"You Come.... Next One..... You Come... Yes, Next One...."

And so it goes for hours.


This is the sound of dawn in Mysore at the Ashtanga Vinyasa Yoga Research Institute. The non-Indians are up before the Indians and breathing/sweating with abandon and verve. I could call them Westerners, but there are a number of Japanese in our midst. Perhaps first worlders would be more appropriate. We have come with visions of yogic bliss and impossible backbends in our psyches. We have the strong idea that these two very different things are, in fact, the two ends of a chemical reaction. Backbends lead to bliss and bliss returns the favor and propels the backbend into ever and evermore anato-geometrical absurdity.

It goes like this: 65 minutes of intense postures with jumps, lifts, floats, flattenings and twists. The breath is controlled, often poorly, with "ujjayi" pranayama. The gaze is softened with previously agreed upon focus points known as the drishti. The mind is harnessed with intense concentration on posture, breath, gaze and perhaps "Ishwara Pranidhana" (praise, honor to the Higher Power de Jour). Guruji and family reitereate the call for the next first worlder to come in from the waiting room. They are sequestered there, watching their fellow aspirants tackle the pratice (sadahana) through an opened, completely regular-sized door. The watcher-waiters wonder if they are next or not. Like so much of the Indian experience what appears random is not and what appears orderly is not. Its never what you think it is so you learn rather quickly not to think. As far as I can tell there are no "Policy and Procedures" notebooks sitting anywhere in the land otherwise known as Bharata. This keeps you guessing until the mind finally gives up on guessing. I find that when I give up guessing what's next, there is not as much going on upstairs. Its like your apartment neighbor has finally given up the lively and loudish arguement he was having with the wife and some peace ensues; as above, so below. And then that ephereal state of beingness ensues or, paradoxically, complete idiocy and resultant "deer in the headlights" state of awareness.

"Next One", Guruji call out in the Kannadian accented English. Another backbend victim has just been felled like some kind of Redwood behemoth in the forest. For at the end of the 70 or so minutes comes the backbend sequence which I still haven't fully figured out. They "help" (fine line between help and hindrance here) you do three dropbacks with your arms crossed across the chest. Scary? You bet it is, especially since they don't speak English! On the fourth pass into the world behind your head you are gestured to grab your feet, calves etc. Do the geometry. A compromising position, indeed. In a flash you are upright and motioned down to the mat sitting. Whereupon, with enthusiasm and glee they press your shoulder blades to your knees with purposeful, workmanlike action. This is not a subtle adjustment. Then comes the yoga mating call, "You come". You are given the nod and sent to the changing room to finish off your practice with about 10 more postures.

"Next one".

"You come".

"You come".

It goes on and on for hours, and I know each "next one" represents one of us Indian-sort-of-wannabes who has just had his back mashed like a polywog in some 4th graders' science experiment.

Blissed out yet?