Deep, blue, kind eyes.
Graceful, wrinkled, smiling face.
Petite, short, humble frame.
Soft, cotton, simple clothes.
Jayant Patkar - my yoga guru.
At first glance, he seemed a hundred years old. I was never quite sure.
Ancient Indian texts state that when a pupil is ready, the guru appears. My story adheres to this notion.
I had just appeared for the Xth class board exams then. A long lazy summer holiday yawned up ahead. Friends had gone away in different directions. Some went to spend time with relatives in other towns, some had joined professional courses, some had just decided to take it easy and rest.
I had this overwhelming desire to learn yoga.
None in my Catholic ancestry practiced yoga. I was introduced to the system through a book I had been leafing through at my uncle's house. There was elegance in the ways that the asanas were depicted in the sketches. I was fascinated by the several benefits the practice of yoga provided to mind and body.
One day, on a visit to the bank with my mother, I came across a hand-written notice in Marathi on plain paper stuck outside on the wall.
Yoga class for beginners
Daily 4 pm
Congress Hall 1st floor
I cycled up to the Congress Hall just before 4 pm on the same day. Climbing up the stairs two at a time left me out of breath. The doors of the hall were wide open. There was complete silence. Several people, on mats spread out at equal distances on the floor, were performing all kinds of yoga asanas. Totally engrossed in the practice, not one person looked up as I walked in.
I noticed a middle-aged lady sitting regally in a bright red cotton saree gazing intently at a point between her eyebrows with her long pink tongue sticking out. It was curiously curled at the tip. She would look like a true incarnation of Ma Kali if she had only let her thick black curly hair frame her face. She did not move a single muscle as I nervously shuffled past her.
An old gentleman sat near the dais on a chair. He got up and came towards me.
Blue eyes are rare in our town.
"Have you come to join the class?" he asked. His voice was soft, almost feminine.
"Yes, Sir" I nodded.
He wrote my name down in a notebook along with the date.
"I am Jayant Patkar, the yoga instructor. You may take a mat from the corner and spread it in a place keeping a fair distance from the others." He spoke in crisp English.
"Sir, fees?"
"Two rupees. For one month."
He turned around to give instructions to a young man.
Two rupees? These could only buy him a handful of peanuts. I realized that he did not teach for money. He was passing on his learning to others because he was grateful to have received it.
That was my first lesson.
That was my first lesson.
I spread out the mat in a corner of the hall near an open window and sat on it.
Patkar Sir spoke so softly that none of the other pupils were disturbed.
"Lie down on your back and relax...Close your eyes...Breathe."
For the first time since I had entered the room, I felt the coolness of the breeze that moved freely through the hall. Summer raged outside but in this sanctuary of silence, the wind seemed to have attained nirvana. I took in lungfuls of fresh air.
"Gently and slowly open your eyes."
There was peeling white paint on the tall ceiling. I saw but not with my own eyes. I was like some aerial creature to whom my body did not belong.
"Very slowly raise up your right leg without bending it at the knee."
That brought me back into my body, alright. I could feel the heaviness of my leg, the pull of the muscles, and the strain as I held it up.
"Slowly lower your leg without bending it at the knee."
Relief. Deep breath.
"Very slowly raise up your left leg without bending it at the knee."
For one whole week, Patkar Sir taught me only this.
Relax. Breathe.
Raise right leg. Lower it.
Raise left leg. Lower it.
Relax. Breathe.
Probably I got the biggest lesson in patience during that week.
Back then, I was very talkative. I blabbered on about my yoga lessons to my mother.
My mother has a deaf mute cousin, Cecilia, who suffered from asthma. Medical treatments had provided her no relief.
"Do you think practicing yoga would be good for Cecilia bai?" mum asked.
"Let me ask Patkar Sir" I said.
In his own way, Patkar Sir explained breathing exercises to Cecilia bai without using the barrier of language.
In her own way, she understood.
Cecilia bai continued going to the yoga class even after I had left for college.
Patkar Sir gave me one of his yoga texts when I could not attend classes at the Congress Hall anymore.
During my practice at home, I could feel his presence and his gentle voice guiding me.
I kept in touch with him but not regularly.
Inspired by him, after finishing college, I completed a yoga teacher's training at The Yoga Institute, Santacruz, Mumbai.
When I went to visit him after a gap of several years, I heard that he was no more.
He had lived alone with a few material possessions.
He had given knowledge to the world and lived gratefully in the joy of giving.
His life, in itself, was a lesson.
***
Last Friday.
I am at a garden meeting.
We are discussing the feasibility of implementing an advanced program of extra-curricular courses at Omani schools.
Anca, our Australian hostess, jumps up when she hears from the gentlemen about the fees for the sessions.
"That's even more expensive than a yoga class!"
"Are yoga classes expensive?" I ask.
"You bet" Anca goes on to explain how much they cost.
"Hmm, didn't know about that because I paid almost nothing for learning yoga."
"You must have learnt from a yogi."
Yes, I learnt from a true yogi.
They say the guru appears when the pupil is ready.
