"Now lift both legs above your head, hold it, then lower them to the ground, then one by one put them back over, push up with your hands and do five pushups." I stared in confusion at the contorted Indian man in front of me, having already lost track of the first three poses he had instructed us to do. My sweaty palms and feet had transformed my shiny new yoga mat into a slip-and-slide and whenever the teacher instructed us to hold a pose, my downward dog would turn into a slippery slug. The other student in the class with me was a professional dancer and she cooly performed each new postition with the kind of grace you only get when you've been dancing since age 6. Slowly but surely I worked my way through from shoulder stand to back bend to seated. After practicing yoga on and off for six years, there's a certain amount of muscle memory and natural bendiness that allows me to muddle through. But there was no way in hell my foot was getting behind my head.
Such is yoga in India. Because there's a huge demand for it from Western tourists there is an equally mind-boggling supply of yogis, ashrams, and courses. As you can imagine the quality varies greatly. I've had pretty good luck so far, going on word-of-mouth from fellow white kids. The first class I tried in Dharamsala was a complete sensory overload: I was so busy watching the instructor casually whip out three-fingered handstands, and the other students throw down a dizzying array of headstands and backbends, that I completely lost track of what I was doing (usually something at least five minutes behind). I recommended that class to a couple other people just for the experience.
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