(c) 2009 Todd Sykes.

I’ve been in Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India for six days now. I’m equal parts happy and skeptical here, as half of the time I feel contentment and the other half I feel like I’m in some sort of yoga-based Jesus Camp. Being here often brings about a sincere snarkiness, making me wish daily that my former fellow yoga teacher trainee Barb was around, as a real-time, down-to-earth partner in crime to share my sentiments. More importantly, it requires me to focus on the most vital parts of yogic practice, namely kindness and nonviolence. I’m practicing those right now as I type another blog sans pictures, as my camera still isn’t working. I’ll add visuals soon but, for now, picture this:

Morning. It’s still cold and dark at the outset. I inevitably wake up at 4 a.m., to chanting, done by those who are obviously more devotional than I. It’s loud, and solitary — one unified voice — the tone has an irregular, very Indian rhythm. After a few false starts, I finally get up at 6:15 for the first class of the day, Sukshma Yoga, with this guy:

Senior Yogi, (c) 2009 Todd Sykes.

Second class of the day is at 8:15. Though I’ve been committed to Iyengar study with one of BKS Iyengar’s direct disciples, I’m cheating on him now, waking up my Kundalini shakti with *the* teacher to take, one Gurmukh Kaur Khalsa. Are you scared yet?

Brunch is just after 10 a.m., and unfortunately for me, it’s buffet-style. Three kinds of rice, chapatis, toast, sweet porridge, golden, ghee-laden kitcherie, crepe-like, potato-filled, soft-and-crispy dosas, 8 different kinds of vegetables, dhal, peppers, salts, pickled chutney, and a new “sweet” every day. Milky, mildy-spiced chai. I always leave too full. Like my Southeast Asia diet, my India diet is failing me.

Afternoon. Easy. Lecture at 11:30 by distinguished experts. I usually find my mind wandering, and leave by noon for the internet cafe to check in with the family. Classes again at 1 and 3, maybe vinyasa, maybe meditation… or maybe more internet. “Happy hour” tea at around 4:30. After a shower, I walk into town.

Evening. On said walk, I pass the fruit stalls, gem stores with thousands of bangles for sale, tunic shops. Stop where a teenage boy is endlessly frying fresh samosas in a large caldron of bubbling oil, tempting me. Buy a few. Meet 3 new children who ask for rupees — they haven’t eaten in several days — give them the samosas. Step over a few piles of bullshit (literally). Walk by the bridge connecting my part of town with the old part, avoiding eye contact with the brown monkeys who steal your bag to search for food.

Walk on the beach north of the ashram. The sand here glitters, like it has gold in it. It is very fine. Sit on the rocks to listen to a new-age ex-pat play the guitar, greet a local homeless man, “Namaste,” when he smiles at me as he feeds 7 stray dogs. Lament on how much I hate seeing the stray dogs, how I wish I could feed them all, how I wish that those who I see hitting them would stop.

Begin my walk “home,” up the hill and onto the concrete-cobblestone, narrow street. It doesn’t smell like anything, the air is just thick. Pass the blind man who sits at the start of the bridge and sings at the top of his lungs, all day, every day. Walk by one of six million CD shops, a young boy selling soft peacock feather fans, politely decline an offer of a bindi and a blessing from a man who comes very close to putting a red dot on my forehead (for a price).

Buy a few marigolds to float in the river (no mass to attend, no candles to light), sit on the marble steps with the town for 6 p.m. aarti, an hour of ceremonial chanting. I clap, and watch more than I actually sing — white people, light people, black people, people in turbans, in jeans, in bright orange and lavendar tunics, dressed all in white. People holding dishes of flowers and tealights, waving them gently in circles for ritual. The music enters your pores and fills you — me — up. It is one of the few times I see locals and foreigners together, and it makes me smile to be a part of this community, this true community, if just for a short while.

More people, people washing their faces in the frigid, clear Ganges, people sitting silently in meditation amidst the fray, smoke from the fire, soft, pumpkin-colored light from the streetlamps. More clapping.

Dinner follows, an abundant serving of brunch. We’re advised not to eat spicy foods, as yogis. I ask for a side of hot peppers. Though there are cultural performances offered, I usually either go for a short time or miss them completely. I’m tired, as my sleep cycle hasn’t improved much. It’s dark by 8 p.m., and the ashram is still buzzing with visitors, walking through the gardens and praying silently to the statues. I think to myself how lucky I am to stay in a place that so many people make an arduous pilgrimage to see.

I still haven’t found the perfect yoga asana classroom yet, but that just leaves me more time to see what’s outside of it.

Evening Kirtan along the Ganges, (c) 2009 Todd Sykes.

Shiva, (c) 2009 Mia Matthews.