August 4
I wake up on a bus climbing a mountain road in the early morning light, in India. It’s raining. There are red, orange, yellow and green triangular flags in the trees.
A guy from the yoga training picks us up at the bus station, stacks my bag on top of the car, and we’re off. I ask Kate and Arthur where their bags are, and they casually point at the two black backpacks, smaller than my second backpack – the one I use for my book, my laptop and my water bottle. That’s what they’ve packed for a year away.
The car enters a thin street bordered with shops on each side. I register, slightly confused, that all the signs are in Hebrew. The car goes as far up as it can, and then we walk. We take some stairs, and a tiny tunnel with a muddy floor. I think « soon, I’ll be used to this weird-ass tunnel ». The soft rain makes the trees sing. On our right, the green and the little houses go down into the white mist.
On our left, the mountain keeps going up, with buildings here and there. Here is the « Siddhi Yoga – Yoga Teacher Training » sign.
Forrest Hill, that I would soon call home, is not the temple-like zen building I had expected. It’s recent, but slightly worn out, and it seems made of mismatched material. The hall has a big empty desk in it. On the right, a set of stairs go up, another goes down. It’s a bit dark. An Indian lady welcomes us and takes us to our rooms, down the corridor. Arthur and Kate are staying opposite from me.
When the door opens, I am close to asking how many people will be sharing this room. The bed is big enough for four at least. I have a bedside table, a coffee table, a wardrobe and a chair (a chair!). And my own bathroom! The tall windows look out on a wall of green, dropping with rain. I thank the lady with the fervor of someone only too used to bunkbeds and rows of shared showers.
When the door closes, I feel left in the darkness. The bed is slightly damp. I roll myself up in the soft blanket and I close my eyes. Hopefully I won’t feel that shitty the whole month. Hopefully I’ll manage to talk to people. Hopefully, I’ll get out of this bed at some point. But not just, now, not just yet. Misery and sleep come first.
Around 3pm, my body tentatively reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since dinner, and that even if we’re grieving a beautiful relationship, it’s no reason to starve ourselves. Get up, Hannah. Get out. You’re in the Himalayas.
I crawl out of bed and back to the entrance, where I meet a few other girls. We decide to eat out. We find a hippie-looking café where we sit on the floor, on colorful pillows. Bob Marley is playing. Bob Marley is painted on the walls.
I start learning names and backstories.
Jane is British, and teaches children yoga already. She has a very contagious smile and a glorious laugh. She has been here the longest: she arrived four days early, and attended the final exams for the group that came before us. « They seemed so happy! We’re going to be like this soon. »
Anne is from Melbourne, and her parents are from Vietnam. She works in a bank and is learning to become a personal trainer.
Sarah is a dance student in London, originally from Germany. Her hair is bleached very white, she sits very straight, she looks feirce.
With long blond hair and a sweet smile, Lena from Denmark looks like a fairy.
Sabine from Switzerland has been biking around the world for months.
Nathalie from South Africa is a vegan chef. She has a long, beautifully designed fork tattooed on one forearm, and a knife on the other.
I try to connect and to engage, to listen to the yoga backstories, but I feel far away, I feel like I’m at the edge of myself. It seems like all conversations have to lead to a question to which the answer is « I just broke up with my partner ». So I cry, of course, I cry so well, so why should I stop? I say sorry, I’m such a bummer, and they say « no, of course, not. If there’s a place where you won’t be judged for how you feel, I think it’s here! » I get my hand squeezed and my shoulder hugged. So I smile. I laugh. We chat. They’re beautiful.
On the way out, I run into a bare-chested, barefoot man, with long dreads decorated with pearls and shells, a walking stick and baba pants. He gives me a broad, startlingly direct smile. A big, open mouth, happy smile, with a deep stare into my eyes. I smile back, just as deep. The wrinkles on the sides of his eyes are laughing. He points at my shaved hair and gives me a thumb’s up. He gestures that it must take no time to wash it: « scrub head, smack hands, done! ». He’s nodding with big movements, I’m laughing, I point at his dreads, and gesture that they’re not bad either. He gestures to all of me, head to feet, and gives me another thumb’s up. « I love your style, dude. », said without words. I’m laughing, I thank him, he squeezes my hand, I leave him feeling like I made a new friend.
A magic man
We walk up the hill to head back home. The opening ceremony starts in a few minutes. We climb the stairs, out of breath, saying « Maybe in a month we’ll be used to those stairs. » (we never got used to those stairs).
We have to wear white for the opening ceremony. Jane lends me her extra top and, when I tell her how much I love it, says « it’s yours! ».
I’m nervous. We’re sitting together at the table in the main room, upstairs, chatting away before it starts. I meet Ariane, the other French girl. She’s surprised to not be the only one: « My friends don’t understand why I went all the way to India for this. I thought it was a French thing to not be into these things. » I guess I’m not the typical French person either. The room has large windows leading onto another fog-eaten, breath-taking mountain view.
We are gathered, sitting in a circle around the indoors fire. The opening ceremony begins. It left in my memory an enchanting blur of colours, smells and incantations. Prayers to Ganesha. Two men and a woman sing in Hindi and throw spices and red and yellow powders into the fire. I’m hypnotised by the flames. I smile wide – I can feel this is important. A red thread is tied on our wrists, a red mark is applied to our foreheads. It’s a beginning. One of the men walks around the circle with fire in a bowl, and, one after the other, each member of the circle gestures from the fire up to their closed eyes. I am moved to watch each person invent their own version of this personal and meaningful act. Close your eyes and bring your hands up, from the fire to your face. Inhale. It looks vulnerable and true. We each throw two different handfuls of spices into the fire. Carried away by the songs and hypnotized by the flames, I watch each of these strangers’ face, and I smile. « We’re gonne love each other. » I feel warm, suprised at how sure I am. At the same time, my body is troubled: there is a distinct pain in my heart, I can’t sit comfortably, I’m struggling to find my breath. A very clear image of Michael at the airport pokes me, saying « Don’t ever stop talking to me » with my face in his hands. I tell myself it’s good that I am so emotional: it means I take everything in better. We’re fed a sweet, brown mash, that we eat with our fingers.
I’m dazzled and buzzing with a sudden happiness when we sit together in the yoga hall. I am here, and this has started. The chairs laid in rows in the large, brown carpeted room, are simple pillows on the floor, with backs in the colors of Siddhi Yoga. I sit in the first row, Ariane is next to me. The teachers introduce themselves: Doctor Amrita is the anatomy teacher, Mahi will teach Therapeutic yoga, Sarva and Anil teach Hatha Yoga, Niddhi is in charge of Art of Teaching, Jayo of meditation, Ufaz, from Israel, is an assistant teacher. Lenka, from Czek Republic, is the admin. They tell us about the classes we’re going to take – the schedule will be posted on the wall each week – and that it’s going to change us. That we should pay attention to what our bodies are telling us and to have an open mind to let as much in as possible. « Yoga is the discovery of the self through the self. So please, forget everything you know. » They tell us we are a family.
One after the other, we say our names, origin, and talk about our yoga history. It’s slightly nerve-wracking, but I try to believe that everyone is facing me with as much love as I’m sending them. 19 ladies and one guy from France, England, Romania, Germany, Switzerland, India, South Africa, the US, Iceland, Australia, Denmark: I meet my yoga family (two more girls would arrive in the next few days).
Dinner is served. It smells magnificent: I love cumin. On the wall behind the long table, an old sheet of paper says « Observe silence during the meals ». Thankfully, we start ignoring it from day one.
It’s barely 8 when everyone starts heading back to the rooms. I wrap myself in my soft blanket with a warm heart, and I open my Indian notebook.
Finding Love at Home and Across the World 
lovely pics, great post.
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Thank you very much!
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