Tea is my typewriter

An advent of microstories : day 1

The yoga teacher is dressed in floaty linen and gives off the feeble smell of vegetables. This gives me comfort.

I choose the cushion closest to the incense burner, to block the rich smell of the other participants. There is an undercurrent of stale yoga mat sweat too. I try to ignore it’s undeniable allure.

The chant, she tells us, is Sa Ta Na Ma. The meaning, apparently, is less important than the practice. The practice will give us enlightenment and awareness. It comes from the Sanskrit phrase, Sat Nam, which, she tells us, means “my true identity”. I am here for a practice to help me conceal my true identity, so I smile at the irony.

As the newcomer, I am invited to introduce myself. They murmur “welcome, Vladimir,” and smile serenely. 

I sit upright as instructed and close my eyes. Sa Ta Na Ma. For a while I am occupied by getting the syllables in the right order. I am fully distracted from everything else and I realise momentarily that this is working. Sa Ta Na Ma.

I notice the man on the cushion next to mine pronounces the ‘a’ sound as an ‘uh’. This is intensely annoying. I wriggle on my cushion and my skin begins to itch. Now I am acutely aware of the smells of these people. I breathe through my mouth and chant. Sa Ta Na Ma.

As we chant the teacher says:

“Sa, the birth, beginning and totality of the cosmos.” I like this sense of the vast and my insignificance. Sa Ta Na Ma.

“Ta, life, existence and creativity.” These platitudes give me comfort. Sa Ta Na Ma.

“Na, death and transformation.” Wait, what? No, really, what?

“Ma, regeneration and the joy of the everlasting.” My eyes flick open and I expect to see her staring straight at me, with an accusatory stare to show me she’s on to me, that she knows who I am and why I’m here.

But her eyes are still closed. 

The class are chanting, Sa Ta Na Ma, Sa Ta Na Ma, birth, life, death, regeneration, over and over and over, and what I’ve been trying to push down deep inside can no longer be contained, it’s forcing its way back up and out of me and taking control. All I can smell is their bodies, their blood, the rich iron tang that comes from their veins, pumping around their skin sacks and tantalising me from every angle.

I must get out now.

I thought this chanting could save me, that I could control my mind and my imperative, but how was I to know that the essence of this chant would be the same as my every waking thought, the joy of the everlasting that follows death?

I sharply suck in air and tense my every fibre, pulling my arms and legs towards my heart and feeling my shoulder blades contort to wings. As a bat, I leave through the open window and I never try yoga again.