Why We're Here

Twice a year, Krishnamacharya Yoga Mandiram opens its doors to a group of foreigners for a four-week “intensive.” There are 22 of us in the latest batch.

At orientation on Sunday, a KYM staffer put a check by my name and said: “There is another Russian woman in the class.”

I didn’t correct her. I was born in Russia, but I’m an American. My family immigrated to the US when I was 5, and we became citizens several years later. I’m way more burger than borscht. I speak broken Russian with an American accent. I’ll take bourbon over vodka any day.

Anyway, I picked out the Russian immediately. I have “Ruskie-dar” the way gay men have gaydar. She was sitting in front with designer sunglasses perched on her head and pearls around her neck. She had very blond hair and very arched brows drawn over plucked ones. When it came time for introductions, I learned that her name is Irina.

It didn’t take long to realize why country affiliation is a tricky matter. I’m a Russian-born American residing in India. Irina lives in Geneva and holds both Russian and Swiss passports. Our class includes a Pakistani woman who lives in London and a New Yorker born in Mexico. Dhurga, the only “Indian” in the bunch, was born in Chicago.

There’s also a student from each of Canada, Sweden, France, Britain, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Switzerland and Argentina. Italians number two, and Germans form the majority with five.

Some of my classmates are in their 20s, and others are in their 60s. Only two are men. (My mom was crestfallen when I told her this. She’d hoped I’d find a husband here.) One of them is a 65-year-old Frenchman named -- but of course! -- Pierre. He lives in Reims (Champagne country!), where he teaches yoga to prison inmates. Talking to Pierre has convinced me that I have a gift for French.

“Where I teach in zee prizohn, there are no -- how you say? -- gardien.”

“Guards,” I offer.

“Yees!”

“Sometimes a cell door ees open when I walk through zee -- what ees it? -- couloir.”

“You mean corridor?”

“Yees!”

Like Pierre, most of the students are yoga teachers themselves. A few make their living that way; the rest have day jobs. There’s a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, a massage therapist, an Ayurvedic therapist and a student of naturopathic medicine. Nelly, the New Yorker, does stage lighting. Romina, an Argentine who lives in London, is a personal trainer. Inge, a 65-year-old German, is a retired librarian.

“I worked for Forty. Two. Years,” she told me. She said 42 the way teenage girls stretch “unbelievable” into “Un. Buh. Leavable.”

My face must have said “Un. Buh. Leavable.”

“I know,” Inge said. “I can’t believe it myself.”

All of us came to Chennai to learn from TKV Desikachar, founder of KYM. He’s a renowned yogi and son of the late T Krishnamacharya, who’s credited with rekindling interest in yoga in the early 20th century.

Our day begins at 7 a.m. with an hour of asana practice. Asana is the bend, twist and balance-on-a-pinkie aspect of yoga. It’s the leg Westerners know best. Afterward, we sit down to a South Indian breakfast, typically steamed rice dumplings (idli) or rice pancakes (uthapam) with coconut chutney and dhal for dipping. We drink spiced, milky tea and finish with apples and bananas.

At 9 we return to the classroom, a delicate structure of woven palm leaves and bamboo poles, and plant knee-high desks on our yoga mats. We have an hour-long class on the theoretical foundations of asana and pranayama (yogic breathing), followed by an hour on yoga philosophy. Then we walk to a building several blocks away for a lesson in chanting. We’re a peculiar sight in the streets of Chennai, conspicuous as penguins in Palm Desert.

We recess at 12:30 to lunch, nap and pore over notes. Some use the time to shop, returning with sheer embroidered tunics and boho bags. At 3:15 we have a class on yoga therapy, where we finger each other’s spines and bandy big-boy words like “kyphosis” and “lordosis.” We recharge with tea and cookies before the final session of the day, a meditative practice that ends at 6.




It’s at once heady and exhausting. I’m inspired. I’m dog-tired. The heat and the hours spent sitting on the floor enervate my cubicle-accustomed body. The subject matter strains my mind. What is the mind? What is consciousness? What is the eternal quest of man? How do we define happiness? Even the more temporal discussions are taxing. What’s the position of the diaphragm in a headstand? How does one observe axial twisting of the spine?

That’s why I have a date with Antonio tonight. I’m not reviewing class notes. I’m not reading an anatomy text. I’m slipping “Take the Lead” into my laptop and watching Mr. Banderas merengue his way into the hearts of ne’er-do-well teens. That, tonight, is my definition of happiness.