We arrive in Varanasi about 10:15am, welcomed by the familiar smell of urine that surrounds every indian train station I have been to so far. I feel the cool of the air and I am relieved for some lightness to the atmosphere. We travel in our tuk tuks towards Assi Ghat for the Ganga guesthouse, our home for the next week, as our apartment isn't ready just yet. I soon realise that the roads here don't have an official left side or right side, it's more a case of picking a space between the bullocks, bikes, tuk tuks, cars, 4x4's and Sadhu's, then drive for your life.
We are very lucky to have a beautiful view of the Ganges from our guest house. This is the spectacular view I mediate with. The sun, blazing forth, very apt for the Mettabhavana practice.
Settling into the soft afternoon sun of Varanasi, also known as The Great Benares, I long for yoga, I long for embodiment, I long for balance. After laying in a Delhi belly induced savassana for what feels like days on end, my body needs life breathing into it, some praña. But I also sense a lethargy, a need to restore before I attempt to balance, and the thought which lies in a deep, dark groove of my mind, disguised as a whisper, yells at me to work hard, sweat, lose weight, be better. Fortunately, on this occasion, my heart gentley rises up over the bottomless gorge of disguised mumblings and cradles this fierce drive within me. I succumbe to what my whole being needs, and I go for a gentle stroll along Mother Ganga. I breathe in this new found spacious air we have been suffocated of in Kolkata, I take in the expanse of open space that is the Ganges and the holy land which lies beyond it. I smile and feel some space open in my sternum. Praña is born, Life resurfaces from my heart. Equilibrium has begun it's restoration.
Just as I start to re-ground, I stumble across a small burning ghat, and see a lifeless skull wrapped in cloth emerging from a maze of logs and branches. I spot a limp foot, and finally a static torso. It's a woman, for sure, and for some reason I think she's young, 20's or 30's perhaps. I take a seat in what feels like an open air theatre, and prepare to sit for a while, digest, and reflect on my own life force.
An old man, wrapped in white cloths and clutching a spear of lively flames appears, and circumambulates the mound of wood, flesh, bones, three times, dousing the fabric encased head, which saves our eyes from meeting. I feel the presence of life and death, sitting either side of me on the stone bench, not quite merged into one another yet, perhaps that'll come with "enlightenment", when or if I ever believe in that state of consciousness. I've yet to discover. I notice a number of boys collecting wood and coal from the glowing remains of various mounds, they laugh and joke just inches away from a dead body. This is their job, they start young, lifeless hearts and flopping limbs are no stranger to them. They see death, daily, in fact, hourly. I wonder if this makes them more aware of death? Because as I sit and watch this corpse burn, I cry for some time, I imagine the ascending smoke to be carrying her essence, I figure out who her relatives are among the crowd, I notice one young man rocking back and forth as he looks out to the Ganges and quietly whispers to himself, without pausing, no stopping, a constant monologue, praying I should think.
Some bells ring in the distance, echoing in the background, framing this whole experience. The limbs burn into the ether, the torso and head remain, furiously flaming. Dogs intermittently bark wildly, and for me they reflect some primal howling that we all could benefit from if we were to gather in a pack and howl in unison, feeling eachothers pain. Bit we sit quietly, still sharing something profound. I feel very present and aware of all the sounds and sites around me. I cry some more. I feel humbled to grieve collectively. To share the final moments of this bodies existence. I gain perspective, and all the arguments which I have been part of over the past few days, seem irrelevant and futile.
I will die.
I don't want to leave, but I feel this moment coming to an end for me. I exit the scene with a new found balance in my body, with a life force that breathes into my heart and down through the delicate bones of my feet. I walk, and gaze, and reflect. Lotus flowers blossom under my heels. I float, just for a moment, and then I find the concrete of the ghats slapping under my soles, and my robotic mind clunks back into criticism, of myself, of other. But death has just stared in my face, I held its gaze for some time, longer than I have before. I felt its caress, over my shoulders and onto the surface of my heart, I fear of loosing my life if I allow it to settle deeply into the crevices. With this, I resolve to notice every criticism that passes through the gates of my mind. Not meeting it with more criticism, just simple plain awareness. Which, after experiencing this cremation, seems to make much more sense.
The day after touchdown and we are straight into teaching, no rest for the wicked! The children are absolute little munchkins, and a delight to teach. They are always eager to engage and have an abundance of energy. The main thing i notice about the Indian children is their relationship to others in terms of space. It feels like one ongoing bundle, and whilst I love to be tactile, I find myself craving personal space and order amongst the children. I diligently try and get the children to find gaps, move back, take their space, but it doesn't really translate, so I am beginning to see that this ideal is going to be part of the training, and finding creative ways to engage with and communicate this is going to be the key. Perhaps our next dance piece is inspired by bundles......... Not for the faint hearted!
Most children will live In a modest one roomed house with their family, all squished and bundled in day by day, sharing beds, sharing everything. Our ideas of personal space are so very different! How do I meet their experience with my own? How do I teach a dance class, which is all about our space in relationship to others, to these children who feel at home being piled on top of one another? I guess I use it. Its time to use my experience from teaching in east London's roughest schools. I have been dragged circularly around a school hall, sliding on my non-grip plimsols, as a year 5 boy tries to run from my clasp around his belly and simultaneously batter his class mate. I attempted a dance class, seated, metres away from a teenage boy with acute autism, whilst his learning assistants shout at him and tell me I can't go near him, play music, or stand up. I have stood helplessly in a hall whilst 30 students run, howl, climb the walls, and I wonder what to do next. In each situation you have to improvise, you have to respond to the moment, you have to get creative. So, here goes!
We have a whole month here, to work with these lively bundles of joy, and I look forward to consistency, to creating a show, to getting to know the kids and to responding to the moment. I find nothing more enlivening than being in this dance with life, in continual moment by moment responsiveness to what is happening before my eyes. This for me, is praña! From death to life, all in one week, in one city. The Great Benares!
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