Monsoon Wetting, (or, The Belated Boris Post)

Yesterday morning, on the last day of my course, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain. I looked outside and it was coming down crazy--you pick the metaphor. Cats and dogs, buckets, et cetera. One side of the street was consumed by a puddle so big it was actually a pond. Kabali (this reminds me, I've never written about the driver Rebecca and Anna so generously shared with me after Vijay and I broke up...long story, but Kabali--who, up until yesterday, we'd been calling, erroneously, Kapali--rocks) was nowhere to be found, so Rebecca and I got into a rickshaw with the scary driver who is always outside the Hotel California. It was a wild ride. We'd start to turn down a street and the entire road would be a lake and there's no way three wheels would make it through, so we'd try another and somehow we made it to the Mandiram, reasonably dry and somewhat intact. After the rain stopped, Chennai, for once, felt almost cool.

Later that day, I was kicking it at the local Iway, where the Bravermundo magic happens, and I started this whole Boris post, since yesterday was his birthday. I kept trying to write something and then it sounded codependent, or treacly, and I felt like I wasn't doing him justice. So I saved it as a draft and went back for the afternoon classes in a crummy mood. Mr. METY sat next to me during yoga therapy and when he raised his hand, I told him he had maxed out his question-asking and if he had something to contribute, he could tell me, and I'd tell the group. Of course, he seemed to enjoy it when I laid down the law. Which is just like him.

People dressed up for our closing ceremony, and Desikachar came, and there were lots of blessings and clapping and hugging and photo-taking and when everyone made plans to meet up for dinner afterwards, I just didn't feel like going. I was exhausted by group mode (aren't we all, after spending ten-hour days with the same people for four weeks?) and I knew I needed to call Boris, and I was just sad.

We spoke for a little bit last night, and right after I hung up the phone I realized I'd meant to say a bunch of stuff. Like that this fall marks our tenth year of friendship!

Rebecca and I had a quiet dinner at the weird cafe, and I realized it's not that I didn't want to go out with the others, it's that I knew I'd rather be at the Royal Castle, arranging Boris' stinky cheese on plates, slicing one of the amazing cakes Shauna surely baked, catching his eye from across the room and mouthing "See, everyone's having fun" after he would've, earlier, freaked out about all the party mishaps he'd imagined ensuing. And despite my best efforts to chin up, I couldn't get out of The Great New York Debate as I tried to fall asleep last night. I'd imagine an affordable house in a college town and then flash to sitting in one of the Second Avenue parks with the newspaper and an iced latte from 71. I listened to music, but the entire Whiskeytown oeuvre tends to make things worse, not better.

Basically, Boris, I'm reminiscing this right now.

Loose Ends

I had a whole draft post running about little things here and there that I meant to get to earlier, and of course, it's nowhere to be found now, but I'll try to remember...

Oh! I had a consult of my own and had a new practice designed by the very lovely Sangita (who, strangely, is a dead ringer for Avideh). The doctor told me I need to extend my exhales and do more forward bends. And to think all this time I was forcing myself into some unenjoyable back arches. The few times I've done the new practice I've enjoyed it, but I haven't had enough time to practice daily in addition to the morning practice.

What else? My Aussie friends told me I talk like Clueless, which I don't think they realized I'd cherish as one of the Best Compliments Ever. Then Noel told me yesterday that she didn't understand why I kept referring to myself as neurotic. "I think you're pretty laid-back," she said.

See, miracles do happen.

Over It

I am totally over the Hotel California.

I am totally over Mr. METY. He asked a question at 4:29 yesterday afternoon in our class that is supposed to end at 4:30 and just would not stop talking and I was trying to keep my nostril-flaring under control but instead said, out loud, "Jesus Christ" and then sighed loudly. Totally unyogic, but shit was getting ridiculous.

I am totally over the Girl Who Hates India (I've avoided posting about her until now, but her basic trip is that everything about India is gross, or weird, and she makes a lot of what Nancy describes as "the gas face"--when you scrunch up your nose like "Who farted?" except this girl does it all the time, that is, when she's not interrupting your conversations with others or telling you about her ex-fiance).

I knew I couldn't handle her any longer when her thong was totally hanging out over the top of her pants during morning practice and usually I would've said, "Hey, tuck your undies in" but I just couldn't find it in my heart to be nice. At breakfast, Priya was taking pledges to donate to a medical clinic nearby, and I tucked some money in her pocket and the GWHI asked me how much I gave. I--kindly, I thought--told her it was none of her business, that I gave the amount I thought was appropriate (tzedakah, y'all!) and she got Very Huffy and said, "Fine! I won't ask. I'm sorry!" and then carried on like I'd bitch-slapped her, stolen her lunch money, and spit on her shoes. I could've said "I didn't mean it like that" but didn't have the energy to get into her crazy passive-aggressive zone, so instead I just walked down the street, waved to some kids, found my way to the internet cafe and here I type.

Is this a sign that I am officially, as Melissa would put it, a BLOGGER? Oh, man.

Good Morning, World!

I was hurting this morning. Hurting superbad. Fueled by a "Where am I going to stay in Kerala and how am I going to get there?" freakout last night, I spent two loooong hours in the internet cafe. And that was two hours too long. The streets were deserted on my way back to the Hotel California, and a stray dog followed me, which, under normal circumstances would've been fine, but I was having a co-freakout about rabies, so I was convinced that the stray dog was going to knock me down and pounce on me and bite me and then I'd start foaming at the mouth.

You see why I need to get enough sleep. I came home and sat in bed, reading reading reading the same guidebooks for, um, the hundredth time, only because my web research led me to take certain hotels off the potential list for such great reasons as the hotel website doesn't seem like it was updated this month or I don't know if the hotel has a pool and the site doesn't answer that question and I decided I should read both the Rough Guide and the Lonely Planet books--again--just in case.

So, this morning at 5:45am, when I walked into my bathroom and saw Cootie's sidekick, The Biggest Cockroach Ever, chilling on the side of the tub, waving his little antenna at me in some sort of insect greeting, it was all I could do to not turn back around and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I said, "Why are you here?" and smacked my shower gel against the side of the tub, which led him to scurry back into the crevice he calls home.

To further excite me about my day, Anna and I walked out and it was a total Apocalypse Now sky, which is always a good sign, and I bribed myself with a pre-practice coffee ("I can have this coffee provided that I do all the standing postures!") and things got a little bit loopy after that. There was rumbling thunder and flashing lights and an elaborate pranayama that I just gave up on because I couldn't think straight. The rest of today has been more of the same; synapses just aren't firing and while I have a hotel reservation for Mumbai the night of October 5, I don't have anything in between. I've ruled out all of the Ayurvedic spas, though, because I think they force a restricted diet on you, and I think it would involve coffee detox, and I think if I can't have coffee right now, shit's gonna get ugly. And then all the other detoxers would vote me off the island.

The moral of the story is this: coffee and yoga don't mix. And sleep is important.

Another Day, Another Desikachar Sighting

So Desikachar's been coming to speak at some of our classes, and his answers to our questions are simple but meaningful (When asked, "What should we call this style of yoga?" he responded, "Your yoga").

Over the weekend, Anna and I went to the beach (and got totally sun-drunk and blissed out by watching the waves roll in and out on the shore; clearly I've been thinking too much) and saw the whole Desikachar family at the resort nearby. Menaka, his wife and my hero, was walking around, holding her teeny cute granddaughter, and, as usual, I got all nervous around her. I am trying so hard to convey my interest in her class, in the Yoga Sutras, how I looooove her and want her to maybe adopt me and carry me around, but every time I am around her, I say something vapid ("I really like your sari!") and not at all intelligent. This was made worse yesterday by the fact that Mr. METY, for whom I've been feeling sort of bad, even though his Bottomless Pit of Self-Loathing is more like a BP of Self-Awareness, which may well be worse, decided to sit next to me and kept whispering to me and then we were scolded by Menaka! It was just like getting busted for talking in fourth grade, except this time it wasn't my fault! It was his! I was trying to listen!

Anna and I ran into him last night at Amethyst and I told him I was not impressed. Instead of apologizing, we were treated to a report of his recent dreams. Things were better before I decided to try to be nice to him.

Grrrrr.

A Break From Our Regularly Scheduled Snarkiness

One of my afternoon classes focuses on the therapeutic applications of yoga, so we usually have a few case studies, students who've come to the Mandiram hoping to alleviate everything from chronic pain to depression. The students describe their problems, and then the teacher shows the course they've "prescribed" and we discuss the hows and whys of particular postures and their effects. It's become one of my favorite classes, namely because you can see how a regular practice can transform a person's health and well-being.

Last week, one of the classes was devoted to KYM Mitra, a branch of KYM that aims to teach yoga to the underprivileged; they've done programs with mentally disturbed women and destitute children as well as students with various disabilities. A group of young students with mental disabilities came to our class and showed us their practice. It was, in a word, amazing. I know I overuse that word but this was truly awesome. One of the boys in front, skinny and hearing-impaired, didn't speak before practicing yoga; now his high-pitched om's and ma's ring out clearly with the rest of the group's.

The next time I am feeling down, disgruntled and disgusted by life, I will think of him, smiling and chanting, and try to remember that a regular practice has the power to change.

Vijaya

My embroidery teacher Padmini's daughter-in-law, Vijaya, was shy at first, but I think she feels a little more comfortable with me now. They've invited me over next weekend for a festival that I can't remember the name of that involves dolls, and I am stoked to go, so I asked Vijaya what to wear.

"Do you have any Indian clothing?"
"I have a salwaar kalmeez. Can I wear that?"
"I think I would like to see that. Why haven't you worn that over here?"
Guiltily, I explained that it gets hot in the classroom, so I tend to dress in layers and the long top of a salwaar just doesn't breathe enough.
"Hm. What are you going to do with your hair? Are you going to wear a bindi? What about jewelry?"

I have gleaned that I don't dress up enough for my embroidery lessons, so I am going to pile on every piece of jewelry I've bought here (trust me, they'll here me jingling from down the street) and do something with my hair and maybe even wear some makeup.

Vijaya did approve of my toe rings, which was some consolation, and then sweetly offered to paint on a bindi and braid my hair before I returned to the Mandiram.

As if I am not overcome with enough emotion by all of this affection, she and Padmini have decided I need a Sanskrit name!

Don't worry, you all don't have to call me Uma.

I'd Love to Stay and Chat, But...

Just when I start to feel like I know Chennai, I have to pack up and leave. It's the last week of the program, and I'm finally able to direct drivers to my destinations--without stopping to ask pedestrians for help. This is huge. I was stopped at Amethyst (a beautiful store and cafe in an old colonial building that has become my hangout of choice) by an American woman who wanted to know where I'd bought my kurta (Fab India, if you must know), and I ended up giving her a whole list of restaurants and shops. Because I'm nice like that. And because she assumed I was one of the ex-pats (who, by the way, I am sort of obsessed with; all of their conversations are "Is Klaus coming to the ball?" and "Oh, I don't know. I think he's in Toyko. We lived next door to him in Amsterdam." which makes my New York-Kansas City axis seem suddenly pedestrian).

On the ex-pat tip, Caroline invited us to dinner last week at the home of her friends with whom she is staying, The State Department Couple, who've lived all over and have an amazing apartment with ice! And also fresh vegetables! And we could consume both of these rarities because they have some fancy water filtering system that I guess the Hotel California hasn't gotten yet! Any day now, I'm sure. The slight bummer part of the evening came when Rebecca wondered aloud if it got really expensive to ship all their belongings around the world and Caroline informed us that it was just one of the many many things that The State Department pays for. I guess it's okay for me to indirectly pay for someone else to have ice in an ice-free country. Provided I can come over and consume that ice.

How to Pick Up a Yogi

You don't.

While I'm sure that there are wild one-night stands at Jois' yoga shala in Mysore, KYM doesn't have the random hookups (well, not that I know about anyway). But that's not the weird thing.

Instead of the dance you do with potential mates, the one where you slowly reveal your crazy in the most chill manner possible, yogis just come out with it. I have had conversations about suffering from chronic depression with people whose last names I do not know; one woman's constipation is discussed casually as if we're deciding where to go for lunch; one man spoke at great length about menstruation (which, since we're on the topic, when I write my future bestseller, Ways To Turn Women Off From You Totally and Completely Forever, that will most def be included in the top five, because you know what? When it comes down it, I don't want a guy talking about my cycle. I just don't. Once, long ago, when I said I wanted an evolved man? Remember? Anyone? I was lying. Bring on the sports-watching lager drinkers).

If you have someone in mind, you could always email me. Not that I'm begging. Another thing I'd like to clear up: Remember when I said that the world would be a better place with readily available male prostitutes? I totally take it back.

Witness the following: Sunday afternoon, I'm walking back to my hotel and this dude appears next to me. As they do. Our convo:
"Madam, madam."
"What?"
"My name is Matthew."
"Great."
"What is your name?"
"Nancy." (Sorry Schwartzman! This has become my India alias.)
"Where are you from?"
"The States."
"I am an escort."
"I am not interested." (And I am thinking, I am not interested in your offer of a tour of Chennai's temples, or beaches, or just about anything else. Go away, cookie man!)
"No, madam, I am a call boy."
"I am totally not interested."

Ew, and then ew again. What vibe is it that I give off that says, "Come to me and offer to let me pay you for sex?" I'm just curious.