Yoga, Dancing, and Holi

I’m on a plane to Delhi right now. Flights in India are never without some sort of severe discomfort, but that’s for another day. There are eight of us making the trip to Rishikesh this weekend to go rafting and just chill near the Ganges River. Once we land in Delhi it will be another five hours by car. These are the sort of trips that, under normal circumstances, would feel far too laborious to take on in a weekend but for some reason are a no-brainer when you’re abroad.

This past week was filled with absurd reminders that I am actually in India. The first was an adventure that I took with Jen to find the yoga place that is apparently just behind our apartment complex. I heard about it from a former expat’s girlfriend and she gave me the following directions:

If you walk through the pool area to the complex's back wall, go out through the gate, turn left and follow the wall down until it gets all vegetation like, then follow the small path that curves to the right. That hits a road and if you go down that about 50 feet, you can turn right before the little shack on the side. There is a sign for the yoga place at the side of the road, but if you walk toward the apartment complex there on your right, it is usually on the top floor.

Easy enough, right? If you could see out my back window, it would not sound at all ridiculous. However, it was dark when we decided to go looking for it and despite Ismail’s insistence that we let a driver take us, we set out for the journey.

We should have known to turn around when we got lost inside our own apartment complex trying to find the exit. We walked alongside the wall and curved right at the obvious path. Straight ahead was a giant construction site for what I can only imagine will be another tech office of some sort. We started to wonder if this construction was here when she had been here six months back. Of course, it didn’t really matter because the path was dark, the smell of raw sewage was lingering, and Jen was wearing sandals. Decision made. We headed back.

With slightly less pride, I requested that Ismail have someone drive us to the place and we would find our way in daylight another time. As it turns out, the road to the yoga place goes straight through the slum that my bedroom window overlooks. I don’t mean to make a joke out of what is obviously a heartbreaking scene, but there was something strangely comical about two American women riding in a car through the slums on our way to the yoga studio. Made me kind of feel like an ass.

After traversing what could be described as a small stream (of God knows what, really) in a Toyota, we arrived at an apartment complex. We took the elevator to the top floor and found apartments. So we walked up the stairs and found the roof. We repeated these steps on the other side of the building before asking someone where the yoga studio was. They lived there and claimed that no such thing exists. Sad, dejected, frustrated, and also slightly amused, we decided to throw in the towel. We never did find the place. Maybe next week.

The next day, in lieu of yoga, Jen and I hit up a hole-in-the-wall dance studio near central Hyderabad. Jen found it a few weeks back and has apparently been taking bollywood dance class behind my back. As soon as I found out, I insisted that I come along and it turned out that we were the only two people in the class. Just me, Jen, and the crazy dance instructor that didn’t speak English. Fortunately, it didn’t require much talking. No warm-up, no i

ntroduction, he just started showing us the steps and we followed along. Okay, Jen followed along. I tried really hard to follow along, but I had a good time and burned a few calories. I think I need to have a few ribs removed before I can make my body move like that.

Sore and tired, I dragged myself into the office the next day. I was working at my desk (actually, I was answering personal email, but that’s neither here nor there) when one of my teammates approached me with a plate of bright red powder. Wednesday was the start of Holi, the Festival of Colors. I asked them what it was all about and it was described to me as a day when people put colors on each other and just celebrate being happy. Honestly, I can’t think of a better holiday. I agreed to play along and they put a few bright dots on my face.

We looked out the window and saw a group of people playing volleyball and dancing to loud music, completely covered in pink powder from head to toe. I walked over to get a closer look at the rest of the team and before I knew it my entire face, neck, and arms were slathered in hot pink powder. I took my turn for revenge and got a few unsuspecting colleagues.

In the office we played with dry powder, but usually Holi is played with water and wet colors. Basically, Holi is a 48-hour license to behave like a child. When I was a kid, I thought dyeing Easter eggs was thrilling. This would have been my five-year-old dream come true. In fact, I think it might have been my twenty-five-year-old dream come true had I crashed the volleyball party.

I think it’s ironic that this is the first picture of the office that I have. Despite appearances, I am actually working. In fact, that’s about all I do during the week. For the most part, things feel pretty normal, but that doesn’t make for good writing.


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