MY tryst with yoga wasn’t a conscious choice. The foundation course for civil servants which I did in Hyderabad began each day with yoga at 6 am sharp.
Back then, yoga meant standing in military formation groggy-eyed, attempting to touch our toes while an overexcited Acharya chanted things about inner peace. We were in tracksuits, half-asleep, bodies refusing to cooperate after the hectic partying that went on till sunrise.
Shavasana was everyone’s favourite posture, largely because it involved lying down and pretending to meditate. As an IPS probationer helpfully clarified, “Sirji, meditation tabhi sahi lagti hai jab pet bhi saath meditate kare,” before politely requesting the Acharya to kindly fast-track nirvana so we could proceed to the mess to devour delectable aaloo-puris.
I consoled myself each morning: this yoga business is not for me, only three months to go. I had survived 23 years of academic trauma without even once doing a headstand. I was confident I could survive the civil service too, powered by caffeine and a vague sense of duty.
After nearly a decade in the bureaucracy transcribing insipid notes on inflation that no one reads, drafting mundane replies to Parliament questions whose answers the Honourable Member already knows and nodding sagely at Monday review meetings where no one really knows what’s going on, I found myself yearning for something calmer. Something that didn’t require 16 WhatsApp follow-ups, 10 phone calls and four layers of file movement interspersed with ‘please discuss’.
That something, to my eternal surprise, turned out to be yoga. So, one fine Sunday morning, I enthusiastically enrolled myself in a beginner’s class at a painfully aesthetic South Delhi studio complete with Himalayan salt lamps, artisanal floor cushions and an instructor named Bikram, who looked like he had never experienced bloating, doubt or gravity.
The class began with Pranayama. “Breathe in with gratitude,” he whispered. I was still breathing in cardamom-scented chai fumes from my morning bed tea. He demonstrated alternate nostril-breathing while I poked myself in the eye. The next 20 minutes were a blur of Downward Dogs, Warrior Poses and Utkatasana, which, I later discovered, is Sanskrit for the chair pose that kills your thighs and will to live.
At some point, I genuinely tried to do a ‘Twisted Triangle Pose’ and nearly filed for medical reimbursement. But then, I did a quick mental calculation of the follow-ups I’d have to do with my Under Secretary, so I immediately abandoned the thought and faithfully returned to executing the pose. The lady next to me, drenched in Oudh, was balancing on one leg with the poise of a flamingo at a cocktail party, while I was sweating in places I didn’t know had sweat glands.
Finally came Shavasana. “Just lie still,” Bikram cooed. I lay there, eyes closed, trying to control my breathing and not think about my receipt or file pendency. I failed at both. But for two blissful minutes, I didn’t have to explain qualitative disposal of public grievances, export trends, tariffs or why prices fluctuate like my blood pressure. That, in itself, was sweet victory.
So yes, almost a decade into the civil service and several yoga mats later, I can confirm: yoga hasn’t transformed me. But it’s given me 30 minutes a day when no one calls, no one forwards me Parliament questions or spread sheets named ‘final_final_revised’ and thankfully, no one corners me to ask what ‘triangulation of data’ means.