Mat-a-splat-twat

I’m up at the crack and raring to go. It’s my first day of yoga school today and I would really like to get through it without making a total arse of myself. But I’m not holding my breath. Whenever there’s a genuine need for things to go well, my inner dial seems to tune into frequency ‘fuckwit’ and all hell breaks loose. I just hope I don’t do anything too indelibly moronic today.

Being me is bloody hard sometimes.

The least I can do is make sure I’m not late. So at 5am I’m out the door. I figure an hour is plenty of time for me to locate a shala that’s really no more than a hop, skip and a jump from my hotel.

Naturally, it’s raining.

I arrive for class on time. Which I think is a triumph, considering. However, I am incredibly wet. Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I squelch into the shala and form a small puddle by the side of my mat. So far so good.

The room is divided into two. There are the six of us doing Hatha with Ely on the one side and four students (including two I’ve not seen before) doing the rather more challenging Ashtanga course with Mahesh on the other. They’re already in full swing and I can tell by the litany of insults coming out of Mahesh’s mouth, that he’s not particularly impressed with their efforts thus far. I don’t think he quite understands that his class may not be able to wrap their legs around their heads and clean their ears with their big toes on day one. I thank god for small mercies that he’s not my teacher.

I, on the other hand, am off to a flying start. Ely has us all in ‘savasana’, or ‘corpse pose’, lying spread eagle on our backs, eyes closed and breathing. I’m feeling smugly accomplished. I’ve got this one totally nailed. In fact, I don’t know what I was worried about. I’m going to sail through this course. No problem.

Fast forward twenty minutes and everyone in the shala is huddled around my mat. They are gazing down at me with looks of real concern. I’m blissfully unaware of the situation, of course, for at this at this point, I happen to be completely out for the count. Evidently, my efforts to execute the perfect ‘hand-to-foot forward fold’ have not gone well. All I’ve managed to do is pass out.

A few minutes later and I’m convulsing…and muttering maniacally…in Sanskrit. I have apparently memorised the name for the position I was just performing: ‘padahastasana’ and I seem to be uttering it repeatedly like a frothy mouthed lunatic. Concerned looks rapidly morph into expressions of undiluted alarm. No one knows what to say or do.

Eventually, I regain my composure and try to assuage my profound embarrassment by springing to my feet as gracefully as I can, while insisting I’m perfectly fine and capable of continuing with the class. Much to my relief, Ely gives me the nod of approval. Clearly, she’s as keen to move on from the episode as I am. Moments later, we’re back on our mats for the back bending sequence, which I manage to complete without drawing any further attention to myself.

In fact, now that the worst has happened, I feel much more relaxed. Sure, I’ve made a total fool of myself and yes, I’m pretty confident that most of my fellow students will be giving me a wide berth for the next four weeks, but at least now I know that things can’t actually get any worse for me.

Except that they can. And by jove, they do…

We’re almost at the end of the class and I’ve just performed a perfect ‘tree’ (standing on one foot with hands overhead in prayer), so I’m feeling cocksure and confident about the next position – ‘crow’. We’re told it looks harder than it actually is, so Ely wants to take us through it first. We gather around and watch as she effortlessly manoeuvres her knees onto the back of her arms and lifts her legs up to hover majestically behind her. It looks impressive. If I can pull this off, I might be able to recoup some of the self-respect I haemorrhaged earlier. I embrace the challenge with brio, clambering back on to my mat to assume the starting position. I’m aiming for poise and control, so I’m taking it nice and slow. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a couple of the other students already up in their crows. They look great. I’ve got one knee up on to an arm. And all is still well. I just need to get the other one up and I’m there.

Instead, I manage to knee myself in the groin, topple off my arms and land directly on my face. I now have what I’m sure is the beginning of a black eye and I’ve bitten my lip so hard it’s bleeding. At the sight of my own blood, I start crying. It's taken just under two hours for me to make a spectacular twat of myself. That's set a new record.

By the end of the class, having ubiquitously shamed myself, I decide it best to make like a crow and I fly out of the shala as fast as I can. At least the next lesson is yoga theory. I can’t possibly do much damage there…can I?

Thousand-Mile Journey

I’m not just here for shits and giggles. I need to get myself back on track. And that’s going to take some serious work. But whether it’s the karma, the dharma, or the vegetable korma, I really believe India has the medicine I need. 

Nonetheless, being jolted from my sleep by a chorus of howling dogs at stupid-o-clock in the morning isn’t exactly the palliative start I had in mind. But I’m up now and I’m keen to seize the day.

The major item on today’s agenda is yoga. Varkala has become a bit of a hub for the discerning yogi with a number of schools offering the full immersion experience. So what better than an intense period of downward dogging to iron out the kinks and give me the jumpstart I need?

Sadly, there’s not much going on in Varkala at 4am. So to kill some time, I head to the bathroom for a nice leisurely shower. But I forget. Hot water is a rare commodity in Indian Slummer-land. And seconds later, there’s a new howling bitch on the beach.

It’s now 6.00am and I’m thoroughly bored. I’ve already moussed and teased my tresses into a succession of perfect curls. So just for the hell of it, I set about squeezing the poison out of every mosquito bite on my body. By 6.45 I’m stippled from top to toe with a collection of angry, swollen pockmarks of purulent ooze. Still, at least my hair looks nice.

At 7am I deem it late enough to venture out.  I head to Abba, the restaurant I was in last night as I noticed they had free wifi and I want jack my Mac in so I can start searching for yoga schools...plus the cute Nepalese waiters working there didn’t entirely escape my attention either!

I arrive to find Abba open and in full swing. One of the waiters recognises me and escorts me to an empty table. In Broken English he proceeds to charm an order from me and before long, I’m tucking into a bowl of “fruit-muesli-honey-curd”…with a dash of Internet and a large dollop of eye candy on the side. It’s an outstanding breakfast combination.

Two hours later and I’m thoroughly satiated: I’ve chased the muesli down with two masala chais and a watermelon shake; I’m now Facebook friends with ‘Chattre’, the hot Nepalese waiter and, subject to an interview with an instructor called Mahesh later today, I’ve secured myself a spot on a four-week yoga teacher training course, starting tomorrow. Not bad for a morning’s work.

I head back to my hut for a well-earned disco nap. I awake some hours later to find it lashing down with rain outside. I’m also running late for my meeting with Mahesh at his yoga shala. I launch myself from the hut with no idea of which way to head and within seconds, I’m both thoroughly lost and thoroughly soaked. I spend a further 20 minutes or so frantically trying to find a rickshaw, but the place is eerily deserted. My appointment is at 4pm. It’s now 4.45. I decide to give Mahesh a call.

After a really difficult conversation, where I try to explain where the hell I am, without really having much of a clue, Mahesh somehow manages to pinpoint my location. It turns out I’m about a block away from the school. But given the complete hash I’ve made of finding it so far, I’m instructed to remain exactly where I am. He’s coming to get me. And he seems really pissed off.

Minutes later Mahesh arrives looking about as disgruntled as he just sounded. He greets me with little more than a grimace and then turns on his heel. I think I’ve just blown my place at the school. But I follow on behind him anyway.

On arrival, I’m tersely told to remain outside. Clearly sopping wet idiots are not permitted anywhere near the shala. I’m left to shiver in a hypothermic heap, where I promptly become dish of the day for the local mosquito population, and before long I’ve yet more angry red welts to add to my collection.

I’m beginning to seriously dislike Mahesh now.

To make matters worse, I can hear laughter and jollity coming from inside the shala. It sounds like there are other students already in there. And they’re all having a high old time.

I’m seething. I feel a tantrum brewing.

Fortunately, a lady appears at the door before I fully work myself into a lather. She hands me a towel and introduces herself as Elizabeth – or ‘Ely’ for short, Mahesh’s wife and business partner. She smiles at me apologetically and ushers me inside. I instantly like her, and I’m delighted when, over a warming cup of chai, she reveals that she, rather than Mahesh, is the main instructor for course I’m hoping to enrol on. She quizzes me about my health, fitness and yoga experience and once satisfied that I’m in good enough nick to handle the programme (a relentless 200 hours of practice and theoretical study squeezed into a time frame of 4 weeks), she registers me (a quick passport and visa check, along with the settlement of fee) and escorts me up to the rooftop, where all the other students are gathered.

Aware of how important it is to make a good first impression, I desperately want to do something constructive with the wet t-shirt look I’m rocking, not to mention the clusters of matted hair that hang where once were perfect curls, but there’s little opportunity to address either. So channelling as much blasé as I can, I enter the room and beam out the brightest smile I can muster.

Seven startled faces stare back. Clearly my attempt to make a good first impression has gone down like a cup of cold sick.

A few stilted conversations later and I’ve learned that my compatriots are as multi-cultural as the multi-cuisine menu on offer in Abba - three Americans, a Canadian, a Colombian, a Lithuanian and a Pole, who actually now lives in Norway. I’m then subjected to another bout of embarrassment when Aneta, the Polish-Norwegian, grabs hold of my passport and announces with resulting hilarity, that I’m the only person she’s ever met who looks better in their passport photo than they do in real life. Great.

Taking this as my cue to leave, I politely excuse myself and make a mental note to try and claw back a small slither of dignity when school begins in earnest tomorrow.

I empty out into pitch darkness. It’s still bucketing down with rain. And I realise a little too late that I’ve absolutely no idea of where I’m going. I’ve already lost my bearings so going back to the shala is not an option. All I want to do is flop into bed. But I can’t bloody find it!

After a solid hour’s worth of trial and error I finally navigate myself back to my hut. And while I finish the day looking like a drowned rat and feeling as tired as a dog, I’m weirdly satisfied. The first step of the journey has been taken. And my adventure has begun.