Mysore into the New Year

Landing at 11:30am in Bangalore after three flights, immigration and luggage, then getting into a taxi for 3 hours more. A bit tiring, but considering how crazy Bangalore traffic is during the day, we were happy to be in a cool night (freezing really for what we were wearing), and ride smoothly to Mysore. Elena, my sweet Italian friend, put us up for the night. We just changed shifts. She wakes up at 2:15am to warm up her spine, before she goes to the Shala to practice; we got there at 3:30am, and crashed like babies.

We woke up as she returned from practice, had a fantastic breakfast, got filled up on some of the happenings in Mysore, and borrowed her scooter to go search for a place to stay as well as practice.

It was a big step to move from my comfort zone and friend circle of Gukulam, and dive into Lakshmi Puram, the older part of town, or sometimes known as the real Indian as it is not as wealthy and set up for the westerners coming to practice with Sharat. There are a few of BNS Iyengar (not to be confused with BKS Iyengar) students teaching around here, and they all teach Ashtanga similar to Pattabhi Jois. Since our new pad is right near the Mandala house, we decided to give Cidanada a try. On my last visit here, I practiced with Sheshadri in the same place, now he has grown to having his own shala. I was pleasantly surprised with Cidanada. Nice calm beginning with chanting between every sun salute, a small class with lots of attention, strong adjustments yet with lots of care. BNS Iyengar still teaches pranayama, philosophy and mudra, at the Mandala house, so I was very happy for the opportunity to study with this 85-year-old man, a student of Krishnamacharya, and a character indeed. Mostly shaved head, though it has stubble as if it is shaved only once a month, with a large patch of salt and pepper hair left on the back, a red line climbing from his third eye up on his forehead for a good inch and a half, and a thick white heavy textured elongated half circle encasing it from the bottom like a deep cup holding a red stem. He wears glasses and looks at you from above the glasses as they rest low on his nose. He wears the traditional white longhi wrapped around his waist with a long Indian style cream or white shirt, with three buttons and a small Chinese like color, with one pocket on the left side, hanging over his medium sized belly. He enters the shala with his faded turquoise three quarter helmet, takes off his worn flip-flops and moves about barefoot, in slow motion. He has a similar accent to the one I remember of Pattabhi Jois; Yeit – meaning eight and a bit of singing to his sentences.

After so many pranayama coursed I have taken I am still enjoying this one, as the study is very gradual, similar to the Mysore style, one completes a pose and gets the next one, also here, when completed with a pranayama exercise, one receives the next. And do not think of this as breathing exercise, “That is respiration” Iyengar would say, Pranayama has a whole different purpose. I look forward to sharing this in my classes and workshops ahead.
Mysore changes some, but what really is new every time, is the experiences, no matter how much the same a place may look, it never is the same, as the Indians would say “same same, little different”. Experiences are of India but also of meeting other travelers, people from around the world, observing their perspective of a new place, sharing a discussion about Israel, conflicts and finding peace, learning about the yoga scene around the world, or about life as a South Korean Zen monk. Meeting an Israeli couple traveling with their three and five year olds, finding an American in his 60’s that left the US behind and now lives here. It is the little stories, the endless firecrackers on New Years Eve, the father on his scooter stopping by to wish Happy New Year as his son smiles staring at my Keen sandals, The rickshaw that would not start, and had to be rolled down the hill, kicked into second and jump started, so it can roll us through the bumpy roads to Gokulam, to have lunch at Elena’s and friends. A young women in jeans and a pretty tight T shirt showing her healthy appetite around the waist holding her tan Labrador cub, sits on the ledge of the temple square near the market hiding behind her fathers small SUV, waiting for him to return from the market. I smile and pet her shiny fur dog, an older Indian man comes to play with the dog, but obviously knows he is not allowed to touch it, so just plays from afar, casts and hierarchies are still very visible. We engage in conversation about the need to work in Bangalore and what it means, the great city and it being so over populated, she is the new middle class generation; the ones we see coming out of really nice villas planted amongst the older homes and buildings. A daughter of a doctor I project.

At the restaurant, enjoying the Indian food, Dosas and Idlis, the Thali meals, we sit in front of a man and woman, she is wearing a sari, black hair oiled and pulled back tightly, wearing a big nose ring. Him, wearing western like polyester pants and a light color dress shirt, having red color spread with a finger up his forehead tells me the importance of eating with the hands “Food tastes better you see, feeling the food, there is a connection”. They are lawyers and come the Mahesh Prasad a lot, “it is the best restaurant in the area,” she tells me. We speak of tradition, of the great necklace she wears to show the world she is married, the toe rings a married woman wears to stimulate her uterus, and that she needs not do yoga since she still squats to wash cloths in the bucket, washes dishes by hand, climbs the stairs, and in general uses very little machines. “The traditional life style takes care of me,” she says with a big smile and shiny black eyes.

Life in Mysore has its own pace, and I am greatly enjoying it. Even though much of life here has beautiful picture moments, I did not take out my camera yet. Maybe because I have been here many times before, it now feels like home, and thus I just smile at these moments, taking them in, but not recording them in pixels.

The street, the flavors are all part of one big live canvas, the amazing papayas that don’t even need extra lime to make them taste good, the walk through the colorful market, the intense smell of incense and flowers threaded together as necklaces, sold on the street or worn as ornaments on the ladies’ hair, blended with intense sweat coming off a group of men in line to make photocopies, dust and rickshaw pollution, smiling faces nodding their head from side to side, greeting hello, the colorful saris wrapping full bodied women, the smell of spices riding up the steam of milk from the small tea cups, the fruit carts on the side of the streets, the back and yellow rickshaws waiting at every corner to take you to your desired destination, and the cows.

No wonder the cows are holy, they symbolize the patience and endurance of life here. They go about slowly, eating around all that they find, sometimes being touched for a blessing, sometimes hit to move out of the way, and they, in their very nonchalant way, just move about, never getting angry, not violent, just surrendering to what life has offered them, grazing on the fields in front of them with no aspiration to become a cow of the Alps.