Saturday, January 23, 2010

Last Days of Solitude

I am no longer "the Girl" at the shala. There are many other females in my class now, and the other day there were ONLY girls. Guruji waited around, adjusting the flowers around his altar for a bit, then turned to us all, lined up evenly at the top of our mats. "Shall I start?" he grinned at us, like he always does, only this time instead of a mass of nodding, there was a wave of giggling that filled the room and our hearts and his face like a sudden snowfall. The love was thick and penetrable as we danced through our practices, faithfully following the tiny, amazing man we call our Guru.

The weather is at its peak of comfort at the moment. The mornings are crisp and clear and warm and the air feels cleaner for some reason. The colors are brighter. It feels like spring, though honestly I don't know what season it is at the moment. After practice, a bunch of us scoot to our favorite papaya man. We fill our bellies with pink fruit doused in masala spices and salt while gaping at the beautiful day. Then its off to Indra Bavan, our coveted breakfast joint where they know exactly what we all want: chow chow bath. Savory and sweet. Two round piles side by side of samadhi for the tongue. Ghee and semolina flour. Wheat sweetened with pineapple. Fresh coconut chutney in droves. I am the a-hole who makes them bring me thrice the usual amount of chutney normally served with this dish. I also make them brew my tea separately black, because I can't easily digest the milk in the standard chai. But the men who work there are very kind and patient, and we tip them well of course. Sometimes when I am there I wish I could be a buss boy for a minute, piling noisy metal plates and cups into buckets while barefoot, smiling at the regulars, wiping up after their chutney and curry messes.

Received yet another generous parcel from my love, this time a book of poetry (Loose Women by Sandra Cisneros...possibly my new favorite author). Though I have never been a poetry kind of girl, I spent the morning digesting this on my rooftop, the weather never ceasing to impress, and the poetry like heavy pieces of dark chocolate.

Then I taught myself "Free Fallin'" on the Uke.

Life is good.

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