Busted

I had an appointment Wednesday at the Krishnamacharya Yoga Mandiram, where I’ll be studying yoga starting Monday. I timed the walk from my apartment. It took half an hour, but my methodology was flawed. First I stopped to chat with Marco, my Belgian neighbor. Then I snapped photos of kids with chicks and a condo construction project.



Twenty minutes in, I was lost. I pulled out the only map I had: a doodle on newsprint, courtesy of Sowmiya. “KYM” floated in the upper left corner. The surrounding squiggles weren’t labeled, and I couldn’t tell which squiggle corresponded to the squiggle of a road I was on. Luckily, Sowmiya had written KYM’s address at the top.

There was a press shop on the pockmarked sidewalk. By press shop I mean a pushcart loaded with laundry. The presswallah stopped smoothing wrinkles with his heavy, coal-filled iron when I approached. I extended the drawing and pointed to the address. He didn’t give it a glance.

“Yoga?”

Caught off guard, I briefly forgot which country I’m in and blurted “Si!”

“Second left. Fourth right.”

I suppressed a “gracias” and thanked him in English. A left and a right later, I reached the gates of KYM.

What gave me away? I wasn’t toting a mat. A yoga-rific derrière? Hardly. A blissed-out mien? No, I was drenched in sweat and flirting with cranky. I realized the answer when I kicked off my sandals, walked through the doors and saw something I hadn’t seen since I stepped off the plane: another white woman.

KYM is what draws firangs to this part of Chennai. If you’re white and you’re here, odds are you’re down with TKV Desikachar, the venerable yoga teacher who founded KYM. It was my fourth day in town, and I’d counted three Westerners: me, That Woman and Marco. Marco, who’s renting the other half of Sowmiya’s second floor, was found "unfit to work" by the Belgian government. (I didn't probe.) Such diagnosis afforded him a life of endless travel. He’s lived in the Himalayas and Goa, the Indian state best known for its beaches. He arrived in Chennai a few days ahead of me to study Theosophy.

“Hmmm,” is what I said to that. And when he mentioned Theosophy’s founder, a certain Russian named Madame Blavatsky, I steered the conversation to something … less zany.

“I was born in Russia,” I offered.

Back home, I Googled “theosophy.” Turns out, the Theosophical Society has its international headquarters in Chennai. According to its Web site, Theosophy’s “primary object is Universal Brotherhood based on the realization that life, and all its diverse forms, human and non-human, is indivisibly One.” It’s a let’s-get-along thang. Dig?

Anyway, Marco makes three. We stand out like orange-clad monks at a Metallica concert. I don’t mind. I haven’t tried to fit in since Kirk Cameron graced the cover of Tiger Beat. I didn’t own a Cabbage Patch doll, and I’ve never worn ugg boots. Here in Chennai, my white skin has some drawbacks. Beggars make a beeline; rickshaw drivers charge double. But it has its privileges, too. Children and young men yell “hi” and, sometimes, “Which country?” Shopkeepers turn on their fans when I walk in. And it’s insurance against getting lost. Appointment over, I left KYM and went in search of a lunch spot. I strolled down the street, went round a bend, turned a corner and paused at an intersection that looked vaguely familiar. A friendly rickshaw driver divined my confusion and offered to help.

“Yoga?”