Know Thyself

Socrates having a little lie down. Knowing Himself.

“Yoga is a western thing," declares Jamie the Hawaiian yoga teacher who works in Singapore. “No Indians do it. Westerners have revived it for Indians. If you wanna come here and find God but reject your own religion and home, and wanna chant Ganesastavah and read Hindu stories to your kids then go right ahead, but Indians see through it. It’s western yoga students who are reviving interest in Sanskrit here.”

I’m so glad someone put it as succinctly as that.  And so endeth a big lesson for me. At some level I had secretly hoped I might find some authentic, historical 'yoga-dust' magic and somehow have it absorbed into my muscles so I can spring beautifully from dog pose into crow like my very elegant American friend Ross, but unfortunately, not so.  I found some grains of magic, for sure but not 'out there'. None of my Indian friends here do yoga, they think we're all a bit mad but respect it like only Indians can truly understand  and appreciate madness.   'Just go practise' is my mantra, and goes much, much deeper now. It's not romantic, magic, nor soppy (perfect for this no-nonsense Saggitarian) and to a newcomer it might not mean much. Changing the context of how and where I practise yoga has had great value.  In fact the yoga was the easy part - the bit where I actually knew what I was doing.

En route to Bandipur NP

I’ve been going to classes with other yogis to chant the Pantajali sutras in Sanskrit with Dr Jayashree, a fantastic, warm woman who's memory is astounding.  This is followed by a talk about aspects of philosophy with her brother/cousin Professor Narasimhan who offers to teach us transcendental meditation. The Professor is a real bona fide philosopher. This guy has answers to questions I didn't even know I had. He draws knowledge from all over the place, psychotherapy, science research, physics, biology, music, Christian scriptures, Indian thought, history, factual stuff, not mamby pamby stuff. In the few days I've been listening to him, some big pieces have been falling into place for me about links to what we are doing in asana, to our mental health, growth and well being, to Indian culture, literature and thought.

I hung back and filled out the form, you know:  Why Are You Here, tick the boxes etc. When it's my turn to come back in for the one-on-one interview to get my mantra for meditation,  the Professor  looks up  from my form and says:
‘Spiritual growth. Why do you want 'spiritual growth'?' referring to the boxes I've ticked. I'm surprised that he's surprised. Is this a trick question? But then I remember - his whole thing is ‘Don’t seek knowledge without knowing why you want it.’ Striking right at the heart of my tendency to immediately question and doubt things I don't understand. The Professor has a sense of humour, but not for smart asses, unfortunately. My skills in this area are not required.  I remain quiet and unable to say why spiritual growth is a good idea.  I'm at the end of my trip and I'm at a loss for words. (I know, right.) I've met another match. 

Best towel art. ever. Housekeeper A ++

He looked at me more closely, in a small book-lined room lit with the ever present fluorescent lighting.

‘Don’t you know yourself?’ he asked softly and a little sadly. But he need not worry. 

“Oh,  yes. I know myself pretty well.” I reassure him, relieved and smiling right back into his big brown eyes. Warts and all. I’m not here for counselling. I’m not lost.  I’m not searching. I’m just here. And I'm ready to go home.
"A little homesick?' he asks. Yes, I nod quietly. I'm done with India, frankly. Or India is done with me.
"You go back and you will want this again," and I know he is right. "How you say, you want the grass on the other side, that's just how we humans are," he chuckles.
We relax, the Professor puts the form down and we sit together. We've performed puja to his guru offering flowers, incense and fruit and we settle down.  He gives me my mantra for meditation to  help to 'go in' more.  And the thing about the mantra, is that you don't tell anyone what it is, you don't write it down. It's his gift to us and it too will change as we use it - the sound changes, form, pronunciation, tone and volume. Nothing is fixed.

Going to Mysore gave me 3 levels of knowledge - the stuff I went there to find out, the stuff was shown by others whether I wanted it or not, and the knowledge that is popping up inside me without knowing how. This is the value of travelling, I think. All that we think we know is cast aside and it's hard to be vulnerable in full view of everyone in customs, with the 'one-way street' cops, in the coffee shop, at the Tiger Reserve without tigers, on stage in the big Shala. But honestly, others don't care as much as we do. Everyone is just focused on themselves. I think we'd be less fearful and racist as a country if we travelled more to places other than Bali.

Now back in the cold winter of South Australia, I'm still coming home, and it's taking some time. My body and brain are readjusting. Things I once appreciated somehow aren't as good as I remember like Facebook, being cold and relentless violent news updates. Other things are better - a thoughtful friend leaving food by my front door, a washing machine that works and winter sun. Nothing is fixed. Our ideas of who we are, what we are capable of or ideas of 'home'.

Thanks for reading this blog and for your love and support. I needed it. You are the chocolate sprinkles on my cappuccino, without argument. (And if you know how hard that is to get in India, then you know how much this means.)

Om Asato Maa Sad-Gamaya
(Oh Lord keep me from unreality and in reality of eternal self)
Tamaso Maa Jyotir-Gamaya(keep me from darkness and towards light)
Mrtyor-Maa Amrtam Gamaya
(keep me from fear of death, and towards self-knowledge)
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih
(Peace, peace and chocolate sprinkles. I'm pretty sure.)

Happy elephants. 

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One Way Street and Bad Hair

Sometimes when someone is saying go the other way, you should just listen, but that would mean no lesson, right?
I got pulled over by the Mysore traffic cops recently and refused to pay a fine for going the wrong way down a one way street.
“Where’s the sign?” I ask. The traffic cop holds up a camera and takes a photo of my number-plate,  and then my face.  But I’m on a beat-up rental scooter and I’m leaving town  in 3 days and doubt Indian burecracy is going to get all efficient and find me in 72 hours. I smile at the camera and give a peace sign. He’s not quite sure what I’m doing. He radios his mate 200m down the road, something about we’ve got trouble here.
I point to myself and say “Tourist! I didn’t know about one way, sorry! Where is the sign?”

“No!” he says crossly. “One way road! 300 rupee fine.”  And signals me to turn around.

But at this stage of my trip I am having trouble keeping food in my body, I have heaps of energy, I am a little bored, I am over American yoga teachers telling whole coffee shops how their students "like, project their stuff all over me" and having to sit with their company over lunch I can't really stomach.  I just want to go back to my unserviced non-apartment and watch Bridesmaids and eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

stop projecting on me, ok

"No way!" I cry indignant (it's $6, just quit and pay, Sue Lee) I don’t plan on taking on the Indian constabulary but I've got nothing else on this afternoon. I start to make a fuss. I’ve really got to change my act, it’s getting predictable. 

“I’m going this way,” I tell him bossily, because sometimes it works. But he stands in front of my wheel and says “No, no,” shaking his head, smiling as he destroys my turning circle. He’s pretty good at this. I beep at him feebly, but I don’t want to hurt the guy. 

“I’m not paying your stupid fine.” I say like a 4 year old.  Someone drives past me going the wrong way too, and I say “Look! People do it all the time!”  But fairness is not a thing in India. I fight for fair, but here it’s impotent rage. I know I’m going down.  And then we’re chuckling at one another because I’m virtually running him over and neither of us can quite believe it. It is petty and pedantic. And he’s calling back up. I’ve met my match.  

So as I concede I sit on my scootie in the middle of the one way road and the cop is yelling at me to move on, get out of the way of all the people going the correct way. But all my yoga has made me pretty good at 'being aware of external distractions, but not attaching to them' (thanks yoga) so I ignore him whoops I mean detach,  and work out my strategy for the next cop on, standing in the middle of the road eying me off at 500 paces. It’s like a western shoot out. I’m making myself the best 300 rupee problem of the day in the middle of his one-way street. I’m screwed and have been from day 1, so now I'm just gonna get my $6 worth. This is how ready I am to leave India, and bored I am starting to feel in Mysore. I’m idling with time and the law.  Why can't I just stop and smell the roses? 

"Ok, let’s go deal with this guy," I say under my breath and zoom towards an official cop with a hat and a white uniform. I brake with as much attitude as I can in birkenstocks and a dented rental with a delayed horn (don't even go there) and whip off my locally-made (overpriced) helmet and plant him with a big immature Kimmy (look at me) stare.
His juniors in khaki shirts surround us instantly chattering away and sneering curiously in Kannada and I know it is rude, so we are all being assholes in our own international way.  My outrage is an act, I have to pay but I have to save face doing it. He says something about 'tourist, do you know how to ride a bike?' I give him my best ‘what kind of cop are you?’ huffy pants glare. This is known as the 'Lee Look' that my sister and I have perfected.
"Yeah, of course I drive, I have a driver's licence, I've ridden motorbikes. This is not a driving issue, this is a signage issue.”  I can't believe Im inviting an argument into Council by-laws.

“Where do you drive in your country?” he asks.  

 “It’s Austra-ya. We drive on the street” I say loaded with sarcasm that is totally missed. Or maybe this cop is just awesome at detachment.
 “Look, I know Kalidasa Road is one way, but I didn’t know this street was one way. I’m sorry. My mistake.” I hand over my money.

 “The signs are there,” he waves vaguely down the road and I look but see no signs. The men chatter noisily to the head cop all about me, everyone has an opinion.
“Ah, revenue collecting. Been a good day guys? Make lots of money?” I smile and ask sweetly, waggling my head.
Big cop asks “What are you doing in Mysore?” They are so nosey here.  I frown at him. Fine me or don't but I'm not giving him my story. 

“Holiday. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing here. Change please.” He doesn’t need my details, it would mean work. He is fingering the 500 rupee note and sees an opportunity to increase the fine, “Helmet. Was she wearing a helmet?” he asks no-one in particular.   

Of course I was wearing it! Didn’t he see my elaborate head shake as I pulled it off? Geez. Men! This helmet hair is not intentional. So now I'm actually offended. He’s getting the full show, eyeball rolling, tutting, my best bad behaviour and it's having the opposite effect that it has in Australia. He asks something about Kanada checking if I can speak it, something about liking me and he’s smiling as he hands me my change and I put it in my back pocket. I'm not sure if he just asked me out but I'm not sticking around for romance in a one way street. We all know where that ends.

I smile and wave and call “Bartini sigona!” as I drive off (slang for ‘see ya later’), it's all I can do to let them know I know some Kannada, and am not offended by the insults I have just copped and sorry I nearly ran over your colleague.   Sometimes being rude here commands respect it's how you get stuff done.  Just as I'm going about my life thinking it's all hunky dory, then someone shows me that no, I need to go the other way now, my instinct is to resist. No matter how badly behaved I am about it, it's going to happen anyway, the hard way or the easy way, doesn't matter if it's about 4 weeks too late, or my hair is a fright, sometimes I just have to cop it.

Authentic, 100% Shacky Shala Chic

If you came here thinking Mysore was some kind of zen place for yoga, and the experience would be a mystical retreat, with beautiful views, healthy food served three times daily and beautiful instructors and music, you’d be wanting to take another look at that brochure.

This post is part 2 of Yoga Tourism, Am I being Duped?  I think I have been duped about coming to Mysore to deepen my yoga experience, if you go on the physical practise alone. But I'm staying on. This has more to do with refusing to be beaten by India, when a slim chance I may prevail still exists.  Score: Sue 4, India 123. It's all about the long game, I tell myself. But sometimes you have to surrender your shit, literally and metaphorically. Not like this guy, who is chipping away day in and out on this amazing rosewood table and still has a smile to light up a room. Humble pie.

chip away

2 nights ago I made a deal with myself.  I did the tally in my head and sat up in bed as it dawned on me.... Oh. I am being screwed!! And not in a good way.  The teaching is virtually nil, there's no philosophy or context for ashtanga yoga from the school built by the founder;  shalas are overcrowded, adjustments are light-on, Saraswati has been away for a week, there's been 4 moon days and rest days - nearly a week of no practise...and there's no refund. No contract. No guarantees. I've come a long way for this.  OK. So that's the tally of all the stuff that is not working for me (like India cares). One more session on the mat and if I still feel this way tomorrow I'm on the next bus to Bandipur National Park to hike with the elephants and tigers.

If paying an organisation for a month of 'yoga experience' was subject to market feedback, say Trip Advisor no-one would come to KPJAYI -  but the reality is the Jois family are not in tourism nor on Trip Advisor.  Ashtanga yoga practised daily is not a tourist experience - it's exactly the opposite of how travellers inquire, move, expect and search for the next exciting  thing. Yoga is a lifestyle, at the heart of Indian thought and philosophy and religion. It's immersive, repetitive, inward, restorative, requiring both effort and stillness. It is characterised by no guarantees, lots of unknowns and nothing is ever the same. So trying to come to grips with the Mysore yoga experience through a tourism lens, is not helpful. There is no brochure, no promise of a good time, results and great teaching. Having a good time is optional.  While I'm a bit underwhelmed with the 'KPJAYI experience', I was expecting to be a bit disappointed before I came. And here it is.  I didn't buy an experience I bought an opportunity. That's it. The rest is kinda up to me, like, hate, show up, don't show up. My problem. Oh it's a tough lesson. Welcome to India and suck it up.  Sue Lee 4. India 124.

how to go with the grain

On the second coconut after class (“Make mine a double!” cries Alicia from New York) three of us stood around the coconut cart sharing random thoughts. Cincinatti is new in town and asks, “So, who’s bed is that in the shala?” And we all laugh cause we’ve seen it too. As it gets busier we are told to do yoga in offices, spare bedrooms, upstairs. The shala is like my dad’s old beach shack, the bathroom is a bit grotty, there are dodgy lace curtains, the floor has grit on it, and there’s mix n match bedroom furniture and chenille bedspreads don’t forget the fluro lights! Indians LOVE the fluro lighting. No mood lighting here, it’s full-on on or off. Welcome to Saraswati’s shala. And she’s not even here! We all chuckle at the absurdity of it, there’s no way you’d get away with this kind of 'service' at home, so why here? There’s not a lot you can do when you are here and acknowledge this creeping feeling that you’ve been ridden, a little bit, in a very endearing, head-waggle way.

So what is the 'authentic Indian tradition' anyway? Someone on the staff said, "this is your shala, you've got to love and respect your shala," and everyone was nodding saying Yeah! Yay! We love our shala! And I'm thinking Um, no it's not my shala. I'm not responsible for that bathroom.  Telling someone what they must or must not feel is like asking the sea not to be salty. I'm waiting for something 'authentic' to kick in.

being incensed

'Authenticity' is a marketing thing in tourism used to differentiate one tourism experience over another.  It's so people can choose experiences that give them insight, not just surface tacky commercial experiences.  Generally tourists pay more for authenticity to get away from the myth/stereotypes and learn about the culture they are in and themselves.  Like walking tours of the backstreets of a place. Like funny stories about how essential oils are made, including natural amber (which smells AMAZING)  that is apparently vomited by dolphins and formed in oceans.  I don't even care if it's true, I'm sold. A lot of people are naturals at tourism, authenticity is not something you can fake.

Dolphin vomit

100% pure essential oils

So if authenticity is non-engineered experiences, then by this definition the Shacky Shala and all it's grimy, gritty, fluorescent charms are also 'authentic'. Authentic shala grit. Plenty of that going around. Grrr. Sue 4, India 126. See how this goes?

Now it's kind of a game wondering what is going to happen in the Shacky Shala today?  Each day I navigate the wall in front of my face, the bendy Euro guy with a dude-bun and something to prove, the argumentative American yoga teacher in a verbal stowsh with Saraswati, and a grunting Asian woman somersaulting into my head. What I'm learning here is I can practise anywhere, anywhere, and get some benefit. My shala, your shala, shakky shala, the locker room, my kitchen. I don't really need a shala, but I won't deny, it's nice to have somewhere to go at 6.30, because I don't really need another excuse to stay in bed.