously for that purpose.

As I chew my food slowly, savoring the wonderful flavors, as I look my fingers push my food into perfect bite size morsels, I contemplate the chain of gratitude that is connected to this meal.

I start to think about my teacher, James and how kind he is to organize all this. I think about Ratna, who he’s hired for the occasion. I think about her cooking such beautiful dishes with love. I think about the people she’s interacted with to make this spread possible, her teachers, her family, the different grocers, then the people who have sold the food to those grocers, and about where the later would have gotten the food. I think about the farmers and their families in the farm and how they support each other, about how each farmer puts a lifetime of experience into each crop. I think about the energy it takes to tend a field, the richness of the soil, the nourishing water, the spouting of each seed, and that beyond that. My mind pauses here, my eyes closed, my tongue pushing this festival of worship around my mouth, I think about God. I feel an incredible sense of gratitude.

Though not the typical lunch party, where food is imbibed with a healthy helping of small talk and socializing (which, I have to be honest, I will still very much enjoy), I found the experience very satisfying. I felt full and nourished, and not just in my belly. I appreciate the silence in which we ate our food, the connections that were made, the gratefulness that I felt.

James says, “We eat in silence so we can enjoy the internal symphony.” And today, it’s true.


James and Ameli have a series of very interesting workshops entitled Nourishing the Center, which are coming up. Check them out: http://www.beeja.net