1st class meltdown

Sun 24 Nov 2013

I turned off the alarm, relieved that tomorrow there would only be the sound of birds to wake me.

We hastily rode the now familiar backstreets to arrive at our yoga studio. It was our last session, and we were joined by the man from yesterday who would teach us some breathing techniques.

The frustrations from failing to win yesterday’s competition still lingered in the air, as big as the temple elephant living just a few doors away. We started with the regular chanting 'Om,' listening to the yoga teacher’s repertoire of songs praising God and deep breathing.

Next, we embarked on several rounds of sun salutation followed by some very rushed poses. All of the sessions until now had been packed with information, and we’d slowly been guided through each pose with care, correction, and explanation. Now we were being given a 2-second demonstration and being asked to copy and hold without any real understanding of the benefits or the exact positions our bodies should be contorted into.

The teacher and the man from yesterday squabbled about how long the breathing demonstration should last. With the yoga teacher winning, we sat and watched an old man do some rather strange inhaling and exhaling for 20 minutes.

At the moment he explained that you need to hold the breath in three places—your chest, your gut, and your anus (pronounced in a thick Indian accent)—we both had to be mature enough not to burst into giggles. This only got worse when he started to point to these three important places... and then came the weird stomach moving.

I can't even explain it, but thankfully (or not, depending on how squeamish you are), we have videos:

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Delighted that it was not double the time, we finished up and wrote about our appreciation in both of the compliment books. Having just one comment before ours, it was evident that being let loose on yoga students was a whole new experience for our breathing guru.

We closed the session with obligatory photos, where Jamie was the center of some bromance embraces, and I just stood awkward and sweaty.

Our teacher had insisted from the beginning that on our last day we should go for breakfast to celebrate the end of our course, and that this would be his treat. Having rushed this morning, we’d forgotten to pack any money at all, so once we’d arrived at the restaurant, Jamie nipped back on the scooter to get the money to pay for the lesson and also to sneakily pay for breakfast.

There were no tables available, and our teacher was incredibly agitated by this. He had a session to run at a hotel and was obviously feeling the pinch of time.

As soon as a table became vacant, he hurried over to claim it and hastily ordered. I’d rested the bike helmet and bag on the seat next to me— inadvertently claiming it for Jamie’s return.

A scruffy man came over and tried to move the items and take the seat. Manoj stood up and started talking in Malayalam to the man. Voices were raised, and then the man walked off. Manoj translated that the man wanted to sit but that he told him he could not because the seat was reserved for a friend.

A few moments later, the yoga tutor asked me impatiently where Jamie was. I explained that our homestay was quite far and that he would be back as soon as possible.

The scruffy man walked back over and started shouting. The yoga teacher stood up and started shouting in return. Everyone in the restaurant stared, and even though I couldn’t understand what was being discussed, I could feel the tension.

The man left again, and Manoj translated once more. This time he said that the man told him that if his friend didn’t join us soon, he would take him into the street and beat him. Apparently, the man thought he was not from Cochin and didn’t welcome people from outside the town.

Manoj gave me a big speech about the generations of his family that had all lived here in Cochin. This again led to more awkwardness... if only I had a turtle or balloon to express myself.

It wasn’t over either. Minutes later, the man was back.

This time I didn’t need an interpreter. I watched the man hold out his hand to make peace only to witness our stubborn teacher pushing it away, declining the offer. So much for all of our lessons about universal oneness and karma. Shanti what?

After watching the door for what felt like a lifetime, I was overjoyed to see Jamie’s face emerge. He sat down on the seat of contention, obviously completely unaware of the drama that had taken place to reserve it.

He grabbed the chai in front of him and started to gulp it down. During all the drama, I had neglected to order the tea that Jamie asked to accompany his breakfast, meaning he was actually drinking the tea of the man sitting opposite us.

The guy said it was no bother and continued eating his breakfast unphased by it all. Jamie started to make conversation and asked Manoj if he’d always lived in Cochin. Oops!

Jamie listened to Manoj’s interpretation of the events of the last 15 minutes and that, yes, he had always lived here.

We ate quickly, both eager to leave the uneasy atmosphere and prevent our yoga teacher from having any more of a breakdown. He was now checking his watch every couple of minutes and looking more and more harassed.

Whilst washing our hands, Jamie sneakily paid for the bill.

This was not well received by our yoga teacher, who decided we needed some other gift. He asked us to follow as he cycled off in a huff. By the time we’d turned the bike around, we’d lost him.

We thought maybe he’d returned to the studio, so stopped there to check.

Nowhere to be seen, Jamie dropped me off to wait while he checked the breakfast place.

A frustrated Manoj cycled up to me, shouting that he told us to follow, and then when I tried to apologise and explain, he just looked frustrated and close to tears.

At this, Jamie returned. I climbed aboard, and we started to chase our mentally unstable spiritual teacher as he cycled the backstreets of Fort Cochin.

Down an alley, he hurriedly demanded that we chose necklaces (very quickly) from a roadside seller. We picked under pressure, said thank you, and watched him frantically pay the man and cycle off.

What a fucking mental but brilliantly memorable finale to a 5-day intensive introduction into the peace, love, and unity of yoga.

We had embarked on a semi-detox to avoid the torture that would be hungover mornings trying to hold headstands, so a night of drinking was on the agenda. Jamie had managed to find ginger ale and joined the naughty queue to successfully obtain whiskey.

Back at our apartment, we enjoyed some aperitifs on the balcony.

Earlier in the day, we had started a mapless treasure hunt for steak and wine.

Some restaurants delivered on a tantalising menu but had no liquor licence; others offered exceptional atmosphere and wine but lacked any sparkle on their menu.

By sheer fluke, we had found one of the restaurants that Rick Stein had dined in during his India cooking show. The restaurant didn’t look great, but the menu was exquisite, and wine (the same 'Four Seasons' Shiraz we found in Bombay, our favourite Indian red) was within our price range, just.

With warm whiskey in our tummies and dressed reasonably smartly, we walked up to the Brunton Boatyard.

We had decided that a night of boozing and returning on the bike was not a good move—one crime at a time and all that (Jamie doesn’t yet have a British licence, let alone an international one necessary). Plus, the noise of the rusty parts clanking together would be hideously embarrassing in such a venue.

As we walked in and headed to the restaurant we’d been directed to earlier, Jamie stopped to spend a penny.

He came out and suggested we follow the music being played above.

We walked into a stunning teak restaurant and the sound of clarinet and sitar.

We asked if it was possible to dine from the main menu in this restaurant, and they said it was but that outside was solely for seafood. More than happy to dine in this elegant room and eager for meat, we took our seats.

The whole experience was absolutely exquisite. The wine was delightful, and the food was some of the best we’d ever eaten. My first-class railway mutton curry was tender and packed with flavour, and Jamie’s slow wine-cooked beef tenderloin was close to the best beef we’ve ever eaten.

In our merry state, we gladly accepted an opportunity to thank the chef personally for his gastronomic sensations.

We also sampled paan ice cream... an all-around odd but brilliant experience, which pretty much sums up our day.

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