by Karan Bajaj
The mud wall shuddered again.
He clenched his fists, then remembered Ramakrishna’s glowing face from the night before. Relax, don’t be an idiot. He opened his fists.
“Yes, I’m awake,” said Max.
“Time for yoga asanas.”
Now?
Max got up and pulled the separating sheet aside. A broad-shouldered, muscular giant with curly hair and bright green eyes stood in the middle room.
“Hari?” said Max.
The man nodded.
“Okay, coming,” said Max.
He took a cue from Hari’s red T-shirt and loose pants and pulled out a cotton T-shirt and baggy shorts that he had bought in Mumbai.
Max walked out into the black night lit up by two oil lamps kept on the long wooden bench. Ramakrishna sat cross-legged in the packed mud, wearing a bright white tunic and an orange cloth around his waist. Three rubber mats lay in front of him. On one sat Hari, on another, Shakti and the third was ostensibly for Max. Max sat down on the thin, gray mat, mirroring Hari and Shakti’s cross-legged pose. His thighs screamed. He shifted position, pushing his knees out and bending forward but remained uncomfortable.
“First we do pranayama, expanding one’s vital energy using the breath,” said Ramakrishna.
He demonstrated while he instructed, likely for Max’s benefit. Inhaling deeply, he thrust his abdomen out, then pushed it in sharply. He repeated the in-and-out motion two hundred times. Immediately after, he retained his breath for ninety seconds. They repeated the cycle three times, retaining the breath for longer and longer, going up to three minutes.
Max sputtered and swallowed, trying to follow along. He managed the in-and-out motions but couldn’t retain his breath for more than a minute and a half at a time.
Next, they applied bandhas or breath locks. Max had read about this ancient yogic breathing practice to improve blood circulation in a book he had picked up in London. Now, he followed Ramakrishna’s instructions closely. First, Max took a deep breath in, then pushed his chin against his throat so that inhaled air couldn’t come up the neck. Simultaneously, he pulled in his perineum—the region between the navel and the anus—toward the spine so that the breath couldn’t leave his abdomen. The fresh inhaled oxygen was now trapped in his torso. As the logic went, until one released these breath locks, the oxygen circulated slowly, deliberately, in and around the heart, liver, lungs, intestines, the bladder, and the pelvic area, rejuvenating every nerve, every vein, every cell in them. Oxygen was energy. Energy was life. If one applied bandhas long and well enough, the oxygen would revitalize the cells, slowing the body’s aging process, even reverse it. The yogi’s body would become a complete, self-generating system in itself, succumbing to neither age nor sickness or decay; he would conquer time as it were. Maybe that’s why Ramakrishna’s face shone like a lamp and the Brazilian doctor’s perennial youth was mentioned in every blog post. But there was a flaw in the logic somewhere because . . .
Blood rushed to Max’s face and his heart thudded from the influx of fresh air.
He just couldn’t think anymore.
“Lie down, my child. Corpse pose,” said Ramakrishna.
Max lay down on his back, spreading his hands and legs apart like a corpse, stealing a glance at his able compatriots who had moved on to the next breathing exercise.
Next he learned sun salutations, a series of stretching and bending exercises that worked every part of the body, from the tops of the arms to the back of the legs, in an elegant dance.
. . . ten, eleven, twelve sets, again his heart threatened to burst out of his chest.
He lay down, watching the others complete eight more sets. This was so different from the one yoga class he had attended in a studio in Chelsea. It had been taught by a slender, smiling woman chanting Oms and urging the class to go deep within and feel their vibrations and energy fields. He had dismissed yoga as too soft and new-agey. Now, he was dizzy from the effort. His stomach felt hollow and the nagging ankle and knee pains from the hike had flared up.
The “warm up” was now over, said Ramakrishna. They were ready to begin the asana practice.
Begin? They must be an hour in already. A wave of dread surged through Max. The black night had given way to a blazing sun. Hot air stung his eyes. Orange mud, rivers of sweat on the mat, miles of desolation around him, how many days could he do this? Where would it take him? He hadn’t traveled ten thousand miles just to sculpt his muscles.
“We’ll start with Sirsasana, the headstand,” said Ramakrishna.
Shakti and Hari bent forward, planted their forearms on the ground, propped their head on their palms and lifted their entire body up, standing inverse in a straight line.
I’ll never be able to do that.
Max knelt down on his mat, his mind an agitated knot. He didn’t need to stand on his head. His body was fit. He had quit his job to learn Eastern philosophy, life’s why and how, not to twist and turn his body. He’d leave that day itself.
“You can also try this: just be here. Thoughts cannot depart to other dimensions in asana.”
Max looked up at shiny-faced Ramakrishna. He wanted his stillness, his certainty.
“Now, place your forearms on the ground, chest width apart, and interlock your fingers.”
Max followed Ramakrishna’s movements. His elbows were on the ground, now his wrists, then his head. His back arched. He walked a few steps forward. His legs lifted from the ground. Just a few inches up, not all the way straight up like Shakti’s and Hari’s but at least, he was in the air.
“Just stay here. Feel the weight on your forearms. Tighten your abdomen. Don’t go any higher today.”
Max didn’t want to go anywhere ever. Cool waves of air went down his body. He felt silent, awake. He closed his eyes.
“Now, come down slowly.”
Max came down to the mat. Shakti and Hari were still in the air, balanced on just their elbows and heads. Max took a deep breath and looked up at the blazing sun. He’d been similarly outclassed before. In his second week at Trinity, the English teacher had asked everyone to read aloud their homework essay about a family vacation. Other kids had written about visiting indigenous tribes in the Amazon, going on museum tours in Florence, building churches in Guatemala, and rescuing tigers in Tanzania. Max had written about a lunch his mother, Sophia and he had in the Boathouse restaurant in Central Park after saving up for a year. His classmates had stared at him in surprise and he’d had a crushing feeling in the pit of his stomach that he would never be able to catch up with them. But he had. He just had to work harder than everyone else.
For the next two hours, Max worked in the same state of feverish suspension he had worked years ago to get into Trinity and Harvard. He drowned out all his thoughts. There was no future, no past. This moment was all there was. This was his one chance, he had to give it all he had. He followed the others, going from lifting his body supported only by the tips of his shoulders to inverting into a plough like position with legs stretched beyond his head, arching the upper back like a cobra, lifting legs up like an insect and making them taut like a bow. Up and down, backwards and forward they went, stretching and elongating the spine, exhaling stale air, inhaling streams of fresh air, rejuvenating all parts of the body. He kept pace, picking himself up when he fell behind, and fought the pain to hold each pose like Ramakrishna insisted.
“Hold the pose, hold the pose. Longer, longer,” said Ramakrishna, soft but firm. “Asana means steady pose. You build concentration by holding. Hold. Concentrate.”
They lay down in corpse position at the end. Max relaxed, loosening his mind, thinking about what he was doing once again.
Ramakrishna made them apply the two bandhas once more. Max understood the logical flaw that was bothering him now. Hemoglobin carried oxygen to the blood cells. Trapping air in the abdomen wouldn’t increase hemoglobin production. The oxygen held in his torso wasn’t going anywhere else in his body. Ramakrishna told them to stop after fi
ve minutes. Max lifted his head. 7 a.m. The class was over three-and-a-half hours after it had started. He got up. The discomfort in his spine was gone. His knees didn’t hurt. He walked a few steps. The blisters in his feet didn’t press against his skin. The pain from both yoga and the twenty mile walk from the previous day had receded. He shook his head. It couldn’t be the bandhas. How could the trapped oxygen travel all over his body? He was thinking about body chemistry again when Ramakrishna called him to his hut. Hari and Shakti disappeared without looking at him. Hari and Shakti. Funky names. Now he had his own funky new name to deal with.
Max sat cross-legged, facing Ramakrishna on the mud floor inside Ramakrishna’s thatched hut.
“Are you feeling well?”
Max nodded. “I’ve barely done any yoga before.”
Ramakrishna smiled, making his face glow so much that Max almost had to turn away.
“You have done yoga before,” he said. “These postures are but one very small part of yoga. Breathing attentively is yoga. Complete absorption in your work is yoga. Thinking about others instead of yourself is yoga. Anything which makes you forget your small self and become one with the infinite is yoga.”
Max was strangely tongue-tied. He had questions like always but Ramakrishna’s presence was so peaceful, so complete, that Max didn’t feel like listening to his own rambling, dissatisfied voice.
“You did asanas well. You have a gift,” said Ramakrishna.
Max tried to hide his astonishment. He felt lumpy and light years behind Shakti and Hari.
“Your eyes are restless though,” said Ramakrishna.
Max stiffened. Coming from a soft, polite mouth, the words felt like a slap. He looked at the fissures in the mud wall of the bare hut.
“So much agitation. So much loose energy. If you are unable to silence the mind, you will make very little progress here,” he said. “Do you plan to stay here for a few days?”
No, I want to go back to the world where people thought I was calm under pressure, not someone with restless eyes syndrome.
Max nodded.
“Very good. I will learn a lot about asanas from you even though the idea may strike you as unreasonable now,” he said, his back erect as a column while Max stooped and shifted trying to find the perfect alignment to sit comfortable cross-legged in. “We practice asanas from 3.30-7 a.m. every day, then again in the evening from 3-6.30 p.m. In the day, we work in the fields. After dinner, we do three hours of meditation before going to bed at 10 p.m.”
And sleep?
“Four or five hours of sleep is enough for a yogi. As you progress, even that will be too much. You can use that time to read some of the books that people have left behind if you choose.”
How had he known the question which Max hadn’t said aloud? Could he read his mind? He tried to empty his mind of all his rambling, restless thoughts.
“Many things will happen to you here, Mahadeva, some hard for the rational mind to understand. Take them for what they are, signs pointing toward the path, not the path itself,” said Ramakrishna. “Look for answers within. I can see you like talking, debating, questioning. Nothing agitates the thought waves more. That’s why we speak only once in ten days here, the same day we deliver food to the village. You can do any chores you want in Pavur town that day as well.”
Contrary to Ramakrishna’s shabby impression of him, Max wasn’t intimidated by the silence. Lately, he had become more and more aware of the inability of words to express thoughts that truly mattered. Complete silence appealed to him. Today was the fifth day of the cycle. He had five full days to show his worth.
“We deliver food?” said Max.
“Half of whatever we grow goes to the village, no matter how little or how much we produce,” he said. “Going beyond the narrow reaches of family and friends and feeding a stranger before feeding yourself is necessary. It purifies you, simplifies your life.”
Max nodded. He paused. “Actually, I’m sorry, I meant do we walk to the village to deliver the food?”
Ramakrishna smiled. Again, his face blazed, lighting up the dark hut. “Walking will also become simpler soon. But we don’t walk to the village. The food sacks are heavy. One of the village tractors will come by.”
“I’ve never worked on a farm before,” said Max.
“It requires some strength, some dexterity. You have a little of both,” said Ramakrishna. “Your posture is loose and you are heavy. As you shed weight, become tighter, it will become easier.”
I’m not fat. I’m a marathoner. But the face in front of him seemed to speak just truth without caring how it sounded. Max straightened his spine.
“Do you have other questions?”
Max started to say something, then stopped. He didn’t want to be judged for his restlessness again. Ramakrishna smiled. He probably knew what Max wanted to ask anyway.
“What is the point of all of this? Just what exactly are we trying to achieve?” said Max in a rush.
Ramakrishna shrugged. “People tell me different things. I don’t teach anything, Mahadeva, I just live here. You alone decide what you want and understand what you get. For me, yoga is both my path and my goal.”
“And the name, Mahadeva, is it necessary? Can you just call me Max?”
“I will defer to your wishes on that, Max. However, Mahadeva is a good name. It means the powerful one,” said Ramakrishna.
But Max wanted to transcend his ego, not transfer it to a different name.
Throw away the trinkets. Be a yogi, Max.
“Mahadeva is fine,” said Max.
“That is all,” said Ramakrishna. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “You should know that I have not reached the end of yoga myself. My mind is not still enough to perceive the subtlest truth within. You have to decide whether you want to learn from an imperfect teacher.”
Max’s heart fell. If Ramakrishna hadn’t reached transcendence yet, what chance did he have?
“We each have our destinies, Mahadeva,” said Ramakrishna. “If you have walked on this path in another life, you may make more progress in a day here than I make in a lifetime.”
Max nodded. If nothing else, he would gladly settle for reading people’s thoughts like the man in front of him could.
“I will stay. Thank you for taking me in.”
14
Max, now Mahadeva, squatted on an Indian toilet, nervously eying the frogs playing in front of him and bending as much as his screaming thighs would allow. He gave himself five days there. Just until the silence broke. That’s it. Twenty percent would be done at the end of today. forty percent the next day. Then, he would have crossed the halfway mark and the reverse countdown would start. He’d learn some basic yoga. Enough to practice in slightly more livable conditions, perhaps in Varanasi or a bigger city like Delhi or Bangalore. He didn’t need much comfort but these conditions weren’t fit for humans. Perhaps they were fine for yogis who had transcended limitations of space and time but he had become so addicted to comfort that he didn’t even like the idea of a cold shower in the blistering heat.
Max peered suspiciously into the large drum of water in the bathroom hut. Large black specks of something floated inside. Probably gecko shit. Because other than geckoes, mosquitoes, frogs, and the plentiful red ants, every spot of the packed mud floor and walls was scrupulously clean. Thrusting the bucket inside the drum, he scooped out clean water. He poured the first mug of water on his torso. His heart jumped to his mouth. He hopped from left to right, right to left. How could the water drawn from under the scorching earth be so cold? Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he poured the water below his chest this time. Again, he jerked back, breathless and gasping.
What a privileged little fucker he’d become. He had lived without heating in the most severe of New York winters. He had taken cold showers in Trinity’s gym every morning before going to class. Where had that Max gone? He poured another bucket of water down his head without worrying about breathing. His head pounde
d. But he didn’t care anymore. Again and again he poured the water, filling more buckets from the drum until he had washed all the dirt, grime, sweat, and dead mosquitoes off him.
Shivering and wet, he ran into Hari with his broad, freckled, brown face when he came out of the bathroom.
Had fun? his green eyes seemed to smile.
Yes, Max nodded.
Hari pointed to the handpump near Shakti’s hut.
Ah, so the big drum needed to be replenished with water. Of course, there was no housekeeping service in this luxury hotel. Max took the bucket to the handpump. He had seen handpumps before in his travels and in movies, though he had never operated one. He picked up the handle tentatively and gave it a little push. Nothing. He raised it up higher and pushed harder. A thin trickle of muddy water came from its mouth. Now he understood its function. He placed the bucket under the pump’s mouth and lifted the handle higher, pushing it down with all his strength. A thick gush of water rushed out, filling a tenth of the bucket. Ten thrusts more were needed to fill just one bucket. He walked back across the mud yard to the bathroom with the full bucket and poured it into the drum. Slightly less than a quarter full. He smiled. What an utter, complete idiot he was. He had used seven or eight buckets in his zeal to get clean. Now he had to fill the drum one bucket at a time, making at least eight trips to the bathroom. Half an hour later, he had learnt a lesson. Water is precious. It’s even more precious when you replenish it yourself.
Soon, he learnt the same lesson about food. Every day, they worked for hours in the blazing sun, sowing, plowing, harvesting, and cooking each grain of food themselves. Max plowed the hard earth, Shakti watered, fertilized, and spread the mulch, Ramakrishna harvested the day’s crop, and Hari removed hard stalks and weeds with sharp knives. Then, they cooked, Ramakrishna working the huller to remove the millet chaff, Shakti slicing and setting dry wood on fire, Hari cooking the food, and Max cleaning the dishes. So they went, changing responsibilities every day, united in their quest to break the hard, fallow land and make it yield enough for themselves and the villagers. Max adapted quickly to eating millets, a cheap rice substitute which looked suspiciously like the cattle feed used on his uncle’s farm in Greece, eggplant, and a slender, green, stick-like vegetable called drumstick. Sometimes they combined the three into a curry, sometimes they ate them separately, but it was always the three crops every day in the two meals they had, for the dry land bore nothing else. They tasted like . . . nothing. Just flat, soft, and chewy cud. But Max felt heavy and full after eating them which, when he thought about it, was enough.