Whatever the reason you’ve had to start with your yoga practice, I’ve found that the real journey often doesn’t start on the mat or with a particular pranayama or asana. We often get confused about what is the right practice for me, which part is the authentic path, and a zillion other questions, like what affirmation shall I give myself or my students. This story hopefully offers you a chance to relax more and uncover your true potentials. The key is to keep practicing.
It was on the last bus from Arughat, a journey that broke me, as the most challenging journey of my life. The heavy rain – freak weather in the dry season in Nepal – made the roads impossible to travel. Well, one direction was closed. There was one way out, the last bus from Arughat, they called it the back way, and apparently possible to take. Rushing back to the hotel to repack and leaving a heavy bag behind, in case the bus got stuck and we had to walk. I was happy to walk in the rain, mud, but the Nepali director wasn’t. They say it is the difference in the culture, the tourists go trekking and Nepalis take the bus to the closest destination, they use walking as a means of getting to a place and we take it as a pleasure. That’s the view of some of the Kathmandu-raised people. The road, after an uninterrupted rain, was dangerous, slippery, and it was the roaring engine and the skill of the bus driver – usually called Guru – that kept us on the road. At one point, the bus was in the air. I screamed with fear, swore, got angry. I had a film in my mind projecting ‘what if’ situations and regretting to follow the decision to take this last bus. Instinctively, I wanted to stay there, didn’t mind being stuck in a town till the roads dried up. I didn’t have a daughter to go to or a husband to meet, so I ended up sitting on this bus.
I was wishing it would be over; I could not wait to be at the final destination. I was aware of the fear and going down; I imagined how the bus might just slip off the cliff, and we all die. Please let me die fast! I stopped the script. I noticed that most Nepalis smile to hide their fear, but on few occasions, they also screamed. The director said that the “Guru” knows these paths. I fixated my eyes on his back, seeing how one of his hands was hanging on to the outside mirror as he was trying to manage the boat-like moving bus. Nothing was encouraging. I focused on my breath, fear, annoyance. Being present was one of the most difficult things to do, feeling each bump, each part of my body tensing, feeling my hands grabbing the front of the seat before me, feeling the tiredness of the muscles resisting releasing the grip in order to stay in the seat. Oh no seatbelts here. At one occasion, a passenger behind us hit his head, got angry, and smashed the lightbulb, which made the money collector – khalaasi in Nepali – run and scream. “Why are you doing this?”
There was a video inside the bus, and during the very long journey, some traditional Nepali and Hindi songs were playing. Love songs. Guys with sunglasses and women playing the ‘catch me if you can’ romantic show. They never kiss. Hindi songs with revealing clothes, that all of us stared at. Distraction from looking at the side of the bus, the steep nothing. I was laughing at the clips, their corny images, and dance routine. I was being distracted; we all were. The only time I got back to the shocking reality of what was actually happening was when we had to pass a bus with a millimeter’s difference; one little hit, and we would be flying.
After 6 and a half hours, we reached the “good” roads – arriving at Malekhu. Eventually, we continued on another bus to Dumre, changing towards Bandipur, standing all the way, was the least discomfort. I came out of this experience as a new person, broken open, and lost lots of caring. I realized it wasn’t up to me. I wasn’t going to save myself or anyone else, yet we were all being saved. I shook hands with the driver as he obviously paid attention, maybe even enjoyed the adventurous bus ride. Sitting on the back seat, the feeling was different. I was grateful for the video distractions, the songs, lyrics I could partially understand. The distraction was an important part of this journey, I was fully aware of. I feel in my yogic journey; this has been a huge realization. There is a place for both; they are both important. The distraction, of not being present to what is actually happening, kept me sane, made it possible to endure, just as the focusing on the breath, feeling, fear that stopped my mind spiraling into drama. I take them both.
The next day, I climbed to a monastery in Bandipur and just sat, tears smoothly running on my face. Ganesh put some music; I smiled than got back to just sitting. After some time, I got up; he offered me tea, and I politely declined, saying I will come next time and have tea. He nodded in understanding.
The reason for sending this was a post from a young yogi about paying attention, focus, training our mind not to run off. I no longer subscribe to one being better than the other. Ultimately, whether we accept one or the other: pain, pleasure, love, hate, destruction, attention, life gives us both. The biggest gift is to be at ease with both if we understand that life is a constant oscillation. I also found out that every practice, every asana, every minute we stay in silence, despite that we may think that the posture is not good enough, or that our practice is not long enough – that it actually matters. Every moment that we give ourselves weather it’s in studios or our place, with people or alone, will add to help you when your time comes to test you.