Day 1 in Mysore has been amazing. I cannot believe I am actually here and tomorrow morning I start my first Mysore style ( self led) yoga class in the main shala.
After a day of getting sorted, I’m finally sitting on my 2nd floor balcony at 6.30 pm and the sun is going down behind palm trees and the sounds of the neighbourhood, 3rd Stage, Gokulum meet me. Kids playing cricket on the vacant block, mums picking up kids from after work care across the road, street dogs barking, incessant horns blaring on the Main Road in the distance. Someone’s tv blaring, old women in bright saris strolling the street and old man in a white tunic with his younger companion stopping in the street to stare up at me. I think I met that old man outside his house, today. We talked about yoga, as I have with every second person, mostly locals strolling on the street who smile and nod and have seen it all before in this genteel suburb of the modestly wealthy middle class.
I’ve been getting set up all day and reading Shantaram between waiting for others to chatter about me and work out how they can help this ‘old lady tourist’. Yes, I was actually called that in the most affectionate way by Manju who fed me breakfast; my first dosa masala pancake with coconut mush with green chilli and hot sweet chai. That sorted me out.
And then I was on 8th Cross and I know this is the street of the main shala. And bam! Suddenly there it was, in front of me, a very ordinary building where a lot of people have come to practise and transform just a little bit more. I took a breath and everything inside me smiled and went 'Hmm. So this is where I'll be sweating and breathing and bending.'
It’s an honor to be here, like being handed both ends of a thick piece of rope. On one end the rope is me, my practise but the rope goes back through time, connecting my practise to my teachers in Adelaide, and their teachers, back to this place, to Sharath and his mum Saraswathi and her dad Sri Pattabi Jois who authorised my teachers, and onto Guruji's own teacher. And being here is like my turn to hold the rope.
After a day of getting sorted, I’m finally sitting on my 2nd floor balcony at 6.30 pm and the sun is going down behind palm trees and the sounds of the neighbourhood, 3rd Stage, Gokulum meet me. Kids playing cricket on the vacant block, mums picking up kids from after work care across the road, street dogs barking, incessant horns blaring on the Main Road in the distance. Someone’s tv blaring, old women in bright saris strolling the street and old man in a white tunic with his younger companion stopping in the street to stare up at me. I think I met that old man outside his house, today. We talked about yoga, as I have with every second person, mostly locals strolling on the street who smile and nod and have seen it all before in this genteel suburb of the modestly wealthy middle class.
I’ve been getting set up all day and reading Shantaram between waiting for others to chatter about me and work out how they can help this ‘old lady tourist’. Yes, I was actually called that in the most affectionate way by Manju who fed me breakfast; my first dosa masala pancake with coconut mush with green chilli and hot sweet chai. That sorted me out.
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| If you are a non-vegetarian, Mysore may be tough. |
I could focus then on talking money, staying in good humour, remembering I might get moved again. And, thinking to get through the day communicating, what is absolutely necessary? This is a culture where you don’t want to be too difficult for anyone, it’s already hard enough with language and cultural barriers so getting along and politeness is a big thing. Surrender and letting stuff go, like being short changed. Insert head waggle here. With this many people, it’s be the only way India works.
Literally next door to me is Saraswarthi’s shala, Pattabi Jois’ daughter who I’ve come here to study with. Well, 'study' is a loose term. Get yelled at across a room by, probably. A thrill ran through me as I realised, wow, that’s it. Isn’t it wierd that I’m a bit in awe of a 70 year old Indian lady who I don’t know who will hardly remember me if at all, and the only time we’ll have contact probably is when I’m not doing something right?! This yoga thing is nuts, eh.
I walked around Gokulum at 8am a bit foggy from only 5 hrs sleep since arriving at 3am. Enjoying the coolness, the shade of the flame trees, the peaceful waking up sounds. Looking at the washed driveways of houses, freshly chalked with these funky hand-drawn mandalas of all types, each one unique to the household. The morning rituals, so beautiful, mostly women out and about the porches, washing and sweeping steps.
Literally next door to me is Saraswarthi’s shala, Pattabi Jois’ daughter who I’ve come here to study with. Well, 'study' is a loose term. Get yelled at across a room by, probably. A thrill ran through me as I realised, wow, that’s it. Isn’t it wierd that I’m a bit in awe of a 70 year old Indian lady who I don’t know who will hardly remember me if at all, and the only time we’ll have contact probably is when I’m not doing something right?! This yoga thing is nuts, eh.
I walked around Gokulum at 8am a bit foggy from only 5 hrs sleep since arriving at 3am. Enjoying the coolness, the shade of the flame trees, the peaceful waking up sounds. Looking at the washed driveways of houses, freshly chalked with these funky hand-drawn mandalas of all types, each one unique to the household. The morning rituals, so beautiful, mostly women out and about the porches, washing and sweeping steps.
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| Pavement drawings |
And then I was on 8th Cross and I know this is the street of the main shala. And bam! Suddenly there it was, in front of me, a very ordinary building where a lot of people have come to practise and transform just a little bit more. I took a breath and everything inside me smiled and went 'Hmm. So this is where I'll be sweating and breathing and bending.'
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| The entrance to the main practise room. |
It’s an honor to be here, like being handed both ends of a thick piece of rope. On one end the rope is me, my practise but the rope goes back through time, connecting my practise to my teachers in Adelaide, and their teachers, back to this place, to Sharath and his mum Saraswathi and her dad Sri Pattabi Jois who authorised my teachers, and onto Guruji's own teacher. And being here is like my turn to hold the rope.
Being here is like washing away all the thinking, imagining, internet searching, YouTube videos and yoga permutations. All the noise is gone. All the romance is brushed away by the quiet clean-floored reality and normality of the shala, the potted plants, the empty sandals on the steps, the quiet study of students upstairs, the wall of family portraits and old black and white pictures of Saraswathi and Manju doing asana all those years on the road with dad, colour photos of Sharath holding his daughter. It's like being in the Jois family home. It's not magic, it's real.
And now I can relax and be real in this reality and that's why I came here. To go one more step in making this practise mine. Real for me. It's not magic, it's not fantasy, it's real and it rocks.
