Yoga Samachar

AFTER RIMYI, REALITY

Fall/Winter 2006

"According to ancient texts, Yoga is a sacred subject, to be kept secret. Hence it became mystical.

I try my best to show that it is practical and I give the secrets to you. The secrets, when experienced, will make you sacred in practice."

B.K.S. Iyengar

I plant that initial dream-seed. I wait. I nourish it with patience, energize it through practice, water it by anticipation, and illuminate it under imagination. One year moves into two. It is a long gestation period. One day, finally, the wait is over. The dream-seed flowers into a reality-blossom. I am delirious. I flow beyond the ananda of its promise. “It” is the time - at last! – for me to study at RIMYI.

The date approaches and myriad pre-departure details manifest. I write a list. It dominates each day. My flurry to complete it here insures freedom to spend time over there. I manage the mundane: pay bills in advance, locate loved ones for pet-care, organize household specifics, determine responsibilities, delegate particulars, and then detach from family.

The RIMYI dream in India now unfolds. My steward states the most efficient way to measure travel time is “sox on/sox off”. So I journey thirty-two hours door-to-door, heartily embracing the thought of freshly laundered sox. From Mumbai I transit the 100 miles inland, descend the foothills or ghats of India’s western coastal mountains, and head southeast to Pune.

Hard realities in this sacred land confront the first-time traveler as much as they rattle memory’s images for returning sadhakas. The Indian canvas is overrun with societal disparities and gaping infrastructure deficits. Dust and dirt collude; air and noise pollution overwhelms. Yet neither eclipses India’s biggest reality: over one billion beings in a land-mass over one-third the size of the USA. Translation: many people, everywhere, all the time.

India is a country where casual events and celebratory elements first clash and then coalesce. How to find her peace between such polarities remains the challenge. She is tough. She sucks your energy and absorbs your efforts. She diverts your attention and engulfs your senses. Ardently I navigate through her tempests. I capsize into whirlpools and crash against sandbanks, determined to transect the turbulence and reach her tranquil waters. The struggle to her ancient wisdom will unfold in her waves and caress in her wake. There, she yields spiritual gems that will guide me. There, I reach calm amidst her chaos.

I am keenly aware of rags, riches and Indian realities. Note to Self: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

No, that is not correct. I am back in India, returning to Pune, and headed to RIMYI. Note to Self: “What I mean is this:

“I go, by the grace of God, there.”

PLETHORA OF PUNE

At RIMYI, Guruji accompanies me as I descend the driveway. He follows me in asana reliefs white-washed against the building. From the ochre façade I observe trikonasana, krounchasana, vrksicasana, padmasana, eka pada sirsasana, and ardha matsyendrasana. I turn in and encounter a glorious disarray of shoes. A marigold lei festoons the dark deity’s niche. Their butterscotch and black polarity enhance the vibrancy of other tropical blooms. Here is a sunny silence devoid of people. Then the gardener interrupts. He thinks I am Indian and speaks to me in Marathi. I nod. My hands meet and I say, “Namaskarji.”

When I see Guruji in person I marvel. I observe his practice and the shine of his skin. I look at his feet and feel the robust aura he exudes. His movements flow with such grace. He nods as he moves his granddaughter Abi into the angular precision he requires. He acknowledges her expression with a horizontal shake of his head. His family’s third generation embraces yoga.

I grow under Geeta’s watchful eye.

“Knees Well Open!” she repeats.

I hear “Knees Will Open!” and wonder just when.

Then I realize we are not in synch. I tweak into Indian English and tune into her cadence. Now we are together. The knees are open. I smile throughout that practice. Later, on Thursday evenings, she touches me to the core. Her pranayama images open my heart.

Prashant’s learned teachings lead me through the linguistic fabric of yoga. Threads of the abstract convert to the concrete. The concrete cloth is a woven abstract. This interplay and his focus on only a few asanas expand my awareness.

Each RIMYI morning practice sets my pace. And reliably, I purchase coconut water from the vendor, Upendra. I cringe to think of that machete in his hand as they deftly open yet another fruit together. I walk with friends towards home and lunch, or we may decide to explore Shivajinagar. I take a siesta afterwards.

I return to descend into the RIMYI library, the site of the best collection on yoga anywhere. Guruji is seated at his desk. A reverent hush moves through the air.

I consider the hardship of his self-reliance through yoga - only a few of these tomes were there to assist him. On the shelves, the fruits of his early struggles are so easily bound and accessible, yet his sweat is so very distant.

Time fills up with practicing and attending classes, reading in the garden swing, discussing texts, visiting Indian friends, being at the Mandai Market, heading out to shop, staying in to cook. I encounter different people - yet such similar spirits – as we transit our respective journeys. I recall Pune when cows moved along Fergusson College Road. Water buffalo lazed distantly. A more languid and pastoral Pune it was, vibrant then in its bucolic way.

Each day brings this: the anticipation to enter the studio early, the territorial eye to locate good asana real estate, the outdoor cacophony that collides with instruction, the breeze that wisps masala-laden aromas. There lurks that day when choking tar gummed the air as it darkened Hare Krishna Mandir Road and came through the studio windows. What a challenge to concentrate on our work.

All these are memory imprints. They shine when I feel dark.

I cocoon in yoga. I study it, live it, and dance it. I ‘prana-cize’ it and experience move its relevance alone. Or, I scratch through its encompassing depths with others who share in this reflective search.

We are in Yoga Graduate School, penetrating layers of discipline, art, form and philosophy. The RIMYI-YGS passing grade is exclusive to each of us, yet duly noted on our cosmic report card. Yoga’s relevance to our being is the catalyst that displaces us from our respective home-comfort zones. It lands us in Pune to coincide at this very moment. This is what nourishes our internal awareness.

India’s challenges pierce my external belief system. They present a reality radically opposed to my own. Confrontational and discomforting, they force me to assess who I am: what I believe and why, who or what led me there, when I claimed it, and how it became mine. This is yet another gift that yoga yields.

Each of us is unique. We explore Pune and penetrate her personae – the yogic, the cinematic, the collegiate. It is futile to define the list of our experiences. It is not futile to proclaim that Pune catalyzes - month after month, and year after year - a handful of like-souls on the planet who come to RIMYI. We extricate ourselves from the realities that define us in another part of the world and migrate for minutes – so it would seem - to this particular place for this particular sabbatical at this particular juncture. We come to learn at the feet of BKS Iyengar and his family, at RIMYI where tenacity and commitment define our studies, and where respect, humor and camaraderie unite us in our work.

Our hearts open through yoga as the lessons from the periphery penetrate to the core. We refine who we are and what we believe. This is what we transport on the journey back home.

BRIDGING THE CHASM

“Sox on/sox off” and the return flight occupies thirty-three hours. Sirsasana helps my jet-lag like nothing else, apart from sleeping in my own bed. Other inversions shave off the wooziness, and move me back to my home time-frame. I am fully returned, yet I am not fully present. My effort is valiant as I engage with family, students and friends. I show my photos, uncork the perfumes, peruse the books, utilize the props and wrap within the silks. My head is here. Its thoughts are there. My heart is somewhere still in transit.

What luck to take this journey! I embrace the opportunity to suspend my life from America and transport it to India where I study and learn. I return with fresh knowledge, deeper insights, and philosophical depths that reform my teaching skills and reign in the focus of my own practice. Yet something is awry. That piece of my heart is still missing.

The flavor and sensuality of India remain embedded in my spirit. Was it simpler? Indeed. The immersion in yoga kept me focused. The ambiance, the study and other yogi and yoginis moved me through our shared process. That intensive time took me beyond my perceptions.

Now, I must manage the dichotomy that is present. I am home - yet who am I? Observer or Participant? I am one as I am the other. But the only way I can bring my work’s relevance into reality, the only way to be home, is to move into engagement and out of alienation.

It is true that I return different.

A sip at the RIMYI well-sprin profoundly changes who I am.

Each chapter unfolds as I write. Stay tuned.

Yoga Samachar – IYNAUS National Magazine