Lift your leg thirty degrees,

slowly and hold it there. One, two, three,  ouch, five, . . . 

The reason I joined this Yoga class is for its good pain. I have noticed that the rare mornings that I do Yoga at home, I always end up doing the 'nice and easy' postures, at snail speed. For example, I love doing 'makarasana', an alternative to 'shavasana', where you lie on your stomach, and snooze off, as your belly organs get a massage. 

And if I wake up after twenty minutes, I like to streach. Ooooh, that feels so good, I like to hold the streach for as long as possible. And the breathing? Breath awareness happens only during a pause, otherwise I have not the slightest clue to the direction of air within.

When Yoga starts becoming extremely slow motion, I know it is time to step out of the singular company. Like Amitabhs mom in Chini Kum,  my mother was doing the Gym jaa Gym jaa number on me since quite some time. My defense mechanism was the cycle I drove twice a week for ten minutes. But when my knees ached at night after the minisucle cycling, I knew I had to join the rat race.

'We have batch from 9:30 to 10:30, specially only for housewives.' said the Yoga lady on the phone.

'I am not a housewife, I work from home.' I replied.

'Then you cannot come. This time is only for housewives.'

'Then I am a housewife.' I said. Surving in South India means getting crushed in English.

The ayurvedic doctor who is our Yoga teacher is a beautiful dusky young woman in a plain white salwar kameeze, and a white dupatta. White being my favorite colour, I am tempted to buy a few meters of white cloth and get two sets stiched for myself as well. 

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, she sings, instead of one, two, three, four.

Oxygen fills my lungs, in places that were in dark corners, and the pain recedes like a low tide wave.

As she chants the shlokas, a new thought enters my head. It is not hindi, nor english which is the base language in India. It is sanskrit.