Spirit and the Self

I'm riding a pair of iron beams which run parallel in perfect unison for miles and miles and hundreds of miles more. "Perfect unison” here means with all sorts of bumps and divots, as this ride is far from smooth. But in India, the train is the best way to get from Point A to Point B.

This time, Point A is the hot, bustling South Indian city of Chennai. It is also a place of seeking, of curiosity, of wondering what strange creatures could be living in my water. Point A is an American who thinks he loves yoga, but isn't sure about all the dots and lines painted on people’s foreheads.

Point B is harder to define. You could call it Delhi, or Rishikesh shortly after, but a safer label would be "Unknown." Train rides in India have taught me that Point B is never what you expect. But still, I speculate. Point B is a spiritual place, one with a deep understanding of yoga, the self, humanity. At Point B, I am not going to get sick. There will be naan.

The route from Chennai to Delhi is 2,200 km, but this "Super Fast Express" train gets there in 34 hours instead of the 60 it takes the regular "Express." The car is hot, the seats are the fake-leather polyester that gets sticky and releases layers of stored dirt when you sweat on it. Despite smiles exchanged, my compartment-mates have narrowed my seat by strewing their belongings over our shared benches. This feels like a subtle claiming of territory, a gentle push-back against the white privilege they know I experience throughout the country.

Six, ten, fourteen hours pass. Heat, humidity, greasy train food. A bumpy night’s sleep, twenty-four, thirty hours. The situation doesn't exactly get easier. But I start to realize something. I feel calm, relaxed. Even with the dark layer of grime that has coated my t-shirt and sunburnt skin, I am comfortable. Life is good.

Then it hits me. I've been telling myself that yoga, Rishikesh, some vague Point B, is my destination. But I'm doing yoga right here. This is what yoga is all about. I'm exploring the present moment, sitting with discomfort without letting my mind go down the drain. Train Yoga. I’d market this back in the States, if only we had a functional rail system.

I’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice more traditional forms of yoga in Rishikesh, ones with downward dog and headstand, but for now I am glad to be able to sit on the train and just be. To feel the wind on my face, to watch the wheat fields pass. To breathe deeply, to smile.