YoYoGa

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(What I Did During My Summer Vacation, originally posted June 2023)

It's been an interesting week on WhatsCrapp between the sinking feeling about an OceanGate and a Wagnerian opera unfolding in Mother Russia. In between, there have been multitude of outrageous stories of manufactured outrage that has made WhatCrapp U so successful. Mary Millben's rendition of jana gana mana with at least one claim of her possible Gujarati origin, Miss Meri Milli Ben, her touching feet of certain celebrity, etc. We all felt so giddy. So proud. Perhaps her roots and Oklahoma! the musical is based on the dhokla's home.

 

Ignoring the noises in the unsocial media, I was trying to enjoy a peaceful summer evening here, deep in a book. Listening to the cellist Yo Yo Ma weaving magic with his instrument, while sipping some potent potable. But all things blissful in life are fleeting, my den was rudely invaded. The evening moment of Zen was interrupted by Mrs. Yours Truly (YT), who asked what I had planned regarding that damning report from my recent physical checkup. 

When Mrs. YT had first arrived on the scene, my mom had a deep, meaningful discussion with her during the handoff of The Care and Feeding of YT, an unwritten manual. The actual words might have been "He's your problem now", however I can't vouch for this since that discussion took place in my absence. Mrs. YT embraced the concept with gusto, and appointed herself Chief Custodian with enthusiasm for my physical, psychological and financial well-being.

I had completely forgotten about the errant charts and numbers in red font that the miserable medical bloke had handed over to me, accompanied with several disapproving "tut tut's", looking over his half-moon glasses, suggesting quite a few drastic changes to my lifestyle. I think it is only a matter of semantics - but he called it sedentary! I am told it was not a compliment. And I squarely blamed it on Mrs. YT and her culinary skills, my occupation as a corporate mouse driver, the weather, the unsocial media, etc. The list of villains responsible for my dad bod father figure is long indeed. He couldn't care less for the excuses.

I had to hold back from reminding this shaman that just because he had some fancy, yellowing vellums from über-hyped med schools, printed in gothic fonts and framed in ornate walnut hanging in his office, his alma mater did not teach him "bedside manners" which could use major improvements! He should show some respect since his country club dues were being paid by the exorbitant fees he was charging me. But I desisted from casting aspersions on his education, experience, ancestry or humanity at large.

Anyway, Mrs. YT had not come into the den with just another random disruption as usual. She had a very well-conceived plan. A definite course of action. She relayed that she had signed me up for Yoga classes at the local community center. Bought me a nice-looking outfit, which included a comfortable t-shirt and shorts. A neon-green glow-in-the-dark headband. And a Yoga mat. Matching water bottle. I felt like a preschooler about to march into a new classroom at the beginning of the academic year. I was handed the schedule, fresh off the printer. It was also entered into the family Google calendar, making sure to avoid any conflicts. With several reminders set up. A Google Maps driving instructions link. A smallish class size, not a crowd, she said. The ruthless efficiency of the airtight set-up left me sputtering. She had blocked every exit hole. No wiggle room. Left absolutely no backdoors for the cornered rabbit's escape. 

I choked back a (Boutros Boutros) Ghali or two and nodded feebly. She marched out of the den triumphantly, and I lost whatever zest in life I had been experiencing that evening, musing bitterly over the future darkness. 

For the first session, I arrived at the appropriate location and appropriate time (no, it wasn't at the UNGA HQ and, no, not on the International Yoga Day) to be greeted by a young lady named Danae or Danielle or Dana who introduced herself as the instructor. She had all the fake humility of a TV guru (although not vishwa-class), lulling, soothing, deep voice. A conman level calm demeanor I had seen in my early childhood from several experienced elementary school teachers who maintained the delicate balance between keeping the toddlers from bursting into tears while guarding against any possibility of a jailbreak. She positioned herself between me and the exit while keeping up the banter. "You can call me Dani." 

Then, the rest of the cohort arrived together. To my surprise, it was a group of youngish ladies, perhaps in their 30s at most. All had their hair up in tight buns or in bouncy pony tails. Comfortable crop-tops over their shapewear. Yoga pants. Dressed for Yoga success. With a jaunty air. Confident. Chatty. Bright-eyed. Determined. Cheerful. Smiling. Friendly. I said, "What luck!" to myself and cranked up my charm like an aging AC unit on full blast on a hot summer day.  

Soon, their crop-tops came off (but I kept my t-shirt on out of... modesty). Colorful Yoga mats were unrolled on the floor. Pretty water bottles infused with slices of cucumbers and citrus fruits were placed next to them. New-age music from ancient instruments emanated through a modern stereo system and started to flow. We all sashayed through a long series of namaste's. Bowed to the instructor. To each other. To the universe. To the four primary directions. To the earth and the sky. To many celestial objects. Commenced various breathing exercises, starting with pranayama. I was surprised at all the variations. Swiftly did an inventory of my life skills and found myself sorely lacking - I wasn't even aware that they ever existed during my humdrum existence to-date. With that much pure oxygen flowing into my brain, I was feeling a bit woozy by now. 

Dani kept us moving through the various contortions and positions. I tried to keep up with class - with plenty of encouragement from my cohort of young ladies. Suspiciously kind voices, usually reserved for toddlers and puppies. Never was heard a discouraging word. Whatever Yoga position could not be followed by moi in flesh, the spirit indeed was willing. I couldn't, I wouldn't let my cohort down, could I? 

Fifty minutes later, or what seemed like an eternity then, mercifully, we were winding down. I plopped down on the mat to explore my chakra within, to get in touch with with my inner self. I was completely exhausted, breathless, nauseous, unsure which end was up by this time.

Dani asked us to go in deep into our minds. To go to our mental happy place. To realign our physical postures gradually to a more peaceful, relaxed mental position. Half-asleep, I shifted my neck and positioned my head to the right. Next, she asked us to imagine serene scenes, natural settings. Hills, dales, waterfalls, rain-forests. And to my utter surprise, I did see a couple of gentle hillocks and soft valleys curving ever so gracefully within my field of vision. Elated at having achieved this level of bliss and oneness with nature during my very first session, I was about to pat myself on the back when I noticed not just one but many such formations. A series of such undulating hills and shimmying valleys. Rising and falling rhythmically. All around me. Startled, I donned my bifocals again and I realized with a start that these hills and valleys were Ms. Annie, Nickie, Maia, Sonia and Tracie, aka the cohort. Hmmm.

Afterwards, Mrs. YT asked me about the class, and I said nonchalantly, "Oh, nothing special. Just Yoga, you know." Later, I overheard her talking to her bestie on the phone, "I knew it would be good for him to be in that group of young women." The heck? Such treachery! 

I had a good mind to quit on the spot! But then I reflected further. After all, doesn't Yoga teach us forgiveness and acceptance? With that enlightenment, and at least for my physical and psychological if not financial well-being, I guess I will (nama)stay in the class for further lessons. 

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆