January 2000
(please read at own risk!)
Mysore is the birthplace of Ashtanga Yoga -as a reference point it’s a couple of centimetres below Bangalore on a map of South India – and if you don’t know where Bangalore is I’m sorry I can’t help you. Try Mahatma Google , Christopher Columbus.
If you’ve never been to India no amount of me trying to describe the insanity that passes for every day normal life there is going to help. Book a ticket and go find out for yourself. Watch out for the cows and the traffic. I could write a whole chapter on Indian traffic – but to be as brief as possible imagine that every single person that gets behind a steering mechanism has also signed up for suicide watch-and I say person as in man woman boy or girl , I think part of their driving criteria is based on if can you touch the peddles or not (and I use the the word criteria in its loosest sense possible ) . So get out of the way – they won’t stop . They don’t have the pedestrian right of way laws there. In fact they don’t actually have any laws there. Traffic police are only employed to extort money from you if they manage to pull you over for any old bullshit reason.
It’s a thing there to carry as much luggage as possible especially if you are travelling by motorbike. And the luggage can be people or chickens or electric goods. In fact you’re just as likely to die from a telly falling on your head from a passing motorbike as you are from being knocked over. My advice ? Stick to the side of the roads – I would say footpath but that would be an exaggeration – just look for the part of the road that has the most shit on it – and I mean shit as in cow dung – the cow dung breaks up the rest of shit folk have chucked on the floor .You name it it’s on the roadside in India. Empty bottles , half a pair of jeans (praps the poor bugger only had one leg ?) a toilet (a symbol , maybe!) As well as an absence of proper footpaths there’s an absence of litter bins.
Right that’s the traffic situation cleared up.
As a shit kicker scally from Manchester I wasn’t prepared for any of the above. I’d been practicing Ashtanga Yoga for maybe 6 months when I made the decision to go to the source to pay my respeck init to the teachers. I had a bit of a reputation with my mates as someone who didn’t stick at things for long (which I guess ties into the ADHD thing) and the fact I was prepared to travel half way round the world to practice yoga was my way of saying fuck you to them.
Me mate (to me)- Yoga ? Fuks Yoga ya dickhead , and where the fuk is Indya
Me (to me mate) – Knobhead
I’d done a little bit of research on t’internet but remember folks this was the year 2000 and there was no Trip Advisor or Google Reviews on the OG Shala. I could make some shit up here about having this calling to find myself , but I’d be lying. I went because I thought it was the best way possible to understand the practice properly. Going to classes in the local school halls in Manchester was great but I had this feeling that I was only skimming the surface – as a Pisces I’m a all or nutin’ kinda guy – and I was balls deep for Ashtanga . And all in meant I knew I had to go to get my melon well and truly twisted big time in the land of shit and t.v’s on motorbikes.
January 2000 I landed at Bangalore Airport. The Air India flight took about 7 days or felt like it – it was definitely the longest I’d ever spent in an aeroplane. It’s not that I’m a nervous flyer more like a nervous taker off and lander – at which both points I’m shitting myself. The bit in the air I find a bit boring. But the silver lining was that this was Air India and on Air India the boredom was punctuated with Curry meals. So not all bad. I was sat next to some Indian bloke who couldn’t believe I was going to his country to study Yoga.
Indian Bloke – You are going where to study what hahahahahahahaha – nobody does Yoga my friend you need to focus on computers and technology
Me – Well as long as your country doesn’t smell like your breath I’ll be ok.
Ok I didn’t say that – but his breath stunk and he spent the whole flight laughing in my face every ten minutes or so incredulous that this skinny white dude was going to do yoga in India.
And then I got to India and getting off the plane onto the tarmac I was hit with this vile stench that was far worse than my neighbours fucking breath. Oh the irony.
Me ( thinking I was saying this quietly but I’d actually said it our loud) -What the fuck is that smell
My neighbour (who was now walking with me – still mocking my plan of yoga study) Ah that my friend is the aroma of India.
Once I’d navigated the beginning of this Asian insanity that passes for passport control I was thrown into the lions den of Arrivals. Fuck me I nearly turned round and went straight for departures. It felt like the whole of India had decided to turn up at the airport to greet me – well hardly greet more like scream in my face. A rousing chant of TAXI TAXI COFFEE CHAI CHAI COFFEE hit me like a bastard of a house music tune. Imagine being in the Hacienda on a Friday night in 89’ when everyone is on one and smiling at you wanting to hold your hand – well it was a bit like that except here everyone wanted to bypass your hand and get their hands on the filthy lucre they knew you had stashed somewhere. I had the foresight to book a taxi in advance – scrub that , the travel company I booked the flight with had told me it would be a good idea to book a taxi in advance through them. And in that moment of me thinking ‘fuck this I’m leaving” I spotted that beautiful shining beacon of light, a diamond barely visible – a sign with TAXI for Mister Maffeww Rayn written on it. I nearly kissed the taxi driver.
We fought our way to his car , me still fending off other drivers wanting my business with a very cheap deal , Sir. And thank fuck for that we were off. I’d been told that it was just a short trip from Bangalore to Mysore. Lying bastards- it was the worst 3 hours of my life (please read intro again if unsure why). All I could think about when I was sat in the back of the taxi with eyes closed and fists clenched was what my mates back in Manchester were going to say at my funeral.
Mate A – Stoopid knobhead . Told him Indya was a bad idea.
Mate B – he still owes me 20 quid for that E – d’u fink it’d be ok to ask his mam for it ?
The car stopped I prayed to whoever was taking prayers. I didn’t know the names of the Yoga Gods ( and still don’t to be honest – well not all of them) I just said thank you Yoga Gods for getting me to Mysore without dying. I looked out the window to complete darkness – hhhhmmmm Mysore looks a bit gloomy – does no-one have electric here ? On closer inspection all I could actually see was fields. I got out of the car and nearly fell over the taxi driver who was taking a piss by the side of the road.
Me – Is this Mysore
Driver – oh no sorry Sir 2 more hours to go.
I think these the days the road between Bangalore and Mysore have been properly tarmaced but back then it was basically 100 miles of pot holes , cows , and big fucking lorries sounding their horns to tell you to get the fuck out of their way. No wonder they have so many Gods – there’s a whole lot of shit you need to be saved from. If the lorries don’t get you , the local water will. Even the bottled water is dangerous.
Finally we arrived in Mysore at dawn. I was delirious from a mixture of no sleep and the taxi journey. The driver wished me well and drove off. I stood motionless for maybe 5 minutes thinking about my journey back to the airport. I’m getting the fucking train I mumbled to myself.
I was due to stay in Mysore for a total of 2 months which is a whole lot longer than the 2 weeks I had spent on me jollies on previous trips abroad. This was definitely no jolly though and for the first 2 weeks my bag stayed packed.
The above blog taken from the New York Times Best Seller ‘Last Nigft a Headstand Saved My Life’ available to purchase here.