Sixty middle aged women in various stages of preservation from good to very good, and one from Pedantic Press.
Me.
Originally six of us had planned to attend the workshop since we are soon to publish Maya's book, but only two of the young bendies made it in the end, and I roped in my friend Nel for solidarity.
Naturally we sat at the back.
I’ve done Yoga before. It’s the exercise of choice for anyone who isn’t otherwise athletic. But Maya’s Yoga for Life isn’t quite like anything I’ve done before. Instead of inelegant postures, holding positions for a long time, and lots of deep breathing imagining yourself putting roots down into the earth – obviously a dawdle for me given my gravitational affinity with the ground, Kundalini Yoga, on first acquaintance anyway, involves fast, concentrated breathing, simple rapid and repetitive movements and lots of singing and chanting.
Easy, I thought when we began. A billion breaths later I was hyperventilating and the inside of my nose felt like I had been snorting chlorine in a swimming pool. Who knew breathing was so hard?
This was a de-stress class. Ideal for many of we Pedants; especially designed even. As the class progressed and after I had, in Maya’s words, ‘broken through the pain barrier,’ pushing my palms out to the side a million and a half times, it got easier and the breathing began to feel energising.
And I couldn't feel my fingers, my shoulders or indeed anything much above the waist, which obviously helped, especially when we began rolling around the floor from side to side like hippos.
Then suddenly my friend Nel put her hands over her eyes. Poor thing, it’s getting too much for her. I reached across to pat her back consolingly. I thought she was weeping at first, and then I saw her shoulders shake and realised she was indeed crying, but with laughter.
'I’m sorry,' she gasped, I just can’t help it. I can’t stop looking at the man with the giant harp – a series of steel wires strung the length of the room, which was of concert hall proportions, which he was stroking earnestly making the room reverberate to Eastern music while sixty loud London women sang 'Harr', like fairly aggressive pirates as they stared fixedly at the space between the outstretched thumb and fingers of their right hands.
It wasn’t helped by the fact that Nel is quite deaf and couldn’t hear any of the instructions that Maya was issuing prettily from a sound system far, far away, so she really didn't have a clue what she was doing.
Next we sang and chanted five words over and over interspersed with the chorus “I bow to you, again and again.’ At which Nel took issue. She bows to nobody. She can bow to nobody – too much belly fat.
Then we rested, breathing gently.
And the harpists mobile phone went off to the tune of Woody Woodpecker.
I didn't even dare glance at Nel. But being deaf, she hadn't heard it. She was still laughing though.
'Do you want to get a drink?' I asked one of the bendies as we left the workshop.
'Marion, that was supposed to be all about cleansing your system and strengthening your kidneys!' she said sternly. 'And anyway, I can't. I'm on a detox.'
'Okay then,' I mumbled, much chastened as Nel skipped off like a newborn lamb to go and sign up for a yoga holiday, bought a yoga mat, a yoga seat, and some incense.
'I tell you what though, let's go outside and get some fresh air.' said the Bendy. 'I could really do with a fag.'
