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.

Fat Finding Mission

Thanks to all of you who have written to me, and for your funny comments about this little blog. It's great to know some people still read more than 140 characters.  In summary you are mostly interested in what goes in, what comes out with the general thrust being "great blog, yeah, we know you do yoga and are interested in god and stuff, but can you give us more food,  poo and tourism/cultural stuff-ups?"

So in the last 48 hours there's been tears, homesickness, random kindness of strangers, strangers in my room I didn't want there, rain rain rain, yoga, Ayurveda massage, injury, no hot water, samosa hunting and it's been cold and wet and blah blah blah. First world problems, and I hit a first-world wall.  I decide I have 2 choices - it's either go back to talk to the tuk-tuk driver who offered me hashish, or go shopping.

When the going gets tough, the tough gets on the scooter, ditches chanting class and goes to Loyal World which is the closest thing to Westfield Marion, except with no escalators, no parking, and not many shops. But the 2 shops they did have were a factory outlet for 'fashion' (questionable but let's go with it) and awesome similar Food Glorious Food Indian style supermarket.  Nice combo, I thought while  jumping around pulling jeans on in a sweltering dark change room due to a power cut.  I'm gonna hit up that food store and show these skinny jeans who's boss! They had 8 different kinds of dates!  I didn't know there were that many varieties.  I thought it was pretty much the same guy over and over and the restaurant just changed.

I was told yesterday by a grungy downtown ayurveda masseur  (best massage of my life) I needed to eat something fatty and stay away from dhal...and that's not advice you need to tell me twice. Basically stop being full of air and stay warm. And drink this little packet of medicine, and no, it's not from the tuk-tuk driver. So back to the food counter... straight to the samosas and the desserts because let's face it, they are full of fatty goodness, gracious me! Ayuervedic massage doctor's orders. It's authentic! Traditional!  Just doing what I'm told.

Ayurvedic massage table

See picture below. The top ones have almonds and a weird texture like fairy floss when you bite into them, it kind of grinds on your teeth which is just strange. I can't decide if I like it, so I have to keep eating it to work it out.  I don't think any of these deserts are baked, it's like they are raw and held together with lots of lovely buttery yum.

I was desperately hoping the brown balls were chocolatety in the right way, but they are more what I would call ...chocolate salty balls.  I'm not saying any more except... thanks Chef and hello bin. And the yellow diamonds are turmeric and almond something, the best of the three, so far.

That was pretty much a long story to get to the good bit.  That's what goes in, but you know it's what happens in the next 48hrs that will tell how it all comes out in the end... here's a goofy pic of my housekeeper's son, Chetana wearing my swimming gear. He'd never seen anything like it before. A beautiful boy.

dress ups 

milk in a bag

Fruit of the Gods

Driving in cars with strange boys, talking to strangers, drinking the local water, riding motorbikes at night in the rain... all things I have been warned about. Women get a lot of advice before travelling. There are lots of rules for us, mostly based on fear and stories of bad things that have actually happened to someone else who we have no inkling of.

Why is it then, that this advice when not followed correctly results in having HEAPS of fun? What advice do I now give to my nieces and god-daughters and all the young women and girls I love and care for when my experience of travelling generally goes off the charts by doing all of the above? Trust yourself. To trust though, it helps to have experience. So it's catch 22. You've got to have experiences to understand fear and develop trust. Trust and fear - two sides of the same coin of both travel and yoga.

Oh and it helps to meet lovely guys, who stop and chat to everyone on the road and teach you how to pray properly. They also wanted to be in my blog, so that was another reason not to kidnap me.

On Saturday - yoga day off - I ride out to Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary 28 kms north of Mysore in the country, a green bit on Google Maps. No white  people, no surprise. It seemed to be the place to meet your boyfriend for a snuggle by what I could tell. A lot of loving going down in the dark corners of this Sanctuary.

On a boat tour of the Kaveri River which is the main thing to do here, I meet a couple of guys down from Bengaluru on a road trip, Bharath the quiet one with a big smile and Mohan, a big guy with a love of adventure. Both work in IT, Bharath at HP and Mohan at Microsoft. So we get chatting about places to visit, and Mohan is loosely translating the guy rowing the boat:  There’s a bird. Yep. And another one, Yep, got it. There’s a crocodile. Yeah, yeah I see it. I’m pretty sure the guy rowing 20 of us into a head-wind wasn’t saying that going by his expression, but anyway.

Rowing man head down

They charge tourists Rs 300 and locals Rs 30 to do the same tour- an interesting marketing strategy to attract international birdwatchers. I know I know, it’s only $13 all up, cheap, and you can rationalise the price like some do here. Same way I suppose they rationalise it’s ok to keep 5 rupees of your foreigners change without asking, the assumption is you can afford it. Being treated like an ATM because you are white is not a compelling experience for anyone in any language, anywhere.

After the boat ride, where it starts to pelt down with rain while we are out on the water, Mohan is loving it. "Ah it's... it's just... bewwwwdiful!" It is. He is smiling ear to ear. He likes rain as much as me. Bharat smiles at his friend. Mohan has ants in his pants, the guy can’t sit still. Over chai and thali they invite me to join them on their “just cruising around, man!” tour of the region and we settle on going to Melkote home to a number of significant Hindu temples in southern India. There’s an Academy of Sanskrit there and the same place Sarah, an American Sanskrit scholar I met recently recommended I check out. My rule of thumb is, if you hear about a place from 2 or more separate sources, maybe go check it out. It’s 130 kms north of the Bird Sanctuary so I leave 'scootie' behind and we drive off together.

croc

I know they are legit and don’t plan to kidnap me because they are stopping every every 10kms to shout for directions through the car window to locals. It’s just how Mohan rolls, he’s definitely a people person. So everyone on the back roads to Melkote knows where I am, and who I am with because they all peer into the car and stare as they answer and point and waggle congenially. On the drive the the conversation covers all the big stuff... about girls who work, why women love money so much, how to get a wife, breaking up stories, living with mum, seeing the world, what's for lunch, the crazy mo-fos overtaking trucks in front of us.

Singin in the rain

At Melkote and make our way into the main temple, and Bharath scolds me off for having too much fun in the temple. He is the quiet, serious one and he who teaches me how to prepare and accept a blessing, rub my hands over fire, drink and sprinkle water – “With the right hand, Sue, the right hand! She’s from Australia,” he explains to the holy man amused at my strange attempt to both drink and shower at the same time. Luckily for me, it’s not a one shot game. There are lots of gods to pay respect to so I’m on my way to being an expert before I leave. Actually it was a moving experience and I'm grateful for Bharath getting serious on me.

Then Mohan starts. “It’s rude to point your toes at the carving, Sue.” “No, no Sue, you don’t turn your back on the holy man after your blessing. You back away facing him and slowly turn away.” Except there are people crammed in and there’s no way I’m able to do that. “You look at the god’s feet, not just the top part with all the flowers…” “But the feet were covered in flowers,” I protest trying to hold some ground. I get a dark look. No excuse. I am the Christian in the room. Christians do good lighting, space and hygiene and keep our candles to the alter.  No playing with fire. No drinking the holy water. No rolling around on the floor, not like here. There are babies and old people sitting in the way, lying flat out, tummy sliding on stained 1000 year old concrete shiny with wear, doing god knows what snake impersonations. It’s getting funky below the knees in the temple but Bharath is steering me out towards the sunlight, before I decide that could be fun too.

In my extensive experience in being told off, disapproved of and tutted at, I find there is a point where you either go into paralysis and become like a robot, or you perfect your ‘whatever’ and hope others will get used to you eventually as you do them.  As I’ve been (gently and with good humour) corrected so much in 20 minutes, I was in the first stages of paralysis while the boys were disagreeing over something in the background.   Childhood neighbours for 25 years, Mohan and Bharath couldn’t be more different, such a great pair of opposites. While they are fighting a woman in a green sari comes up to me as I’m tracing my fingers across ancient Sanskrit carved in stone walls wondering about the age of this place.  She shoves some dragon fruit on a banana leaf in my hands and motions for me to eat it and walks off, but I’m doubtful because everything else I’ve done has been wrong. I look around helplessly trying to get the boys’ attention but of course everyone is watching what I do next. Great. Do I make it an offering? I’ve seen fruit offerings go by in here to rival the greatest grey-nomad sun-downer platter. Do I give it to someone? Pay her?

A young girl stands and openly points and laughs at me covering her face, shaking her head at the whitey who doesn’t know what to do with the fruit that I didn’t ask for and can’t stomach right now.
So you can’t take photos, laugh too much, turn your back, use your left hand, or be efficient in queues but you can eat fruit, slide on your belly in sacred temples and push in aggressively. I love this crazy country! I eat the fruit, relieved that eating at least, is universal.

God or Guru?

Being a Hindu place with a God for every occasion you'd think there'd be plenty of opportunity to explore ideas of God, but it's harder than it looks. I'm no newcomer to religion and not uncomfortable with God as an experience. But if you do yoga, do you need to believe in God? If you don't believe in God, which I'd say statistically would include most people who do yoga, then is the next best thing to treat your teacher like a god? Is the guru a substitute for God?

Religion is an ordinary part of life for locals by what I see in daily routines, but the only people doing the sweating are the westerners. And the only people I see us worshipping are teachers and the images of gurus past and present. So then, is a guru/teacher the western replacement for God?

'God' is up there with 'strategic', 'love' and 'spiritual' as an over-used and abused word, used with either great caution or too much definition. But knowing God is one of the 8 limbs of ashtanga; after self study comes studying God.  If you're into yoga then at some point, you may start checking out what you believe about god, or spirit, whatever term you use.

God is a pretty big topic to stomach before 8am. Hard to tackle between your mat, millet pancakes and eco-friendly date-shake. But if you're not 'going in', or thinking about where god is in all this sweating and concentration, then it's a workout in a place with coconut trees.  But I didn't come to India for a workout.

Visiting a temple recently I was a spectator, and more interested in the silverware than the ritual, which what I could see involved taking money from lots of poor people, pushing them through a small doorway past a dirty concrete statue of something for about 2 seconds and then pushing them into another doorway out into sunshine yelling at them to hurry up the whole time. God On The Run.  Drive Through Religion.  But you can't be a tourist if you want to find God, standing on the sidelines and waiting for the entertainment.  God happens inside, by what I know.

Coming to India to find out about God is not a bad place to start. But you wouldn't want to be lost and searching, cause there sure are a lot of them and there's no text book.  A prison is another place you would probably be wondering if there's a God. Or at war, or in intensive care. Often dealing with my housekeeper I am muttering to God.  A yoga mat is a pretty soft place to be, really. It's hard to find and fight for real love when there's been little adversity, or suffering, or motivation. In many ways we don't need God, until wham! Suddenly we do. Even this guy will do in an emergency.

Ganesh remover of obstacles - quite a busy elephant 

Pattabi Jois (died in 2009) is/was  Guruji for many people who learnt ashtanga yoga from him. I not sure I'd call him that, in any but the true meaning of the word - a teacher (guru) of great affection and respect (ji).  Worshipping gurus seems odds with what we are being taught in yoga - to be self sufficient, practise daily, find our own sense of spirit and be become better people over time by being conscious of our crap. If you don't believe in God, I guess your guru is the next stop, but worshipping humans - apart from boy bands when you are 14 years old - is a little fraught if you want to call yourself an adul

But I see it, the gushy adoration of gurus. It's sad how we are so willing to give ourselves up, give our power away to another human being, putting people on pedestals when they are just people whether our bosses, politicians, teachers, rock stars.  It's one thing to trust but another to worship a teacher. I think you are always free to say no, to disagree. It's not arrogance to back yourself up, test out your ideas. Even if you are wrong. It's not superiority or smugness.  I'm sure Pattabi Jois bugged his wife, left his wet towels on the bed, told bad jokes, forgot to get the milk, argued...whatever.  I like to think about this version of the man in his ordinary-ness, but also with his talent as teacher, father, husband, person.

I think of all the everyday people who do amazing things, saving lives and negotiating conflict, doing the plumbing, trash collecting, teaching children, and keeping company of elderly people preparing for death and who cares if you can back bend?

I don't think you need a 'guru' to worship,  but you might need one to help you study God and know the difference.

The Poo Post

I sat down the morning of the first Moon Day (moon day means no yoga practise because the moon is full, or new. Or making lots of water in our bodies, or something) of the trip. Sat at the Microwave Desk with my first proper cup of coffee after a week experimenting with a variety of strainers, coffee makers and cowboy techniques, taught by my coffee guru and camping buddy, Kasia.

Microwave Desk

Things are starting to feel normal here in downtown Gokulum. I listened to a favourite podcast Saturday Morning Extra by Geraldine McDouge an intelligent, thoughtful broadcaster. Inspired by the quality of her content I thought:  Right. I’m going to write something meaningful today. Not just about my experiences travelling and yoga and observations. No. I’m going to write something different that will sum up things without any straining. Lower your expectations, people. Lower.  Much lower.

This is for my girlfriend Michelle in Sydney. She has been hanging out for the ‘Poo Post’. Because she’s a newish mum, she has plenty of current experience with boisterous bum behaviour. Alas, Shell, there has been little farting going on in this Indian shala as far as I can tell; I may just be out of harm’s way. But a hell of a lot of body fluids are being shed. It’s a sweat fest. I cannot understand how some people remain dry after practising in that room. It astounds me, when sweat is literally dripping into my eyes off my legs in shoulder stand.

When you are so busy 'going in', sometimes you forget that there are things that want to come out, like heat, sweat and hot-air. Farting is the great leveller in a yoga class, a test on whether you are concentrating or not and also a bit funny, whether you are the farter or the fartee. I have been both, I’ll admit but the skill is in carrying on like it wasn’t you. This is called the Fart? What Fart? manoeuvre where if you can just create just enough doubt among your neighbors within earshot that it came from your direction you can just get on with your practise. It's more about self deception than deceiving others so rarely works but is the last fallback before the Apology manoeuvre which you never really want to resort to as it disturbs the breath count, the poo prana and the general bum zen. It’s better to own it with attitude, than to apologise for it, in my humble view.

From my shallow and fairly loose research a fart is the result of a complicated series of gut reactions over a 24 - 48 hour period that reflects an amazing working world of the stomach, processing and internalizing the outside world via the food we eat, literally into each of our cells and organs. (A great metaphor for a writer). A fart is no simple feat. It is the sounding of a long process coming to its end, a public cry of release in a room full of people, that says “Hey guys. Things are happening over here, finally the works are relaxed enough for the next shift to start, and all the stretching and breathing and letting go, is pretty rad. Til next time,  ciao!”

I have a friend at home who is the greatest yoga farter I know. So much so, that it’s gotten to the point where it’s almost like his talkative bum is a whole separate being practising in the room. And his farts stink and it’s a small room. So we have to stop and acknowledge it and groan in fake disgust.  Then he mutters what he had for dinner the night before (Musta been that pea and ham soup…) which cracks me up even more because it’s just a bit wrong, when we are trying to be so serious and our teacher is trying not to laugh and keep us all focused, but it’s funny.  If you were offended, you’d be wasting your time. The body left to it's own devices doesn’t give a shit what we think, pardon the pun, it has it’s own delightful needs and knowledge and ability to let go. And the head is attached to it, is the witness swivelling around like Carrie, whoosh, whoosh, oh-oh, reacting to others’ reactions. So it’s gotten to the point now, where if you were new to the class you’d think, Holy cow, that is just rude. But by now most of us just chuckle at the delightful human horror and then hope there’s no more to come.

Having a happy bottom is an aim worth aspiring too. Eating mainly vegetarian food here is normal, and wonderful because I could never copy how they put it together, the food is soft, warm, mushy and full of flavour, colour and vegetables. Perfect for digestive health.  And my body has never been more regular, than eating Laxmi’s home-cooked food daily.  I am loving not having to cook.  My stomach has decided India is it’s new love nest and is likely to stay on and marry all the people who have cooked for it, including this man and his crew who make the best sweets and weird yogurt and pistachio filled deep fried rice ball pastry things, for 50 cents. Yep 20 rupee, but only after 4pm. Guys, you've gotta get here. Masterchef is a SHAM.

Rice ball things called diaparu. Perfect for the poo post.

If you are squeamish, or worried about toileting in Mysore, India here’s the lowdown. It’ a fairly modern place all round if you are frequenting the mainstream areas, which most western yogis are.  If you are going to cafes and restaurants or in your apartment (if it’s been built in the last 20 years) you don’t need to squat over a hole, but if you are out visiting temples, attractions, markets and going to toilets at public places then squatting and splashing yourself with buckets of water and on the ground around you, is the way you do it. Toilet paper, if available goes in the bin, not flushed due to old or just poor city plumbing. There are hand held shower guns by some toilets to help wash away waste.  People value but are not obsessed with cleanliness, so lower expectations of housekeeping and bathroom cleaning generally.  Restaurant bathrooms seem purely functional spaces, doubling as storage often, not places to show off interior design concepts like at home.

So I hope you enjoyed the toilet post! It was only a matter of time. If you are interested in gut heath and links to emotional and full body well being, read  ‘Guts’ by Giulia Enders, a very amusing and insightful German science writer who actually did the research, into poo, pooing, and digestive organs. It is fascinating and strikes through a lot of our shame about farting and pooing, reveals the biological truth behind phrases like ‘gut reactions’ and ‘feeling it in my guts’… but please don’t tell my yoga buddy, he doesn’t need any more encouragement. Bless him.

Here's a review: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/may/07/gut-reaction-book-digestive-tract-german-bestseller.