The Soul Yoga

 The Soul Yoga is the unassuming name given to a quiet health revolution , taking place in a tiny corner of Jalandhar , Punjab. 

We , i.e., me , my husband and my two daughters have all benefited from The Soul Yoga at different points of time in our lives . Throughout the years 2018 to 2021 , we grappled with unprecedented stress in our lives . The kids  were dealing with academic pressures . 

We googled Yoga and got lucky . A class was being held at 58 , The Mall . The cheerful voice of Suraj Sharma Sir answered the phone , and we were won over . 

Then came the torrid days  of COVID . Both of us , my husband and I were hospitalised . I required supplemental oxygen , and he underwent intensive steroid therapy . We also suffered grievous personal loss of loved ones . Riddled  with sleeplessness  and grief , we again turned to Suraj Sir , and his unique brand of ebullient yoga . 

Though there are various class timings , two sessions in the mornings and one in the evening ; we have traditionally stuck to the early morning sessions . 

I have been attending classes for quite some time now , and the pattern doesn't waver . Neither does it disappoint . 

There are stretches , followed by asanas ,  culminating in cooling down  breathing exercises . Sometimes , some childish game play is incorporated to bring distracted minds , back to the present . Or to break the tedium . 

Suraj Sharma Sir has laid down a profound example . he is never late or absent , come what may . Not only does he do the counting , he also demonstrates what needs to be done , thereby performing alongside us . His infectious enthusiasm attracts a myriad cross section of people . There are businessmen , professionals , health service providers , wives of influential people and students . I personally  know  a certain vigilance officer . They may be from the services or maybe civilians . 

Everyone gets equal attention , and special cases are given special attention . 

However , encouragement and praises are heaped on all . Regardless of one's actual abilities . Potentials are spotted and praised . Particularly amongst the youngsters . 

Finally , on benefits of yoga . 

The most obvious effect is the gradual and inevitable increase in energy levels , aka , stamina .

 You can work for longer , consequently , have greater patience . 

One's   hasty , irregular , jagged breath slows down , and regulates  . It is as if a turbulent flow of air has streamlined , and your inhaled breath marches in a straight line,  into your lungs , and a quiet disciplined breath is exhaled out . No rush , no break in rhythm , just disciplined slow stream of air , regularly flowing in and out of your lungs . No need to emphasise the magic that is wrought to the process of oxygenation . 

Exercise tolerance is built slowly , like everything else in life . It takes time , and persistence . You will find you fingertips touching your toes , in "Surya Namaskara ", the tip of your nose touching your knee in "Pawan Muktasana ", your back bending over , in the "Camel pose " . 

However, Yoga , unlike the popular western belief, is not just contorting one's body into impossible  configurations . It is much more than that .

 It is about finding yourself , back , in the bustle of life . It is about discovering your own breath . 

It is the tiny changes to your health that you , sometimes , even fail to notice . Your nagging sinusitis disappears . You feel calmer . A tiny pulsating headache , which one almost took for granted , loses its edge and slowly disappears . Your joints feel freer . The early morning stiffness of the fingers is no longer there . Consequently , positive changes are noticed in Hypertensive patients (as myself )  . In other words , the health effects , creep up on you , almost unawares . 

It is about doing "Thoda kum zyada "  (Do less or more ) , as Suraj sir says . It may sound like an  oxymoron , but what it really means is to push yourself to do a bit more than what you think you are capable of . It is a wonderful everyday encouragement . Another is to regulate motion with breaths , pairing them , in tandem with your bodily movements . 

A big shout out to The Soul Yoga  for one hour of sweating every morning , to leave one refreshed throughout the day . To be cheerful , to sleep soundly and to feel a bit younger , everyday . 

The cough

(Last month , my  81 year old mother developed a cough . A cough that mutated from "cold and cough" to "chronic bronchitis " , to COPD ( Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease ) . The last one being a honorific given to the familiar (garden variety ) asthma. Another possibility was cardiac failure , as she wears a pacemaker, aiding her old ticker , for the last two years . There are other , unspeakable possibilities too , but let's not go there . A hasty decision was made to bring her to the idyllic countryside ( where I currently reside ) from the hustle -bustle of a megacity (where she lives ) . The thought was that the change  would do her good . )

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Early morning was a tad bit schizophrenic . The weather I mean . Last evening , there was a duststorm followed by a brief drizzle . At the fag end of the five minutes' drizzle , few tiny hailstones tumbled out of the clouds , as if by mistake . The clouds weren't in the mood to give us those gems , as if . Some aberrant hole in the proverbial bag of goodies . 

But the morning promised sunshine . Brilliant , white , dazzling , drying up all traces of last nights' mistaken largesse by the sky . The sun shone into the eyes with frowns permanently sitting atop them . Air heated up , slowly braising the inhabitants , just like Yudhishtira described it , so many aeons ago . 

So , a trip to the garden , for a walk , was thwarted . 

Shaky resolutions further fractured by elderly parent declaring , seated atop lofty towers of concrete opinions , "How can you walk in this weather , pshaw ?" 

This final salvo , followed by guilt inducing bout of undiagnosed cough . A cough , that travels thousands of miles across states ( national and emotional ) , a cough that has not responded to a government hospital's indifferent but efficient -sounding treatment , a cough that stops ambitions of acquiring a "shilpa shetty -like figure , mid -pranayam , a cough that flushes out sleepy and irate youngsters from their permanent dens , a cough that skips  down four floors ( via the stairs ) and makes an elderly retired colonel unentangle from his cow pose , and raise his head heavenward and scream "hot water with saunf" into the thin morning air . 

By now , everyone I know in the colony ( not too many , thank God ) has heard of my mother's cough , or has heard her coughing . Some have had the (mis)fortune of having witnessed it first hand . 

Red in the face , short of breath , my mother coughs her heart away ( literally ) . All the flab , acquired gradually , over years of affluence , shake like jelly , turning slowly, and alarmingly , purple . My daughter runs to get some water , I run to grab her inhaler ,and cough syrup , both in one hand , while trying desperately to look for saunf ka dabba , in my chaotic spice rack with my other hand . 

"Saunf water " yells the colonel , for the fourth time in a row . 

"Yes yes , Uncle " My quick thinking daughter yells back , pacifying him , while my mother roars into our ear drums , hammering away at our rib cages holding already racing hearts . 

Finally , all the ministrations take hold , and the cough , miraculously , like an unbidden hailstorm , stops . The sun smiles benignly at the dishevelled inhabitants of our home . 

Everyone seems to have an idea , what her cough is about . All , except the cough itself . Like a rogue vehicle on a busy highway , it upsets patterns , defies diagnosis , and is notoriously recalcitrant . There are a few , lucky , cough free days , followed by vengefully profuse hacking . 

"Dry , not a drop of phlegm ." It is her cough my mom describes fondly , on phone , to relatives , distant and amused . 

"She might , as well, be describing  a shot of martini. " is one of the many "dry " humorous comments that abound . 

The cough has persisted . Through a vast gamut of injectable / oral antibiotics , anti tussive agents , anti histamines , steroids .opiods , and mostly everything allopathy has to offer . 

It is a survivor . And not a benign one at that . In the 1990s , this undiagnosed  hacking precipitated two hernias ( on either side of the classical caesarean scar ) in my mom's corpulent tummy . 

One can only picture , what havoc these bouts must be wreaking on her insides , protected thinly by a polyester mesh , that too , government hospital provided . 

As we battle this unbeatable opponent , we have an increasing arsenal of home remedies . Patanjali made honey-lemon-ginger syrup , my neighbour's trusted kadha comprising of fifteen spices ( practically all spice ever known to mankind ) , myriad jars of "churans " , sniffable , swallowable , drinkable , and applicable remedies . Various tablets , capsules , and inhalants , in their colourful and white avatars .  We have enough medicine to start a pharma shop of our own . I, by default , am a miniature expert on cough and its various manifestations . Cough drops of all hues and brands , even a tiny square of camphor ("Put it on her upper lip when she coughs " said a concerned friend . As if upper lips were kitchen shelves . Anyway , the intent was good ) 

Allergens abound . Even in the countryside where we live . The crops are being harvested , flowers are blooming . So it could be the chaff , the pollen , the cold air , the dewdrops , the hot air , the newsprint , the lint , the cloth she is wearing , the food she is eating . 

That is the thing with allergies . They manifest out of thin air . Like misfortune . They are also infamously difficult to pinpoint . Like the perpetrator in most of the crime shows . There are twists and turns . It could be perfume that I use , to the cooking oil I bought last week . The fish she ate yesterday , to the new dress , fondly sent by a daughter . Anyone , and everyone , is a suspect , until proven guilty . Is it the detergent , or the dettol , the new brand of hair oil , or the tomato puree that was a day old ( but used anyway , economising !!) . The peanut brittle or the tea leaves , the ginger cookies , or the atta bread !! 

Perhaps , she is missing the pollutant -laden , densely populated city air she has been deprived of . Who knows ? Perhaps , her mind is allergic to the bucolic peace and quiet we have foisted upon her , in a misplaced desire for a "break " .

Mrs Sangha

 With unfathomable love and  immaculate care 

she prepared feasts fit for kings , regal fare 

Her scramble for the flimsy dupattas , hair 

in mild disarray ,  a bit grayer ,every year 

She got up to greet and talk to you , listen 

Your own woes , when she had million(s) 

Of her own . A cup of tea , sweeten(ed) 

 for all , with indefatigable affection 

Bottomless pit , nature's  beauteous wonders 

Of unending giving , to strangers , stragglers 

Friends , neighbours , servants , beggars 

the benevolence never ceased , do ponder 

How destiny turns against the very source 

How fragrance in a cupboard full of succours 

Maddens , saddens , inexplicably lingers 

there are no more fidgety fingers 

No more sunspot ridden fair crinkly skin 

No more complaints of a heart flailing 

No more hysterical, hypoglycemic sweating 

Scary portends in the dark midnight

A breath that was taken by sheer power 

Of will , a heart that beat just in order 

to see kids , faraway , on distant shore(s) 

A metabolism so messed up , in disorder , 

Whenever the bell rings , even now 

What does your eye seek ? Blow ! 

That  radiant face framed in springy white 

A smile ,in pain , yet  so much of spright 

A motherly face , her wings transparent 

invisible , so wide , sheltering beneath it 

You , me , us and them .

Missing you , forever , maam . 

In the dead of the night

 Tis the middle of the night

 many  needless fright(s)

Time grows a couple of feet 

Marches endless around your bed 

Tick tock tick tock precision beat 

A footfall ,  a scrape,  a thud 

It's all in your head

You saw a fleeing shadow

Right outside your window

If  you are alone , you might 

Make a mountain out of a bite 

A relentless bite of a  wood termite 

Only audible at the dead of the night

A sparrow makes its nest , why I wonder 

Of all places,Beneath the airconditioner 

It is safe and secure of that I am sure

What about me subjected

To tiny flutterings 

Comings and goings 

Enlarged, magnified

Multifold, 

Oh god 

In the dead of the night

Silence kills . That's right 

But tiny noises too just might 

If it scares you out of your wit