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.

It's Not Magic.

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. 

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. 

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.'

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.