The party kicked off with the screening of the documentary Ashtanga NY. The buffet was filled with Sabina’s (the manager of YiY) delicacies. Mojdeh brought a wonderful Persian cake, a mixture of filo and custard. Many kids attended, adding to the festive atmosphere. Drew’s band Hand’s On Quartet was right on beat, playing Jazz and Blues, and even Mexican music which got everyone dancing. Here are some of the photos, all taken by Einar:
So it’s finished, this whole Mysore affair. At least this time.
Yesterday found me walking the aisles of the local Indian grocery store greeting the Indian labels and spices like old friends. I do miss India.
The last few weeks I was in Mysore I started to get these flashes of home, of who I would see, the ocean, various things. My mind preparing to be home.
Now I get flashes of Mysore, Aunty’s hallway, and the staircase in the changing room at the shala. The mind adjusting. Lots of adjusting to do. Not just to Second Series.
I feel empty about Mysore, but it’s an empty that bears explanation.
Guruji doesn’t fill your mind with information. Nor does Sharath. I didn’t really expect it, and I wasn’t disappointed. I’m not disappointed.
I HAVE been broken, beaten, worn, tired, slightly malnourished. And I have loved EVERY minute of it. Well, maybe not the traffic part.
Maybe it’s a little overbroad of a brush stroke, but I think all of it is a lesson of the practice. In India you come to understand where this practice came FROM. Like going to Ireland when you are Irish… And the practice, and what it really means, seeps into you in ways that are hard to verbalize.
I want to thank all the people who have contributed to this blog. For one, the guys, who have seen me in all manner of states and managed to see the forest for the trees. And for the way they’ve written from their hearts.
And for the comments from home and everywhere. You know who you are. The round-the-world cheerleading section.
And to Holly and Tony and Tina for doing what they are doing for all the students in Mysore. I’ve never seen Holly not smiling, and while I know her reasons, it’s still a feat when you deal with all the likes of all of us yoga students. And Tina has been mother to most all of us in Mysore.
From the start this trip has been almost divinely blessed. It’s been a great time, a good time, an enriching time. I am speechless really about it all.
Guess Guruji’s gone and done it again. Along with the likes of Mother India.
Anne
YiY Studio, Saturday April 24, 5pm for the documentary screening, 5:30pm for the party
Dear blog readers, you are all cordially invited to our “Welcome Back Party” to greet our intrepid travellers back from Mysore, India. In case you were wondering, the studio is in the town of Mountain View, California, in the San Francisco Bay Area.
We will have plenty of food and drinks, and there will be a special screening of the 45 minute documentary “Ashtanga, NY“, courtesy of ashtanga.com. Drew’s band The Hands On Quartet will play live jazz, and you will be able to quiz the travellers during a special session to answer any queries you may have which were not on the blog.
We will be taking photos too, so that those of you who are too far away to join us can partake through the blog.
Hope to see some of you at the party!
Busy, busy, busy. Chanting lessons. Sanskrit. Kannada. Swami cave.
Too much to do. Not enough time.
I haven’t written a while. It’s hard here. I jump back and forth from wanting to
leave to loving every minute here. It feels like manic depression is in
the air here, and I’m not alone on this. The divinity in India makes me
want to stay; the mosquitoes make me want to leave. The Sanskrit chanting
makes me want to live here forever; the frequent sickness makes me want to
never come here again. India is the best of times, and it is the worst of
times.
But I’m going now. Today I leave. I’m going to miss it so much. It
feels like a small death. Everything I’ve known here for three months is
going to disappear from me, and there is no guarantee I’ll ever see it
again. All the people, the places, the sights, the sounds, and even the
smells, all going, never to be experienced again. I’m afraid I won’t be
able to replace them with something else when I get back. I’m afraid I’ll
never find something like this again. I don’t want to be afraid. I wish
I wasn’t so attached.
I want to say goodbye to Mysore. It has been my home for three months.
People actually know me here. I’ve waved to Indian grocers, store owners,
even a few rickshaw guys. I’m not just a tourist anymore. This has been
my home. Maybe my spiritual home. I’ve never felt the way I feel here.
Free, open, accepting. It’s funny how America is supposed to be so
tolerant of religions, but you never see religion practiced in public.
While here, religion is everywhere. Religion is India. India is
religion.
Maybe I’ll get to come back, maybe I won’t. But I’ll remember this trip
forever.
I’m sad to leave.
The first tangible thing I realized this morning was that the fan was not on. When you are under a mosquito net this is not a good thing.
That meant the electricity was out. Which means lots of candles but isn’t so bad.
Then I heard the wind, and realized it was not wind but rain.
Rain is coming to Mysore. Much rain. Actually torrential downpour. I think of the farmers. At least someone gains benefit…
I must confess I waited an extra fifteen minutes for it to slow down a bit. That’s how long it took my early morning brain to figure out that if I took dry clothes with me and managed to keep them dry I could change when I got there.
When I got to the shala there were a surprising number of people there. And a lot of clothes hung to dry and dripping water in the changing room. And some people in fairly wet clothes. More dedication. But it wasn’t full by any account… People came a bit more one by one today. But it was an altogether nice way to spend the last Mysore class with Guruji (two led classes to go).
The other news is that Daniel and I are just barely, it seems, missing the mango season. Daniel said he actually did find some at the market that were ripe, but they wanted 90 rs per kilo, which is about 2 dollars… Mangos are an amazing delicacy when they are ripe in India… I hate to miss them but I am not staying longer for the sake of a fruit, either.
As a group, we decided not to post anything about the traffic in India. Not at least until we were home or close to leaving. It is decidedly one of the scariest parts of being here. But on the other hand, as Einar pointed out, when you pay attention to traffic in India, you find that people driving here tend to be more aware… you have to be.
Anything can happen…
There is more room that you think there is…
And of course, you will probably at some point be forced to find it…
We decided last time I was here that the traffic was a metaphor for India in a million different ways. Most of all the madness of it all.
Rather than go on much more about traffic in India, I would share an article that Khalid found regarding traffic in these here parts. This article describes traffic here far better than I could hope to.
Enjoy the madness…
Hi all,
A while back I put up an entry on being a woman and how you dress in India.
So I felt very odd looking around the new neighborhood and watching how the women yoga students are dressing. Am I being a prude, I wondered, at being shocked? As I remember, in the old neighborhood we really followed a different code of dress, one that was reflective of what the women here wear. We didn’t expose shoulders (the Indian euphemism for shape of your breast), and we didn’t expose ankles. There were some exceptions, but not many, in my albeit limited three month experience. I personally had fun wearing shawls, and encountered minimal harrassment from men.
I decided in my own mind maybe I needed to get over it. Maybe I should just mellow out. If you look around Gokulum even among the Indian women you will start to see more than the automatic sari or Salwar Kameez. There are women who are actually wearing Western clothing, jeans and the like.
And there didn’t seem to be huge numbers of women yoga students being harrassed, the way they have been in times past when people didn’t respect these guidelines…
So this morning I went to see an old friend Sonya. Sonya arrived in Mysore a few weeks ago. She was here four years ago, and like me hasn’t been back since. It’s been interesting to reconnect because we have experienced a lot of similar feelings, about the old neighborhood versus the new, the old shala, the new, lots of things. The following is something that I want to share that Sonya wrote in response to seeing the change in dress among Western students of Guruji in India. I think it’s very interesting, and I want to share it, like Sonya, for the sake of discussion. So here goes:
“If I and 5 other people were invited to your house, and upon entering, you and the others removed your shoes, I would do the same in order to respect the
customs of your home. Even if when entering my own house I might do so still wearing my dirty street shoes.
Each time I visit India I am able to gain deeper insight into Her cultures and customs, without sacrificing my own. It is not likely that you will see
me in a sari anytime soon, but I will try to respect the customs and etiquette of the home to which I have been so graciously invited. Dress is a valuable part
of all ancient cultures and its subtleties and symbolisms are difficult to understand. For women the outward respect we can show for the culture we are in is in our attire. For all of us it is in our actions and attitude.
To me, walking around Mysore in a tight spaghetti tank top parallels the USA invading Iraq trying to impose democracy. OK, on a microcosmic level, but the attitude is the same: “F**k you, Mother India, get over your repression (and therefore your thousands of year old customs), it’s time to change.” Don’t they get enough of that from the media?
I am not helpless against the homogenization, among countless other negatives, that my country is trying to whitewash the world with. My every act sends a ripple into the universe. Whether the effects of those ripples are positive or negative depends on the intention behind my every thought and deed. We are not only ambassadors for the Western world, our conduct in Mysore is reflected on our beloved Guruji and sets and example for the other yoga students to come, as well as the younger generation of Indians.
This being said at the risk of sounding preachy or judgemental, is only intended to open a dialog and to gain more insight on the subject.”
Sonya Luz Hinton
So I was wrong.
It all started last week, last Thursday when Guruji and Sharath came into the room around five-forty five that morning.
Sharath often makes announcements. They range from Kevin’s mat washing service to service opportunities in the community, to halting the gossip mill of which day we ACTUALLY have off for the moon day, the New Year day, the Shiva day, etc. That day Sharath announced that the family was having a holiday and they would take Sunday off (it was actually this Sunday past, March 28th).
Spiros asked if there would be a led class Monday instead and Sharath said no.
I wanted to laugh. Sunday was the last day of the Intermediate Series class that I had just been invited to earlier in the week, and the only day I could go, and Sharath had just canceled the class.
I thought about how it was not about the poses. A couple of days went by. Then I did what any self-respecting Ashtangi would do and I went and changed my ticket. It was free, and I only moved the date back two days so that I could attend this Sunday’s Intermediate Series class. And I was still getting home when I promised I would be.
Einar said to stay, it would otherwise be like winning an award and not staying around to receive it.
Philippe said to stay so long as it didn’t cause a divorce.
Speaking of, I am relying on all those at home to wish Einar a Happy Birthday tomorrow. It’s his birthday, and he’s been an awfully good sport about Anne staying on in India without him.
So back to yoga.
I told someone over chai yesterday (the place where Ashtangi’s learn all the true intricacies of this practice) about my changes. I was debating if it would mean that I had been split and whether I should practice Primary Series at all. She said that by being asked to the class, I had been split.
So being split, to risk reiteration, means that rather than practicing all of First Series and then adding on Second Series postures, the student goes and does Second series straight after the standing poses and without doing any First Series. When you don’t have a lot of Second Series postures, it takes the practice from a really long one to a really short one with NO forward bends and an awful lot of backbends.
I wasn’t sure so I screwed up my courage and went to ask Sharath.
He says, Sunday you come to Second Series class. Where I stop you, you go home and practice. Only doing Primary Series on Fridays.
I stumbled around Gokulum for the next few hours in shock.
Apparently with the advent of the new Sunday led Second Series class there’s a new method of message delivery when it comes to being split. It is the delivery of the words, “Why you are in this class?” on Sunday mornings at the Primary Series class, with a teasing smile.
I am really glad that I changed my ticket.
I have been practicing Primary Series for eight years.
I feel a little weird. Primary Series has been my friend for a long time. I am also glad that I got the extra week to practice it. It’s not like it won’t come back, but it’s still a goodbye of sorts.
Bill from New Zealand is like me. He practices next to me. He moved all over the room for a while but he’s come back to our side over the last week.
Yesterday he told me he would stay on our side by the door until I left…
He has been practicing for eight years too. Primary Series, and now, like me, Second Series slowly, slowly, is coming…
It’s nice that some other people understand this feeling.
It’s a lot we go through in this Ashtanga yoga. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it’s like Nancy Gilgoff told me. When they asked Guruji in an interview why he practiced Ashtanga yoga, he said because it makes you happy.
As far as that goes, you couldn’t scrape me off the ceiling today. Whether or not its about the poses…
It’s good to be happy.
Yoga blog here.
Another momentous event happened last week. The triumvirate is complete.
After some very loud gasps on my part (the polite version) Guruji followed Sharath and Saraswati in getting both hands on my ankles last week. Rather, he couldn’t do the ankles so he did them one hand’s width up.
I learned several things.
Toweling your calves does definitely make it easier to hold on.
When you move up the leg the backbend moves out of sacrum and into arms and shoulders and upper spine. It changes the nature of the backbend. So armpits burn rather than lower back. Well, then again, maybe, in addition to.
But it’s not over in Guruji world.
“Why you not twist your arms?” Never mind that he just got your hands just above ankles for first time. No time for glory.
Next day: “Why you twist your arms?”
It meant the same thing I am sure. Words come in vague directions of their intended meaning. You get his gist from the intensity of his presence. You do, says his eyes, his hands, his voice. You do.
Pretty much the same lecture ever since. It’s a beautiful thing though, to experience, because if you are paying attention, you can’t miss it.
He doesn’t just put hands on ankles, he does this little flick, to twist your arms round, and access shoulder rotation, and take the backbend into them. Over 65 years of experience, there, in moulding bodies, and teaching the mind with his hands. If you let him have his way, if you let go into it, this man will change your life.
He’s definitely not everyone’s guru. It takes a lot to be able to see the forest from the trees. Some people see it right away.
You have to set aside everything you think, every judgement that your mind comes up with, and experience it. Don’t think, either, that he has to touch you for it to happen. The method is everything that happens to you in the room. On the stairs, on the mat, and in your practice. In not being adjusted. In being adjusted. In what you feel on that fateful day when you come and someone has gone and taken your mat space. Experiencing the practice over eight years gives me the uncanny feeling that Patanjali is indeed watching over us, when day after day we chant our invocation to help deliver us from the poisons of the patterns we carry through existence.
Just practice through all of it. That’s the point. The point is not Pattabhi, even though he is the master. Some people never get him, and I am not sure you need to. He’s passing down a system, teaching what HE learned from his teacher, what Krishnamacharya learned from HIS teacher. This teaching will continue to live even when he is gone. He isn’t a God, he isn’t a saint. But if you are an Ashtangi, he is our tradition.
This is a camel a man was walking near my house.
These are chikus. I thought they were a variety of potatoes at first, but
they are not. They are a fruit. They taste a lot like dates, but aren’t
dry. I like them.
Here are two cows having breakfast. Unfortunately, I think they get a lot
of plastic in their diet.
This is KR Circle.
This is the road outside Devaraja Market.
This is an powder stand inside the market. The Devaraja Market is one of
the most colorful sights in the city. The man in the stall is trying to
sell me incense.
This man is selling flowers. You can find people selling flowers all over
Mysore. They are very pretty.
And these are my feet after almost three months in India. They are
getting dirty.
Some moments well up within you as to overwhelm the belly with happiness.
Driving back from the Sri Ramana Ashram in Tamil Nadu (see map). Three days of bliss. Quiet. Indian music is playing over the sound system of the car, chanting “Arunachala.” The holy mountain of Shiva, destination of many a pilgrim. We say the name over and over again to ourselves on the way to Arunachala, the cadence of it a mysterious delight.
Arunachala was the spiritual home of the holy sage Ramana Maharshi, a saint who became enlightened at sixteen and was drawn to the Mountain and made it his home. For many years he taught in silence. He maintained that the best way to understand his teaching was to sit still and listen, so you could actually hear his teaching, and find your own source in that silence.
So we sat in his meditation hall still as stone. My mind turning over the samskaras of my time in India. It’s quiet here. I find a stillness that I have been meaning to find all this time in India.
And we walked around the Mountain. Getting up before dawn. Stopping at each temple along the way. The sun rose around the Mountain. Three men on oxcarts joined us for a while. They offered us rides but we declined, and slowly slowly we walked along past them, not to be swayed from our spiritual intentions. It’s a very holy walk, this walk.
The three hour walk actually left us more tired than spiritually uplifted, but we persevered. We rested and went to look at Ramanan’s cave. Or caves rather. Here, there, and everywhere was a house built over a “cave” where he spent seven, six, ten, all varieties of years. The place where his mother and disciple left her body and went to God. One house on a hill over the town, another further up in a green garden of Eden.
Us girls went up alone the first day. Bare feet on cool stones gripping rock.
“Shiva,” hissed the sadhu in orange with mad wild eyes. He gave us flowers that Erin later put in our hair. We gave him coins on the way down the mountain, even though the people at the ashram told us not to. How could we not?
At the cave in the garden we sat quietly for a long time. A wasp buzzed above my head. Ramana welcomes all creatures as equal…
No major spiritual awakenings or states, so much as a gradual accumulation of quiet within. The beating of my own heart. The quiet of the Mountain settling within all of us.
We left in the morning in the dark. After a few hours the sun began to rise over Arunachala. How can a Mountain made of dirt, and rock, and dust have a spirit?
I don’t wonder much as I say my goodbyes to Arunachala…
Shiva… Shiva… Shiva.
Anne
P.S. Here are just a few more pictures.
The first is a picture of Ganesha or Ganapati that Spiros discovered on the morning walk.
And how things are done at the shrines in Tamil Nadu. The trident is Shiva’s.
This is the young sadhu (renunciate or holy man) that tends the garden cave:
This is where Ramana Maharshi attained mahasamadhi:
This is a view from the garden cave over the Temple in Tiruvannamalai:
They say this temple is one of the largest in India. It’s actually called the Sri Arunachaleswarar Temple.
When we went up the hill from the town we were accompanied by children, and they posed for a picture. I don’t know what’s more interesting, the picture, or Kristin Leigh ( see her blog - the blogelf)showing them their pic on the digital camera.
