We acclimatised quickly to the intense physical exertion, mainly because we generally had no time between assiduous astanga primary series repetitions to dwell on our limitations. And as these things always seem to go, the hours melted into days, and the days dissipated into weeks. But this is not to say that we did not make a point of frequently, and with vehement fervour, associating with our less than lugubrious lot. Blood, sweat and tears aside, each moment was a blessing and we frequently meditated on our gratitude; be it sat in lotus with eyes closed, dristi on the third eye, or alternatively when stationed uncomfortably in the back of a crowded rikshaw careering through the jungle, or when languidly leaning in a land of pillows at one of the million beautiful restaurants on the Agonda beach, or bobbing in the warm sea under the benevolent bowing of the sun. A numinous highlight was experiencing the serenity of yin yoga (a slow sinking of the body into postures using the help of gravity and relaxation) during a tropical thunderstorm in the electricity-less shala guided by candle light. Not a second went by without having first been wrung of every last kilojoule of good energy and appreciation.
As we learnt more and more, my preferences quickly began to lie in the logic of yogic philosophy. We even attended additional classes on Saturday afternoons as Keshava our yogic monk was overly prone to digress on a runaway path of lengthy jokes which invariably highlighted a particularly poignant philosophical analogy most often incorporating stark contrasts between some opulent king and his inadvisable penchant for Lamborghinis?! These lengthy gags were tendentiously delivered in remarkably subtle English language grasp, but inevitably coloured with dialectical nuances and the famous Indian head wobble. Satsangs were sort of open evening seminar gatherings which gave us the opportunity to relinquish our torturous straightened spine postures of class, and sink comfortably into yoga bolsters and blankets poised ready to fire questions at Keshava.
Throughout the month, Keshava confirmed that yogis have been living alongside a timeless and divine philosophy closely akin to the psychological, philosophical and scientific discoveries of today. Yogis ascribe to an ancient understanding of the building blocks of Space and Nature so simple and graspable. There is no anthropomorphic deity to be spoken of, and the lofty heights of divine creation lie simply in the singular consciousness of Universal energy, of which we all take a small piece for our existence on Earth. This energy, like a recycled hand-me-down family garment, obtains relevant samskaras or emotional and psychological scars of existence which stay bonded with the individual through reincarnation, until samadhi or enlightenment is achieved. This concept was the final piece in the puzzle during a deeply investigatory final Saturday afternoon satsang, and is the only aspect not fully congruous with my current understanding, but I appreciate the idea and can sense its accuracy in practice. And admittedly, the course syllabus didn't stipulate unfaltering revelation and enlightenment as a direct consequence...
Sunday's off were spent on a myriad of utterly breathtaking beaches. A fellow yogi, friend, and inaugurator of the world's first boxing-yoga class (a really exciting new and upcoming hardcore style of yoga I'm definitely going to be learning back in England) has a friend who has lived in Agonda for 7 years, and who quickly became our more than qualified guide. Sam speaks relatively fluent Konkani, the South Goan vernacular infused with cockney spice and arranged us the most incredible trips clad with bags of freshly made sandwiches, sliced mango and Nutella and rich teas. This got us off to a fantastic start! A half hour rickety boat jaunt North found us marooned on Spring Beach. A tiny secluded cove shaded by steep jungle infused cliffs which made you feel like a long lost castaway. The following weekend we sunbathed alone on Turtle Beach where the river meets the sea, and we enjoyed a delectable array of fresh fish for less than a fiver... It almost makes you feel bad.
Aside from resplendent trips and sumptuous snacks, Mama Agonda has been sorting me our with Surf detergent, a divine lemon and honey body scrub, organic lemongrass mosquito repellent and other impeccable items for my inventory. I have taken to conserving time and resources but washing my hair and clothes in one single fluid motion. During this transaction I am quickly and concisely fulfilling one of the yogic Niyamas which comprise the second arm of astanga yoga, namely Saucha or cleanliness, as I stand shakily in a bucket in my bathroom haphazardly scrubbing my head whilst pommeling my clothes in Surf underfoot like a studious grape stomper at the crush. The days are won by small pragmatic feats such as this when the body and mind are exhausted after 8 hours of classes, and any extra task for the continuity of life becomes a precipitious battle.
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