Japan Stories, Episode 2: Follow the River

I lost a day somewhere along the way, between the 12-hour flight and crossing the International Date Line. After sleeping a total of no more than two hours on the plane, in and out of consciousness, I arrived in Tokyo confused but needed to muster some coherence to get to Nakano. I had errands to do at Haneda when I arrived: exchange train voucher for my actual pass, pick up my pocket WiFi device. Then I had to begin the journey to Kanako’s house, figuring out the trains first. My bag emerged immediately, then I took it to customs. Immigration had given me problems about not listing my exact Airbnb address, with which I’ve never encountered problems in other countries. Customs actually asked me to retrieve it and write it on the form. That involved looking through my phone since I couldn’t get on WiFi at that moment. In my distress, the agent decided he’d be thorough. He flipped through photos of opium, cocaine, and marijuana, asking “Any of this?” No, I insisted. Regardless, he asked me to open my bag, which involved digging for my keys, another annoying delay for him. He unzipped my bag, gingerly removing my meticulously rolled clothes to feel the bottom of the bag. TSA had inspected it as well, evidenced by the note they left inside. Surprisingly, he replaced each item as carefully as I had packed them and announced I was free to go. His suspicion evoked wonder why a woman would be travelling alone for tourism. 

I emerged into the arrivals hall to do my two airport errands, noticing a sign that welcomed YouTube star Logan Paul, whom I knew was on my flight. I saw him at LAX, and only know of his existence because of my ex-boyfriend’s son’s obsession with him. I joined the throng of Japanese fangirls and fanboys to get a photo. He was wearing a surgical mask, as many Japanese do, and turned away from his security detail to momentarily pose for us. 

The helpful woman at the train office planned my route to Kanako’s house for me, marking up two different maps. The WiFi was temperamental, so we had a difficult time figuring out the actual address. I boarded the monorail to the Yamamote line, then switched to the Seibu-Shinjuku line, all the way to the Numabukuro stop. I’d neglected to prioritize my pocket WiFi setup, as I was sure I’d studied the map well enough: exit north from the station, walk past the shrine, follow the river to the ramen shop, then turn right to Kanako’s street. Sounds easy when you’re coherent and well rested. I exited the station to the south and figured I’d walk around the block. Instead, I saw a 7-Eleven and police station, both unfamiliar. I entered the police station to ask for help in the right direction. What I’d already noticed about Japan, after four hours in the country, is that hardly anyone speaks English. I showed the officer the address and phone number. He called Kanako, but she didn’t answer. He pulled out his book of maps of the neighborhood. Another officer produced a sheet of essential vocabulary words, similar to aids we use for English learners in the classroom. On a separate sheet of paper, he drew the river, and knew that vocabulary. He asked me to step outside the station hut to give a visual. We both pointed to the river and laughed “RIVER! Oh, RIVER!” He was trying to demonstrate that I should follow the river. He drew the train tracks on the map, then five streets designated by notches. He drew  a marker to symbolize the apartment building. Sounded easy! I thanked him profusely and set out to follow the river. The river started curving away from any civilization and I started to panic. It was only 5pm but completely dark. I decided it might be better to walk back to the train station and test my original plan. I found a young man and his grandmother walking along, asked them for help, but they didn’t speak enough English to understand what I needed. I found a main street and waited outside a grocery store to approach someone. A young woman emerged from the store and mounted her bike. “Excuse me! Can you help me?” I ventured. I showed her the screenshot I’d taken of the map as well as the police officer’s map.  “Follow!” she said. We zigzagged round and round the blocks, and I eventually gave her Kanako’s phone number. This time she answered. As the woman and Kanako were talking, I looked to the right and saw a tall building with a spiral staircase up to a rooftop that resembled the photos on Airbnb. “There! There!” I pointed. We walked down to the building, and even though the front door looked different from the photos, it had a lock box that accepted the combination Kanako had given me. I thanked the woman profusely, apologizing for adding 30 minutes on to her shopping trip. She just smiled and took off. I hoped she could find her way home. I found my miniature bedroom, turned on the heat, and crawled under the covers to finally rest my eyes. Ramen could wait until tomorrow.

Japan Stories, Episode 1: Seat Equality

I boarded my flight to Tokyo and walked to the back of the plane, looking for 39A, the seat I had staked out on the plane map while booking my ticket. Several reasons surrounded my choice of this seat. 1) its a window seat 2) it’s close to the toilet, which some people view as revolting but I find it convenient 3) from the map, it looked like there was more room between the window and the seat than in the rows closer to the front of the plane. A diminutive woman in a red coat was in my seat. I thought I’d have to calmly and pleasantly explain to her that I had booked the seat, proffering my boarding card. Her travelling companion greeted me. “Hi, are you in 39A? So are we. Delta made a mistake....” “No,” I interrupted, “No, they didn’t. I booked this seat several weeks ago.” I knew when I booked the seat that the plane was filling up, yet the seat next to me was still available. Other window seats were open at the time of my booking, but sometimes luck strikes and you have a row to yourself. Today was unlucky. “Oh,” the man persisted, “it’s also our honeymoon and we’d like to sit together. Her seat is an aisle seat a few rows up.” “No,” I repeated, as if clarifying a concept for a child, “Find me a window seat and I’ll consider it.” I moved past them and into my long awaited seat. “Sorry,” I offered, and then immediately regretted it. Why should I have to apologize? He was off to escort his wife to her seat, and I realized I would have to endure his presence for the next 12 hours. He returned and immediately donned his eye mask, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and fell asleep. I hoped I wouldn’t need the toilet anytime soon. As I organized myself and grabbed a magazine to leaf through before takeoff, I recalled several instances of intrusions into my carefully selected long haul flight seats. 

On my 2016 return trip from Dubai, the Nigerian couple in the middle and aisle seats were nice enough, until she draped her feet across her husband to relieve the ankle pressure caused by her pregnancy. The husband turned to me, motioning to the empty, dreaded middle seat in the row in front of us. “Move there?” “No, I like this seat,” I replied, after careful consideration for the pregnant woman’s discomfort. He continued to motion, so I reluctantly put away my book and pretended to sleep the remainder of the flight. 

My favorite story occurred many years ago on a flight from Amsterdam to LAX. The flight attendant asked if I would move to a middle seat so a family could sit together. I gave my typical response, “No, I booked this seat a long time ago.” I made a comment to my neighbor about people booking their seats ahead of time, and he, unfortunately, turned out to be the displaced father of the family. As we were disembarking after an awkward flight, a woman approached me and said, “I really admired the way you defended your seat back there. They think they can move you around, but you have to stand up for yourself.” I’m grateful to that woman for easing my guilty conscience. 

Today’s incident reinforces the stigma solo female travelers still carry. People think it’s acceptable to move the solo female around the plane, as if her travel plans were spontaneous and flippant. Even more susceptible to stigma is the assumption that the solo female will acquiesce, not wanting to cause a scene and remaining “nice.” If a man defends his seat, with or without a smile, nothing is thought of it. If a woman dares to defend her seat, she’s labeled a bitch. So go ahead, call me a bitch. I’m enjoying the last hour of my flight to Tokyo from the comfort of 39A, legs stretched out under the seat in front of me.

Halfway There

Episode 6

Saturday, June 4, 2016

We’re halfway through the 300-hour course and at times I feel like I’m livin’ on a prayer. Highlights from Week Three include:

More…

·      High temps

·      Progress in jumping toward my handstand

·      Willingness to try formerly fearful poses

·      Shopping

·      New friends

Less…

·      Naps (though I still take naptime to rest my eyes)

·      FEAR

·      Confusions in anatomy class

·      Gecko interaction

NONE…

·      Leaving lecture class for a “quick” power nap

·      Intestinal sickness

Pointing out the obvious, it’s incredible what progress one can make on poses when one practices them every day. Whenever someone asks me about my yoga focus, I always say asana is secondary for me. It’s true that I’m more comfortable with pranayama and meditation, and I don’t want to engross myself in a competitive nature. I try to stay calm with poses and not set goals. If I’m going to make progress with the asana, I will. If it’s not the asana for me today, maybe it will be someday or maybe never. The physical and emotional state of the body varies by the second, so I can’t always count on an identical practice to the previous day. I’m patient with myself and with my progress.

Unexpectedly, I’m making progress with my kriya practice. Episode 3 focused on the first horrendous experience, but I would hardly deem the subsequent practices horrendous. I’m beginning to feel the effects of jala neti (neti pot), though maybe not as intensely as someone who struggles with nasal issues. My nose feels clogged on Sundays when we don’t practice jala neti. I practiced sutra neti (catheter in the nose and out the mouth) in front of a mirror to feel where the catheter tickles the back of the throat, but it was still so uncomfortable. I’m letting it lie for now. Maybe I’ll do it someday, maybe I won’t. Vaman dhauti has been the biggest surprise throughout the progression of my kriya practice. I no longer gag during the practice and my shock and disgust has disappeared.

Saturday mornings are devoted to teaching practice with a partner, in order to reinforce the cues Krishna has been using all week. I couldn’t wait to say, “Suck in the metatarsals!” “Sternum up!” “Show your clavicle!” Vicky was my partner this week, and she wanted me to teach first so she could listen to my English cues. She is a French native speaker. The same thing happened with Kae last week, wanting to listen to my English as she translated it from her native Thai. I’m happy to help my new international friends with their English. I didn’t mind teaching first because I’m accustomed to cueing and teaching spontaneously over the past year. I’m working on more subtle cues than the typical placement of limbs, hips, and gaze. I’ve been surviving on simple cues throughout my first year of teaching, but aspire to graduate to cueing specific muscles. Mostly, I teach beginning yoga students who may not recognize those cues, but that’s how I learned certain muscles and Sanskrit terms during my years of study. My teachers had broad knowledge that they passed on through their teaching.

Another highlight of the week was meeting my Facebook friend Alyssa for the first time, in-person. Alyssa and I met on Facebook about a year ago when she was searching for yoga teacher training courses in India. She contacted me to enquire about my experience at RYP. Of course, I gave the school a glowing review, and didn’t mention my trips to the hospital! Eventually, I confessed that I acquired a parasite, only so Alyssa could take precautions and not have the same setback. Alyssa set off on her trip and had some Indian visa complications at first, but worked it out so she could remain in India for a course and ample time for travel. When I made the decision to complete a 300-hour course, I contacted Alyssa and we serendipitously found ourselves in Rishikesh at the same time. We decided to meet in front of Freedom Café in Laxman Jhula, where we enjoyed a lunch overlooking the Ganges. Parenthetically, most of the cafes in Laxman Jhula overlook the Ganges! I fed my paneer addiction while we chatted, comparing notes on our 200-hour courses, at the Royal Café, inconspicuously tucked within an ashram. We walked around a few shops before we parted ways, hopefully to meet up again before I leave. Again, it’s amazing how we can meet friends online, already slightly vetted by their postings, and then meet up, akin to reconnecting with an old pal.

On the walk back to Ram Jhula, I passed by a particular vendor stall. These stalls line the road and you can find anything from a refreshing drink or snack for your journey to jewelry and mala beads. I was looking for my friend Dadu and greeted him as I passed by. “Hello! How are you doing? What are you selling today?” Dadu answered, “My friend…I want to give you something…my gift to you.” He pulled out a box from under the cart and slipped a badass kundalini snake arm band on my upper arm. I was so grateful, mostly because I would never buy anything like it for myself and now I had one. The kindness of my Indian friends increases my gratitude every day. On to Week Four and the second half of the course!

Indian Sundays, Indian Fundays

Episode 5

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Sundays are a highly anticipated day of the week. Though I enjoy my studies throughout the week, I look forward to a day off. A short recap of the three Sundays that have passed so far:

Sunday, May 15

I met my friend Rahul through his Facebook page Rishikesh Spirit almost one year ago. He combs Rishikesh-related posts for people who might be interested in sharing their experiences on his page. I messaged him as soon as I arrived to arrange an in-person meeting. Inviting some friends along both for safety in numbers and to introduce them to him, we agreed to meet at the Ram Jhula Bridge. Unlike most Indians, Rahul arrived right on time, almost to the second. Impressive. We walked down to the Ganga beach and relaxed on some rocks for a while, chatting. We discussed meditation and its challenges, not the typical get acquainted drivel. Rahul has a keen interest in helping people in their practice, and he teaches some courses himself. We strolled along the lower beach road to Laxman Jhula, where we crossed the bridge and searched for a secluded swimming spot. Lili and Rebekah scrambled down the rocks to dip in the Ganges while Anna and I cooled off in the shade with some cold water. I was overheated and dizzy, abiding my body’s wishes to take some rest. We finished our visit with a lunch of paneer and garlic naan at the Ganga Beach Café.

At 5pm, we reported to the yoga hall for our puja ceremony, in which we were blessed and welcomed along our journey of yoga and meditation over the next six weeks. Chanting was performed, tilaka applied between our eyebrows, and kalava string bracelets were attached to our wrists as reminders of why we were here in India. We approached the altar one at a time to wave the burning lamp, initiating us in our next step toward our yoga and meditation transformation. Our teacher, Krishna, participated in the ceremony too, which was a caring, bonding gesture. I looked forward to what the upcoming weeks would hold.

Sunday, May 22

Shopping was on my mind throughout the week as I observed others in their new tops and pants. Not that I really need any new clothes, but I wanted to treat myself while prices are low. I’m a frugal shopper, and spending more than $20 on any item of clothing in the US is a splurge for me. I purchased two sleeveless, printed tops for less than $10, and I changed into one of them on the spot due to the stifling heat. One purse, one mala bead necklace, and two sets of earrings later, it was time for lunch. Little Buddha was a restaurant fixture during my stay last year. We seemed to gravitate toward the restaurant for its views and excellent food. This time, I enjoyed paneer and garlic naan, of course. The food was just as delectable as I remembered, and I was happy to introduce some new patrons to its delicacies. We journeyed back to Ram Jhula to clean up for our evening at Ganga Aarti.

Ganga Aarti is a daily devotional celebration along the banks of the Ganges River at Parmarth Niketan Ashram. We arrived early to enjoy the incessant singing by the ashram residents and changing views of the sunset. When the Swami arrived, more singing occurred before the aarti lamps were passed around. The lamp made its way toward me, as did a mad rush of Indian women. I inched in the opposite direction, as fire and crowds of sari fabric are never a good idea. I was satisfied for another year.

Sunday, May 29

We eagerly awaited our morning of whitewater rafting. My anticipation was especially acute since the season had already closed last year when I arrived. We walked to the Ram Jhula Bridge, crossing and hiking uphill to find the taxi that would take us to the launching point. One of the staff members from RYP ushered us to the taxi, thankfully, or we never would have found our ride among the identical taxis. After meeting our guide, Amit, we agreed that using the toilet would be a good idea before embarking on the river. The toilet was located up the steep hill we had just descended in the Jeep, so a large rock would have to suffice. A group of men watched from afar as we took turns behind three large rocks. I’m sure the view was especially exciting for the swarms of travellers along the mountain road in the distance as well. We carried the raft to its launching point and boarded, after listening to Amit’s safety and instruction speech. We asked him what our team name would be and he immediately and happily replied, “Moola Bandha!!” If you don’t already know, moola bandha locks your energy (prana) when you contract the pelvic floor or perineum. Momentarily, I thought Amit’s reply fringed on sexual harassment, but it was all in good fun and we found it amusing. Paddling and maneuvering our way along the river all the way back to Ram Jhula, we encountered rapids that are designated up to Class 3. Pretty impressive for what I’ve always considered a calm current! I was thrilled with the rafting experience, definitely one of the highlights so far.

After resting and cleaning up post rafting adventure, I set out for a solo dinner and shopping journey. I walked out to Laxman Jhula to purchase yet another mala bead necklace. The prices were better at the shop in Laxman Jhula, and I enjoyed doing business with the owner. I chose one plain sandalwood mala but requested that the tassel be lengthened, as I like the look better. Immediately, the owner sat down and worked meticulously on the tassel while we chatted. During the conversation, I scrutinized the other malas that hung in the enclosed viewing boxes. I had recently discovered that one of my birthstones is a moonstone, and I was looking for a pleasing mala of that stone. One sample was too long, but when he brought out one that was mixed with rudraksha seeds, I knew I had found my mala!

My dinner plans with a friend fell through, so I treated myself to a lovely paneer dinner with a lovelier view of the Ganges at Zorba’s restaurant in Laxman Jhula. Wait, maybe the paneer was lovelier than the view. Nonetheless, it was nice to relax with a meal outside the dining hall.

The following Sunday warrants its own post, so that’s coming soon. I can’t wait to discover what the subsequent Sundays in India have to offer!

School's in Session

Episode 4

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Two full weeks have passed in the course, signifying one-third completion toward my RYT 300, which will eventually be RYT 500. I’m trying to stay in the present to absorb every moment, but when deadlines loom it behooves the student to stay organized. The first few days of classes were exhausting, to say the least. I was looking forward to working with Krishna. I’d seen him around RYP last year, and I heard he’s a tough teacher. “Tough” is a relative word, as it can be subjective. I arrived with an open mind and ready to learn.

WEEK ONE – May 16-21

In retrospect, I’m not sure how I survived the first week. I wasn’t intestinally sick at all, but the heat was debilitating and adjusting to a regular yoga schedule was intense. I have a relatively consistent practice at home, but it also involves teaching. Here in India, I am forced into solely student mode.

Our schedule adheres to the following timeframe:

I’m the furthest thing from a morning person, but I enjoy waking up to kriya practice and morning asana class. We cleanse our nasal passages with jala neti each morning in the courtyard and enjoy a glass of tea. Fridays are special kriya days, the topic of Episode 3. Read that post if you want to know more! In place on our mats in the yoga hall at 7am, Krishna ensures that the curtains block out any trace of sunlight for our pranayama and mantra chanting session. On our first day, I was pleased to learn that our main mantra is the mantra I’ve been teaching my students back home. It’s the “Rishikesh Yog Peeth” mantra in the sense that the 200-hour course focuses on it as well. After the opening mantra, we perform kapalabhati (skull-shining breath), a vigorous cleansing breath with a forceful exhale. Next comes bhastrika (forceful inhale and exhale), ujjayi (constricting breath), and anulom vilom (alternate nostril breath). We wrap up the opening 30 minutes with a few more mantras. Krishna then gives us a quick toilet break before moving into asana practice.

I was skeptical of Krishna’s teaching style at first. He would ask us to perform an asana without instruction, then he would choose someone to model it for the class. During the demonstration, he points out the adjustments that need to be made. I thought this practice was slightly embarrassing and humiliating, and I haven’t even been chosen yet. After a few days, I realized that I had to let go of my perfectionism and ego in order to learn from Krishna. He was using the instructional strategy as just that: practical instruction. During our philosophy lecture, he reiterated how much he cares about us and wants us to learn, so I realized he has the best intentions.

Deepti-ji’s anatomy class comes directly after philosophy class. I had a difficult time grasping anatomy in my 200-hour course, but I made an effort over the past year to attend Gina Decker’s class at Open Door when my schedule permitted. Gina’s teaching embraces a stylized method of incorporating anatomy into her regular teaching. The first two weeks with Deepti have been a comprehensive review, with numerous anecdotal snippets to reinforce and extend the concepts from the 200-hour course. We are working our way to analyzing poses anatomically, and I’m grasping the anatomy more readily.

After lunch, the four-hour chunk of time between seminars is both fortuitous and financially dangerous. On our schedule, it’s labeled “library/self-study,” and I’ve used it almost exclusively for that purpose. Almost. However, it really is our only time to walk around, get a treat, and take brain break from the intensity. I’ve found that a quick trip to the corner chai stall is effective in boosting my energy for the afternoon and evening commitments. I’ve visited the library a few times, but find that I study better in my room, under the fan, free from the distraction of new books for my perusal. That way, I can work on laundry, studying, and take my 4:00-4:30 nap before the evening commences.

Our afternoon asana class was torturous the first week. I couldn’t stay awake, thus the implementation of the compulsory “nap/eyes closed with music” time at 4pm. Sometimes I had to rest in child’s pose on my mat to get through the two-hour session. Luckily, Deepti took pity on us at times and spent extended periods on pranayama techniques. I like Deepti as a teacher, but I dreaded her class, as I had a difficult time contorting myself into some of her more advanced flexibility poses.

The most difficult adjustment should have been the most welcome. In the 200-hour course, the evening is your own after dinner. In this course, we have a mandatory 30-minute meditation Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights at 8:30pm. The nights we don’t meet are to be filled with personal meditation. I was so exhausted the first few days that I couldn’t even hold my head up during meditation. Luckily, the room was darkened as Krishna guided us through pranayama and meditation, as my head bobbed from side to side, almost toppling onto my neighbor. I was so upset that we were expected to continue our physical participation until 9pm, and I wasn’t sure how my body would allow this continuous abuse. As the week wore on, the meditation session became easier and more enjoyable.

WEEK TWO – May 23-28

The same schedule continued through Week Two, but the heat abated somewhat and my body acquiesced, somewhat. Almost immediately upon arrival in the 100F+ temperatures, I developed a heat rash on my hands, prickly heat on my forearms that stung unrelentingly with sweat contact, and dry skin on my neck that slowly spread each day. I bought some lotion at the local ayurvedic shop and tried baby powder in the morning and evening. The prickly heat and hand irritation responded positively but the neck rash didn’t. I consulted the Internet and learned so much about dry skin that I was sure the affliction was life-threatening. The spreading continued down to my chest, so I bought a bottle of my stalwart remedy: COCONUT OIL! As predicted, though slowly, the dry skin healed and I was no longer mistaken for the gecko who insists on rooming with me.

I’m battling the desire to do all the shopping and restaurant eating that I didn’t have time for last year, but I also want the course to function as complete immersion. Now I realize why some people opt to study in the mountains or in a town without tempting distractions! The “chai guy” was a prevalent figure as a quick respite from the ashram. My friends Kae and Alina invited me to join them after lunch one day as they walked down to the corner, watched the precise concoction of masala chai, and walked back. Last year, sometimes several days would pass before I would emerge through the gates of the ashram. Everything was self-contained during my 200-hour course, but our residence this year requires walking outside the gates to the same dining hall. Again, fortuitous and financially dangerous.

With one-third of the 300-hour course completed, I can already tell I will emerge from this program as a transformed teacher and student.

Freaky Friday

Episode 3

Friday, May 20, 2016

Classes ensued and our course was underway. During our Thursday morning philosophy lecture, Krishna-ji announced that Friday morning kriya time would look slightly different. Each morning, before our 7am asana and pranayama class, we gather in the courtyard for herbal tea and jala neti. In the West, we know this nasal cleansing practice as “neti pot”. You can purchase neti pots and their accompanying salt packets in any drugstore, and the practice is becoming more mainstream as a relief for sinus issues and allergies. I was familiar with the practice from last year’s course, but I hadn’t continued it after I returned home. With my dedication to pranayama, I really should purchase a jala neti apparatus during this visit. So far in the 300-hour course, my favorite time of day is pranayama and chanting, immediately after washing my nasal passages.

Krishna continued his lecture, elucidating the different types of shatkriyas, which are divided into six different categories of cleansing practices, according to the text Hatha Yoga Pradipika: neti (nasal), dhauti (digestive tract), nauli (abdominal region), trataka (eyes), kapalabhati (breath), and basti (colon). Keen to build my yogic philosophy knowledge by experimentation, I kept an open mind. Krishna said we would perform our usual jala neti on “Kriya Friday”, but would add sutra neti and vaman dhauti. As Krishna explained these practices, I began to realize why the 300-hour course isn’t as well populated as the 200-hour course. Sutra neti involves gently sliding a thin catheter into each nostril, one nostril at a time, grasping the catheter with two fingers as it hangs at the back of the throat, and pulling it out through the mouth. Sounds feasible, I thought. Vaman dhauti requires drinking six glasses of salt water in rapid succession, rubbing the tongue with three fingers, and vomiting the salt water until bile appears. Hmmm, I thought, unpleasant, but I can use all the cleansing I can get. I certainly don’t enjoy vomiting, but at least it wouldn’t be after a night of eating and drinking. Krishna shared a story about a former student from Australia. “She was so good at vaman, very dedicated. Later, I found out she was big drinker of liquor and vomited quite a lot.” I hoped I wouldn’t be too good at vaman.

We were instructed to eat lightly during Thursday night dinner and get a good night’s rest. As predicted, I had a difficult time sleeping in anticipation of Kriya Friday. I woke up, showered, performed jala neti, and waited in the courtyard for Krishna’s instructions. He demonstrated sutra neti and instructed us to take a catheter from the salt water jug. I found a spot on the grass and slowly inserted the rubber device into my right nostril. As soon as it tickled the back of my throat, I pulled it out. Krishna observed this struggle and came over to help me. He inserted the catheter with the same gentle force but the tickling and scratching in the back of my throat was much more intense. He was holding it, so I couldn’t yank it out. Krishna had stressed to us during lecture that any foreign object is automatically rejected by the body. He elaborated, “It’s not the body. It’s this fellow,” as he patted his head. Okay, I thought, I’m not in any danger. Try to breathe. Krishna repeated my same thoughts aloud, as my fight or flight mechanism kicked in. It reminded me of SCUBA diving, panicking for air when you can’t remember the course of action. Krishna instructed to stick two fingers in the back of my throat to grasp the catheter, but I was gagging too much. Eventually, he relinquished his authority. I tried it again, but using my mind over body still wasn’t working. I decided it would be a work in progress, with five more Kriya Fridays to master the practice.

Now it was time for vaman dhauti. Krishna demonstrated once again, and we began shooting salt water like it was someone’s 21^st birthday. Actually, I began sipping my salt water, but decided faster was more palatable. I found an area on the perimeter of the garden, placed my hands on my knees, and started spitting, always a precursor to vomiting. Suddenly, the trajectories of my colleagues’ vomit caught my peripheral vision and I could only think one thing: Worst. Frat. Party. Ever. I knew my spiritual growth would suffer for equating this ancient practice with a modern, foolish one, but it was the only assimilatory schema I could conjure up.

I hunched back over and started rubbing three fingers on my tongue. I vomited a little, then stopped to spit. Krishna caught me. “Why you stopping??? Keep going! Move fingers!” With Krishna hovering over me, I had no choice but to continue the practice. I got most of the salt water out and felt quite refreshed afterwards and only slightly traumatized.

The second Kriya Friday was easier, but I still couldn’t grasp the catheter in my throat. Baby steps. I performed vaman dhauti much more easily, though I still feel as though I ingested more salt water than I should have. I plan to practice sutra neti in my room this week, in front of the mirror. During our evening meditation class, we are rewarded on Kriya Fridays with a trataka practice, a candlelight meditation in which we must keep our eyes open until tears form. Though tough, I found this practice relaxing. Again, I’m taking baby steps and improving each week.

It’s important for me to identify with the ancient yogis in this fashion. As Krishna repeats in his lectures, it’s important to accumulate experiences in order to teach concepts and practices. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s much more difficult to explain it to someone else. Here’s to new experiences!

Finding Ravi While Searching for Vishal

Episode 2

Friday, May 13, 2016

The ashram had pre-booked my taxi for me, but emailed a phone number in my confirmation message in case the driver didn’t show up. Last year, everything happened so smoothly that my expectations were already held high for Vishal, my appointed driver. I exited the airport to a swarm of taxi drivers, some of whom were holding placards with names scrawled in their best attempt at the Latin alphabet. I didn’t see Vishal, so I waited there on the curb with my bags. “Taxi, Madam? Taxi?” suggested several drivers. I gave a dismissive NO, but wondered if it was too harsh, on the occasion that Vishal didn’t appear and I needed to enlist their help. We had landed early, but hired drivers are always punctual, usually. I wondered if Vishal was okay, or if he’d gotten caught up in the claustrophobia of taxis vying for a prime spot in the pick up zone. My flight arrival time was 5:07 PM, which came and went. 

My next unfortunate mission was to ask someone to call Vishal for me. There are advantages and disadvantages to not purchasing an international calling plan for your mobile phone. When I’m in wifi range, I can use Facebook and Viber to communicate with family and friends. In Australia, I bought a cheap phone and loaded it with credit for use within Australia. Considering I would be at the ashram for the majority of this trip, I decided to suspend my phone service during the trip. So, I had to approach a Hindi-speaking Indian who could communicate with Vishal for me. If I need help in a foreign land, I usually ask a woman or a couple. The women I saw were busy pushing their luggage to their rides and I didn’t see any couples. The minutes were ticking by. I couldn’t ask the same, persistent swarm of taxi drivers in front of me. It’s well known that taxi drivers will tell you that your ride isn’t coming and you should go with them. I saw a young woman with her mother. They sat down on the bench behind me. “Excuse me,” I enquired, “Do you have a phone? Would you be able to make a phone call for me? In Hindi?” She smiled and asked for the phone number. “Vishal,” I clarified, “His name is Vishal and he’s supposed to pick up Anne.” My new friend dialed the number and said a few words to the receiver. She hung up and turned to me. “He will call back. He’s not coming.” I fetched the alternate phone number before she had to leave. She called the ashram, spoke a few words, and turned to me. “They will call back.” As we waited for the return calls, my new friend and I chatted. “Do you practice yoga?” I asked her. She performed the Indian head waggle and my question was ambivalently answered. Still, I invited her to the ashram. Her phone rang and after some words back and forth, she reported, “The driver had a flat and someone else will come soon.” Less than five minutes later, one of the taxi drivers who had been scoping out the potential customer scene approached us. They exchanged words and my kind friend confirmed by talking to someone on the other end of the driver’s phone line that he was the correct driver and he would take me to the ashram. I thanked her profusely and she told me her name, but unfortunately I couldn’t understand what she said.

The eager driver commenced our journey to the ashram. As I was still a bit skeptical of his intentions, I chose the back seat and tried to get comfortable in the non-AC car. The sun was low in the sky, but the heat was still penetrating. “Ma’am! First time to Rishikesh?” “Oh no,” I replied. “I was here one year ago.” “Ma’am! You like elephants? Here is elephant sheet in the road. Right here!” My friendly driver regarded a mound of feces in the middle of the road. “Ma’am! Look! It is my house right there!” I somewhat wished he would invite me to meet the numerous family members he said he lived with, but I was expending all my energy just to engage in this conversation. “Ma’am! I am Ravi!” I shared my name, but in response to his puzzled attempt to pronounce it, I instructed, “Indians call me ‘Ah-nee’.” “Ahhhh, Ah-nee!” Ravi seemed relieved to be excused from attempting the English short “a” vowel, which doesn’t occur in the Hindi language.

Finally out of the winding roads of the national park and into more familiar territory, Ravi abruptly stopped the taxi. “Did the engine die?” I enquired, anxious to lie down and more anxious to eat dinner, which is served at 7:00 PM. “No, no. I’m not sure where…” Before he could finish his statement, I interrupted, “It’s that way,” pointing to a road along the perimeter of Parmarth Niketan Ashram. We had walked that way to the Ganga Aarti ceremony last year, and I was thankful it sparked my memory. Ravi revved the engine and we soon approached the familiar narrow lane that led to Shiva Resort. “You can stop here. I can walk the rest of the way,” I said, instantly regretting the concession to roll my suitcase over the cow shit that monopolizes the lane. “Ma’am! No! We will go here,” Ravi replied, as he expertly navigated the taxi down the lane, taking care not to scrape the mirrors that were within one inch of the five foot rock walls. The local residents stopped to marvel at Ravi’s maneuvering from their vantage point at the end of the lane. A staff member from the ashram met us there and instructed me to pay in the office. I hoped Ravi would earn something from his deft work, so I told the staff member I’d like to give him a tip. I reached into my wallet and handed him a small bill, we said our farewells, and my suitcase began its game of dodging the cow shit mounds, motorbikes, and actual cows. As we approached the gate to the ashram, I wondered if I had tipped Ravi in UAE dirhams instead of Indian rupees, which would account for the surprised look on his face.

As soon as I entered the courtyard and sanctuary of student rooms, I was overwhelmed with a familiar feeling. Instantly, I knew I had made the right decision in returning to India. It felt like home, and the animal smells, sticky air, and random shouts of Hindi solidified my decision. I was greeted by Ankit, the lovely staff member who transported me back and forth to the hospital last year. “Ah-nee, hello. I only see you on Facebook. Now you are here.” “Hi, Ankit! Don’t worry. I brought medicine this time and you won’t have to take me to the hospital,” I reassured him. His trademark smirk appeared across his face, but he didn’t respond. Ankit ushered me to a choice of two rooms on the second floor, carrying my suitcase for me. I went back and forth, but chose the one with a “cooling machine” and mirror in the bathroom, two features last year’s room lacked. I would be in a different building this time and the atmosphere seemed more peaceful and private. I thanked Ankit and unpacked a few things before heading over to dinner.

As I began the short walk outside the gates and over to Krishna Cottage to the dining hall, I saw Deepa, one of my asana teachers from last year. She hugged me and welcomed me back to Rishikesh. Several of the staff members asked, “You here last year?” obviously recognizing me. I was so touched that I was remembered so fondly, considering the number of students who completed the 200-hour course in the past year. Though secretly, they were probably wondering if I would require as much medical attention as I did last year!

After enjoying the first of many meals in the dining hall, I unpacked the rest of my possessions, stacking my clothes neatly within the wooden vanity cupboard that hangs on the wall, and set up my products in the bathroom. Instead of risking a cold shower, as the hot water can be unpredictable, I tested out my new coconut oil wipes, which freshened my exhausted body, and I fell into bed. As I reached for the switch to extinguish the light, I noticed a massive gecko on my ceiling. Instead of screaming or trying to shepherd it outside, I closed my eyes and smiled. Welcome to India.