RIP Indian Slummer

I took myself off to India in search of a small slice of happy. I thought I could do it without hair mousse. My hair looked consistently crappy.

I travelled all over the country on the sleeper buses for which India’s renown. I found it quite thrilling. Whizzing about. On a flat bed. Sprawled out. Lying down.

I stayed in shacks and shitholes, which were cheap but a far cry from cushy. And every night, I became a mosquito’s delight and was devoured just like human sushi.

I visited temples and ashrams. Met sadhus, swamis and sages. I stopped eating meat and got back on my feet by doing more yoga than I had done in ages.

I studied Vedic Dharma and had a go at silent meditation. But then I got sick with severely bad shits and needed hospitalisation.

I splashed about in the Ganges and I scaled Himalayan mountains high.  I lolled lazily about on white beaches until my pale skin started to fry.

I met some incredible people and I made a great many friends. I dated some dudes. Drank too much booze. And I had a colonic cleanse.

Then six months ago I met Max. He was handsome and kind. A real treasure. He captured my heart. Right from the start. I thought he would be mine forever.

I moved into his place in South Goa. Looking back, I wish we’d gone slower.  Because living together isn’t that clever, when you’re with someone who don’t really know yer.  

A few weeks later I became ill. I discovered I had a stomach tumour. Then things went downhill, when blood started to spill and near death led to my lost sense of humour.

It took a good few months to recover. And I wasn’t much fun to be with. But by the time I was fine, Max was no longer inclined, to have me in his life as his lover.

I came home without further ado. My Indian dream’s now a thing of the past. Why slum when I really don’t have to? When I’m happy with life at long last?

Back to the Mat

The operation to remove the ten-ton tumour from my stomach had brought my body to its knees. But it was the six weeks spent flat on my back in recovery afterwards that totally sky rocketed me out of my mind.

Why had this happened to me? What sort of karmic crime had I committed to merit such a supersized sandwich of bullshit?  Was there some greater cosmic purpose to this unfortunate turn of events? If there was, then I just wasn’t seeing it. None of it made any sense.

So five weeks ago, I decided enough was enough. It was time to scrape myself off the sofa. And so with Bambi-like dexterity, I wobbled back out into the sunlight and headed to the one place where I knew I would find answers.

My yoga mat.

I’d heard about a school called Abhinam yoga that had recently been set up by a doctor called Namito Rakesh. Namito had been the personal physician to one of the world’s most acclaimed yoga guru’s, BKS Iyengar. During his time at the great master’s Pune Institute, he had developed a distinct medical approach to the practice. An approach that Iyengar himself had hailed a triumph. I figured if Namito was good enough for Iyengar (aged 95 and still busting some pretty spectacular moves), then he was good enough for me.

I signed up to the Teacher Training course immediately.

And so began a journey.

During the first week, I mainly learnt to cry…produce mucus...and shit…a lot. We were being taught the Kriya’s – ancient cleansing techniques which involve a series of strenuous breathing and abdominal exercises. They are designed to purge the body and mind of toxins. And boy, did they do the trick! I was reduced to a smelly, snivelling, dribbling mess.

I felt dreadful.

It was at this point that I began to foster a supreme dislike for ‘Doctor’ Namito. I mean, what godforsaken yoga was this man teaching? I wanted to quit. But with assurances that there was a method to this madness, I hung on in there.

By the end of week two, I felt even worse.

We had finally started our Asana practice. But it hadn’t gone well. For the first few days Namito had my fellow students and I performing these ludicrously difficult sequences of backbends, handstands and one-armed press-ups. I hadn’t yet fully recovered from my surgery and he’d given me this to do?

I wanted to die. I wanted to take Namito with me. And I wasn’t alone.

But then half way through this second week, the gears suddenly changed. We went right back to basics. We’d spend entire afternoons in Samasthiti (standing pose…literally…standing) or in Uttitha Hastasana, Intense Arm Pose (still standing…but with our arms over our heads). Yet as simple of these asanas were, Namito wasn’t satisfied. As far as he was concerned, I was inept. My alignment was totally off, my back was horribly rounded and my performance was clumsy and graceless. In just under a week this man had managed to comprehensively consign everything I’d learnt in my 15 years of practice to the trash heap.

I wanted to punch myself in the face. And kick Namito somewhere pertinent, below the waistline. Hard.

Fantasy sucker punches aside, this was a watershed moment. I began to realise that my performance in these postures was telling me something important about the imbalances I was feeling in my life. My Quasimodo posture was a symbol of my tendency to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. My flat feet demonstrated a failure to stand tall and proud. The tumour in my stomach? I came to realise that even this was rooted in years of negative thinking – it was nothing but a ball of toxic emotions.

Suddenly the penny dropped.

As Namito lead us further into our studies, furnishing our practice with a firm understanding of yoga philosophy, anatomy, physiology and the bio-mechanics of the body, everything started to fall into place. My body and mind were becoming aligned. A greater awareness was beginning to emerge.

Today, the psychotic she-devil that once ruled my world has been toppled from her throne. And the blood-sucking sack of shit that had been growing in my abdomen has been replaced by something new. I’m not sure what it is exactly. But damn, I’m feeling good!

The Max Factor

It’s been three weeks since my hospital discharge. Since then I’ve received the results of my biopsy and I’m delighted to say that my tumour came back benign. The exorcism had worked. Its arse was grass. That malicious mo-fo was gone. I was so relieved. All I had to do now was heal.  

But the road to recovery hasn’t been easy. It’s actually been one big, fat long stretch of empty. A yawning, sprawling blanket of tedium briefly interrupted with intermittent flashes of unbearable pain, all of which have prompted displays of unparalleled psychopathic behaviour.

With the entire mid-section of my body held together with Egyptian mummy quantities of bandages and topped off with a stomach brace that gives Bridget Jones’ knickers a run for their money, I’ve been rendered completely useless.

I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. Marooned. A permanently pajama’d beached whale. So naturally, I’m dealing with this in the only way I know how…

By morphing into some kind of frothy-mouthed she-devil who spends much of her time wallowing in a cesspit of despair.  I could effortlessly reduce even the bravest of men to rubble.

Well…all bar one.

Max.

Max has just spent the last two years hiking around India. He’s scaled the Himalayas, grappled with ferocious wild animals and lost his own bodyweight in sweat crossing jungles and barren deserts. All to raise money and awareness for India’s poor. So if there’s anyone best equipped to deal with my shenanigans, it’s him.

Which is fortunate for me because Max just so happens to be my boyfriend.

Over the last few weeks Max has shopped, cleaned and cooked for me, endured my tears and she-devil tantrums, scraped me off the floor and genuinely saved me from disappearing up my own arse.

He’s even given me his own blood. It turns out we’re not just a love match, but compatible all the way down to the capillary level. Max, as I only very recently discovered, was my mystery transfusion donor. Even my parents, who've despised all my past partners, have started calling him ‘Saint Max’.

And it doesn’t stop there…

Here in Goa, his actions have acquired him legendary status. He’s helped everyone from the local village boy to the big shot businessman. Blokes want to emulate him. And girls want to throw their knickers at him. It’s like dating Brad Pitt. Except that right now, I don’t feel anything like his Angelina Jolie.

Nonetheless, his good nature and unflagging optimism have managed to tame the heinous she-devil that I’ve become and she’s slowly inching her back in her box. I’m beginning to feel much more human again.

And with the Max Factor beside me as well as inside me – I'm like a whole new person, ready to take on the New Year, armed with all the strength, courage and support I could possibly need.