I’m awake at the wrong time. My room in the yoga school dark and unfamiliar, the only light from my trusty Samsung Mini. Outside, I hear the distant wail of a steam train, then the rhythmic beat of the pistons and the vacuum of air as the carriages flow behind. Cicadas play the strings accompanied by the roar of wild dogs fighting monkeys.
I practice meditation as I focus on this exotic overture. Then, the deep black silence of an unknown land and my own breath whispering a mantra. This is more than I ever thought possible, and I’ve only just begun.
The road that we drove to Shrimath Yoga was dark, unpaved and deeply rutted. We saw flashes of bright gaudy lights in small villages, no women – just men and dogs and us laughing lady yogis all squeezed in the back of a big taxi, heading out of our comfort zones and into the unknown. We have known each other for only a week, but our camaraderie feels wholesome, supportive and lovingly established.