It is day 13 of 35 in Mysore, India. The trip here went fine, except that it was brutally long and uncomfortable. My apartment is centrally situated in the famed Gokulam yoga neighborhood. The small studio is simple, clean, and comfortable, and it's right down the street from the yoga shala where I practice every morning. The neighborhood is upper class, with Indian style stone mini-mansions and gorgeous, loungy, vegetarian cafes. The weather could not be more perfect - warm and breezy. It’s easy to get around, and so far, almost everyone has been polite and helpful. So all of my root chakra basic needs are met. Safe and sound. Check.
Speaking of roots, if you didn’t already know, I came here to explore the cultural roots of the type of yoga I practice, which is called Asthanga. The city of Mysore is the birthplace of Ashtanga yoga, and I am practicing at the original shala (studio). My teacher here is the 83-year-old Saraswathi Jois (Ma-ji), who is the daughter of the now-deceased founder of Ashtanga. I didn’t come with the intention of being her student. I wasn’t even sure she was still teaching. I came to explore, and to my great surprise, she is still here, still teaching six days a week, as she has always done.
Beyond the surface-level stuff, I will do my best to describe the more nuanced aspects of what I have been going through.
A sweet friend from home texted me, sending well-wishes and saying, “I hope you are relaxing.” I had to think about that for a minute. The first day I arrived in class, I was nauseous and dizzy from jet lag. I had been up all night tossing and turning. At one point during the night, I even had to vomit for no apparent reason besides exhaustion. My first time entering the yoga shala at dawn was overwhelming, not because of its intensity, but because of the gentle and palpable sacred atmosphere. Other students were already starting their practice or sitting quietly, and I didn't see a teacher. I whispered to one of the women, “This is my first day. Is there a teacher?” She said, “Saraswathi will arrive at six and open practice”.
I rolled out my mat and sat quietly, and after a few minutes, everyone stood up. A tiny woman with an encompassing presence entered, wearing a traditional Indian long shirt-dress and leggings. It was Ma-ji. She walked up to her wooden chair on the platform at the front of the room and took the couple of flowers that students had left there, placing them on the head of the Pantanjali statue, which was positioned behind and above where she sat to teach. She walked back around to the front of her chair, put her hands in prayer, and opened the class with the sound of OM. The high-ceilinged room and beyond were filled with the sound as everyone joined in. The morning light was filtering in through the crown of windows. It was so beautiful, tears welled up in my jet-lagged, bloodshot eyes. Practice began, and after a few sun salutations, I knew I was going to be ok. The energy of the room took over. I felt light and focused. At one point, Saraswathi came up to me and held my leg up in a balance. I must have looked at her like a deer in headlights, because her stoic gaze softened, and she smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling, before moving on.
I didn’t come to India knowingly seeking anything in particular, but on that first day of class, I learned a little something about why I am here. I came here at a very precious time, when a legendary matriarch is quietly and powerfully carrying forward a lineage that has been publicly, historically, and culturally dominated by male teachers. There is more to why I was called here, but that is all I can articulate at this moment.
After that first day of class, feeling that the depths of my soul had already been stirred, I spent a few days doing all of the things tourists do. I visited the historic outdoor market and was intoxicated by the scent of sandalwood oil, jasmine flowers, and patchouli incense. I bought silk and cashmere, tried dosas (Indian pancakes), drank chai, visited the palace, made friends, wandered the streets, and bought little figurines of Hindu gods and prayer flags. I am a Taurus, and my Sun is placed at the anaretic degree of this sign, which means I am as Taurus as we get. I tell you that because my sensory-seeking, barefoot, Earth-and-luxury-loving Taurus self was enjoying the sensory pleasures India has to offer to the absolute fullest.
And then, predictably, the stomach troubles arrived. My theory is that it isn’t just the food. It’s everything. It’s having my soul dip its Earthly ladle deep into an ancient mystical soup while also having to digest curry, breathe exhaust, socialize, and find change for rupees to pay the rickshaw driver.
I was feeling better and went to dinner with a relatively large group of new friends. On the walk home, I suddenly and urgently needed to use the restroom. Luckily and perhaps miraculously, there appeared a toilet stall at the back of a pitch black alley, and I narrowly escaped my worst India nightmare. As I was rejoining the group on the busy sidewalk, one of my new friends (just friends), a comedic young French massage therapist, joked, “Well, that could have been a lot shittier.”
There is still time for my worst India nightmare of not making it to the bathroom in time to come true. However, I will probably be eating very basic, plain food the rest of my trip. There is a special type of food yogis generally eat here, which is called “Satvic” food. We are driven to the brown porridge purée (hot mush) and turmeric tea out of survival. No fat-loving Taurus would choose this food, but God, am I now thankful it exists. My rapidly transforming bodily-energetic system is just too damn sensitive for all these powerful spiritual energies mixed with the socializing and Indian spices. I will not be pooping my pants on my first trip to India! And so it is.
Now that I have checked off enough of the “must-dos and must-sees” and also the initiatory stomach retaliation, I feel I am heading into a distinct second chapter. I may take a short trip to the jungly hillside. The things I miss the most from home daily are the ocean, the lakes, the river, and the forests. A solo trip to the hillside without a vehicle is somewhat complicated, so it may not materialize. Other than that, I will likely continue to settle into a less spicy, less social routine, with more bare feet on stone temple floors and quiet time. But who knows? Stay tuned, I’ll post a blog on my website once I’m home, recapping what I can of my remaining time.
Other mentionables.I have just finished reading Cliff Taylor’s book, “The Shining Hands of my Ancestors”, a gorgeously written collection of essays about his Ponca culture and lineage. Cliff’s book had just arrived in my mailbox the day before I flew out. Shortly after unboxing the book, I made a last-minute stop at the coffee shop to say goodbye to a friend, and I ran into Cliff. When I told him I was heading off to India, he said, “Say hi to Yogananda for me”, in reference to the classic yogi text about the life story of Paramahansa Yogananda. I thought I had read it, but when I arrived in India, I realized I had not. The Italian man sitting next to me on the bus from the airport to Mysore pulled it out of his backpack, and I knew it was the book Cliff had mentioned, but it wasn't the book I thought I had read. When I arrived at my apartment complex, the same book was on the bookshelf for guests to borrow. So I am now just starting to read it. Themes of spirit-speak and ancestry are stirring, which are powerful topics for me as someone, sadly, but necessarily cut off from all but one cousin in my bloodline. When I leave, I will put Cliff and Yogananda’s books back on the shelf next to each other for the next Orphan-Yogi to encounter
I suspect these more profound experiences and stirrings I am having will take a long time to be understood and articulated, if ever they are. For now, I hope you've enjoyed some of what I've put into words.
Okay, lovely yogis and friends, thank you for being here and reading. I feel connected to each of you who signed up for this newsletter, even those I can’t recognize by email address. Don’t hesitate to reach out. Yours in healing, writing, and gratitude, Megan
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