I visited Mysore in India in January 2019. This story is how I spent one day during the trip. First, a yoga class where I was introduced to chanting mantras, then spending time at a home for abandoned children. One of many inspirational people I me...
Having slept like a log, I was at the gate, 6.00 am sharp, as planned, waiting for Cari. The break of dawn brought cool air and a hazy mist to an eerily quiet neighbourhood. Not much sign of life, except a few weary farmers, trudging the long, well-kent road, from village to market. Carts piled high with freshly plucked red chilli peppers, pungent spices, including cinnamon and curry leaves, and a vast assortment of fruit and veg. It seemed Mysore wasn't quite ready to wake up and seize the day, but I was!
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Cari my Airbnb host, had arranged for me to join a yoga class run by his teacher, and kindly offered to show me the way to the location. The walk abruptly ended at the guarded gates of an expansive local government compound. Explaining the purpose of my visit to the grim-faced soldier on duty, he nodded me in.
Walking along the path, in the shadow dipping from a canopy of lush palm trees, yellow wagtails flitted tree to tree, bringing a trill of birdsong. On reaching the community centre, I was welcomed into the sports hall, women warmed up, careful to avoid the well trodden vertical and horizontal line markings, peeling off the floor. Each stamping her territory with a rolled out yoga mat.
Observing the women, I realised how versatile the sari could be, as they twisted and stretched in all directions; long ponytails swinging with every move. Their actions sent delicate folds of plain, yet functional, cotton fabric in cobalt blue and shades of lemon and lime, over the heads of those determined to touch their toes. Leaving me feeling slightly overdressed in my lycra get up! A couple of men suddenly rushed in, looking like they had no time to get dressed, their pajama clad bodies ducking under the badminton net, eager to reach male domain.
The grinding halt of a roaring motorbike engine, signalled the arrival of the guru. Parsha strolled in, took off his black helmet and shook his head, revealing shoulder length hair, still damp from washing. The rolled up brown shabby rug, wedged under his arm, his close companion of 30 years, was unrolled onto the prime spot, as he stepped into the limelight. Greeting the class with a grin and the traditional, namaste, everyone stopped and gazed up to him, their eyes smiling with fond admiration.
Getting into position, kneeling on our mats, Parsha let out an earth-shattering chant, his voice soft, almost musical, then on cue, the class repeated it back. The magical mantra left me spellbound, the hairs on my arms stood to attention, not quite expecting such an authentic encounter, north side of a badminton court in Mysore. Today's class would focus on mantra chanting, apparently it combined mind, mouth and muscle, engaged neuroplasticity and promoted good mental health
Stopping briefly, his soft features glanced in my direction. encouraging me to 'copy'. Since he was chanting in Kannada, the regional dialect, it was a tad tricky to 'copy', to say the least. Thinking I heard 'shanti', I shouted that word quite loudly, whenever it came up. Eager to please, at least he would know I was trying. I had a secret weapon though, having had early practice listening to the Cocteau Twins, a great band, notorious for the inability to decipher their lyrics, I managed to wing it, chanting words that vaguely sounded like his.
