Song of the Wind

Having heard much about the power of yoga for body toning, mom signed up for classes earlier this year in Chennai.

“I have to lose weight; I want to lose weight; I must lose weight,” she chanted, as ardently as the priest at the neighboring Ganesha temple intoned the evening prayer.

Despite being born under the sign of the lion, mom possesses none of the animal’s agility, energy or endurance. Physical activity, other than occasional lovemaking, bores her, and she’d rather watch the grass grow than sit through a game of tennis or cricket. To tell you the truth, the woman bears a close resemblance to an Indian buffalo in manner and bearing – she’s slightly slow on the uptake and most reluctant to mooooove once she rests her derrière in a comfortable spot.

A few months ago, a family wedding in the offing finally stirred mom out of her lethargy and motivated her to join a couple of maamis in the neighborhood every evening for what she thought would be light stretching and deep breathing.

“Close your eyes, inhale and bend down while exhaling,” instructed the yoga master instead, watching maamis of assorted bulk tuck in their jingling mangalsutras and guts and bend forward to touch their toes.

“Saar, saar, teach some exercise for arthritis/spondylitis/high blood pressure/sugar, no?” the maamis would beseech, while mom requested tummy toning asanas.

One evening, the master asked the ladies if they were ready for an abdominal exercise that would greatly reduce their girth.

“Yes!” shouted mom, who saw no deflation in her spare tire even after three months of twisting herself into pretzel and challah bread shapes.

A maami of a certain age raised her hand. “One doubt, saar. Is it all right to do it if you’ve had a C-section?” she wanted to know.

After assuring the woman that the exercise would have no bearing on her C-section surgery, performed approximately 25 years ago, the master asked the women to lie down on their mats.

“Tighten your stomach as much as you can,” he told the maami closest to him. Holding a chair for support, he stood on the woman’s abdomen and proceeded to knead her stomach with his feet, as though he were playing the piano with his toes. “This is called abdominal jogging,” he explained to the group. “Very effective in reducing potbellies.”

Mom watched horrified as the woman closed her eyes and allowed herself to be stimulated in such fashion for a few minutes.

“How does it feel?” asked the master when he jumped off the woman.

“Wonderful!” she gasped.

The master then proceeded to knead several other maamis similarly before he reached mom’s mat.

“Sir, I don’t think I can do this,” she suggested weakly.

“Nonsense! Look at the others, they all enjoyed it,” said the master dismissing her fears. “Even C-section maami didn’t object.”

“Yes, but sir …” protested mom, unable and unwilling to stomach a grown man’s body weight on herself under such circumstances.

“OK, I’ll put only one foot on you,” said the master. “We can try the advanced technique when you’re more comfortable.”

Mom closed her eyes and clenched her belly. She felt the master’s heel through her shirt.

“Ready aa?” he asked and lightly pressed her belly button.

A sudden roar filled the room, sounding exactly like the revving of the master’s Yamaha motorcycle parked outside.

“What the ___?” thought mom, before she realized that the sound was emanating from her - the pressure on her paunch had quite literally released the wind out of her.

The master recoiled from her body; the maamis in Shavasana lay still as corpses as mom, unable to regain control of her gluteus maximus, expelled the intestinal gases from her body in fits and starts like a coughing engine.

“Sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular, thankful for the sea breeze that blew into the room and the incense sticks lit under a photo of Sai baba.

Just as her face turned the exact shade of her ruby red T-shirt, the master mercifully called for the class to end. Even before the Om vibrations receded in the room, mom gathered her mat and ran out the door. When she reached the far end of the street, she heard a low rumble behind her. Clutching her stomach in dismay, she stopped abruptly, startling the stray dogs snoozing in a corner.

Mom need not have worried.

It was merely the master’s Yamaha, firing up to take him to his next destination.