My Search for Yoga

by David Williams

You should write a book.

Over the years, friends encouraged me to write down the story of my search for yoga. Whether it was in a casual conversation or in a class, it seemed that there was endless curiosity about how I went overland to India twice, how I became David Williams, Yoga Detective, searching to find what I felt was the best yoga system. Again and again, people said, “You should write a book,” especially Danny Living, author of Yoga: The Secret.

The idea sounded overwhelming until I read an interview of John Grisham, one of my favorite authors. He said that if one simply writes one page a day, one will have a book in a year. That seemed possible. A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. 

I ended up taking two years to write the initial manuscript. Diana Sargent and I spent another ten years editing it. A few of the names have been changed or forgotten. The following is my story as I remember it 50 years later. From conversations with friends who were a part of this story, if they write their accounts, our versions might be a little different.

This is how I remember my journey.

1. I met my guru before I heard of yoga. 

My guru’s name was Bootie. In the summer of 1967, Bootie and I were lifeguards at the seaside village of Ocean Drive, South Carolina. Our employer, Buck, provided a big old cottage called the Guardhouse where all the lifeguards lived together. By the luck of the draw, Bootie and I became roommates at the Guardhouse. Bootie was the oldest lifeguard, and I was the youngest. He was 28, and I was 17 years old. We ended up being roommates for three summers. 

Guru is a Sanskrit word that means "from darkness to light." Ancient Indian yoga scriptures describe a guru. 

Imagine two people are together in a pitch-black dark cave. Both have a candle. The guru’s candle is lit. The chela’s (disciple's) candle is unlit. The chela has to follow the guru to see where he is going in the darkness. At some point, the guru touches his lit candle to the chela’s unlit candle. Now the chela has his own light. With this light, the chela has achieved liberation while still in his physical body. He can walk into the darkness on his own. Essentially, this is enlightenment.

I call Bootie my guru because he lit my candle. He enlightened me. Bootie told me, “Your only limitation is your imagination." 

Quoting William Shakespeare from over 300 years earlier, he said, "All the world's a stage." Then he took it a step further, adding, "And you can write your own script. You can go anywhere you want to go; you can do anything you want to do. You do not have to live a boring life like all the squares you have seen growing up. They will get old and die without ever doing anything exciting and without ever having any fun. Your only limitation is your imagination. If you can visualize it, you can materialize it."

In Bootie's life, he had been practicing what he preached. He was the only friend I knew who had been to Europe. He had lived in Las Vegas and dealt blackjack in a casino. From my limited North Carolina perspective, Bootie was worldly, charismatic, and had more tales of adventure than any ten people I knew. 

Without hesitation, Bootie lived each day to the fullest, always present in the "eternal now." As he told it, there was never a dull moment in his life. 

At the age of 30, Bootie exclaimed, “Give me another 15 years like the last 15, and I will jump in the grave at 45!" 

Those summer months with Bootie were a turning point in my life. I would be remiss if I did not mention that Bootie was the only lifeguard I have ever known who did not know how to swim.

2. Find a job you love, and you will never have to work.

My parents, David Livingston Williams and Patricia Jean Patterson, were born and raised in North Carolina. They met while they were students at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. My father was a natural athlete. He was on the swimming team and was a campus boxing champion at 156 pounds. My mother was an artist. 

My parents married after graduation. After my birth in July 1949, my mother stayed at home to care for me. My parents were honest and hardworking. They gave my two younger sisters and me the best possible upbringing. 

At the age of four, my father taught me how to play checkers. At six, he taught me chess. I have played continuously since then. In 1993, I was undefeated in the Hawai‘i State Chess Championship. 

My mother loved to read and passed that on to me. We went to the public library every week until I was old enough to go by myself. Reading opened my eyes to a bigger world and inspired me to dream. 

I went to public school, was a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, and Explorer Scout. I attended Sunday school, was a member of the First Presbyterian Church children's choir, played Little League Baseball, and Pop Warner Football. I always made good grades and was selected for early admission to the University of North Carolina during my junior year of high school. Like my friends, I wore Gant shirts and Bass Weejun penny loafers. I conformed to the model that growing up in the South dictated at that time.

I had one interest that did not receive my parents’ support. I learned to play pool at the age of seven, and I loved the game. There were two pool tables in our church game room. I played with the minister on Saturday mornings and anytime I had an opportunity. I begged my parents to buy a pool table. When they refused, I told them that when I had a home of my own, a pool table was the first thing I would buy to furnish my home. If I could not afford both a bed and a pool table, I would buy the pool table. Today I am fortunate enough to have a pool table and a bed.

I knew, or knew of, just about everyone in my neighborhood, from the richest to the poorest. There was no one whom I aspired to emulate. I had no adult hero, real or mythical. As I saw it, the adults I knew were not getting older and wiser. It appeared to me that by the age of 40 or 50, they were complacent with their gradual decline into illness and senility. If I accepted this model, I visualized my future to be an inevitable terrifying death under bright lights in a hospital. Inside me was a growing rebellion that would cause me to reject this eventuality and motivate me to seek an alternate way of aging.

Growing up, stories about American Indians intrigued me. According to legend, when an Indian knew that it was his time to die, he would go to a cave or significant place in nature and make his passage to the "Happy Hunting Ground." Whether this death experience was real or mythical, it looked a lot more appealing than what was happening at our community hospital.

My grandparents, Mama Nel and Daddy Fred, were a big influence on me, and I spent a lot of time with them. We always lived within walking or bicycling distance from them. I loved going to their home for meals. If I gave my grandmother a little notice, she cooked my favorite foods for me, and my grandfather made the best buttermilk biscuits I have ever eaten.

Mama Nel, more than anyone else, gave me unconditional love. By using finesse in guiding me, she never put me on the defensive. She knew how to avoid polarizing me after my occasional misbehavior, so I was always open to her guidance. Perhaps she gave me my first instruction in meditation. I will always remember her saying, "Davy, listen to your conscience, and you will never get in trouble. Deep down inside you know what is right and what is wrong."

Daddy Fred possessed a wealth of practical wisdom. The advice he gave me still rings true today. "Davy, figure out something that you love to do and are good at, and do that when you grow up. It does not matter what you do. You can do anything. Just be the best there is at it. There is a need for every skill. Find a job you love, and you will never have to work a day of your life."

Daddy Fred further advised me, "Never work for someone else. Always be your own boss. Don't be in a situation where you are working, and someone else is harvesting the fruits of your labor.” 

He was always self-employed, and he urged me to do the same.

3. My love for the beach motivated me to leave home.

From childhood l loved going to the beach with my family each summer for two weeks. The South Carolina beaches were a four-hour drive from our home. I loved the beach and the ocean and everything about it. My favorite food was seafood.

I begged my parents to buy a cottage on the coast. I envied any kid who lived in Florida, had warm weather all year, and could swim in the ocean on Christmas Day. 

When I was 15, my Boy Scout troop went on a weeklong camping trip to the beach. On Saturday night our troop leaders drove us in the big bus from our campground to the Myrtle Beach Pavilion. We were on our own for three hours. I paid 50 cents and went into my first rock and roll show. The band was playing Carolina shag music, and everyone was dancing. I wanted to live at the beach.  

After my junior year of high school, I had a summer job at Cone Mills. My parents were friends of the owner. In early August I quit and went to the beach for three-and-a-half-weeks. A friend’s family had a cottage that they let us use, unchaperoned. That was the first time I was away from home for so long.

After my senior year of high school, I was determined to live at the beach all summer. Taking it a step at a time, I told my parents that I was going to the beach for the weekend with classmates to celebrate graduation. I did not tell them that I was going to try to get a job at the beach because I knew they would object. However, I clearly did not want to stay in Greensboro all summer and work in the cotton mill again. 

My friends and I drove to Ocean Drive, South Carolina, on Friday night after my high school graduation ceremony. I had a driver's license with my year of birth altered to make me 18 years old. One of my friends did the forgery on his father's office equipment. That was all I needed for admittance into Buck and Jap’s Barrel, one of the most popular bars. To my surprise, one of the bartenders working there was Billy Joe, a friend from Greensboro. He was a few years older than I was. I knew him from the poolroom, Mr. and Mrs. Q-Ball, where I had been playing pool and gambling for years.

Billy Joe greeted me warmly. He knew I was only 17, but he did not care. I had a fake I.D., and that was enough. When he had a break, we were able to talk. 

"I want to get a job for the summer. What does it take to be a lifeguard?" I asked. 

"Do you have your Senior Lifesaving card?" 

“Yes, I have my American Red Cross Senior Lifesaving card and my American Red Cross Water Safety Instructor Certification card with me.”

Billy Joe said, “Buck, one of the owners of this bar, has the contract for the Ocean Drive Beach Service. The season starts this weekend. Tomorrow morning Buck will be hiring all the lifeguards for the summer. Be back here at 8:00 a.m. I will introduce you to Buck and recommend that he hire you. Bring your lifesaving cards and be ready to work. If you get the job, you will have a place to live and two meals a day at the Guardhouse.” The next morning, I arrived early. I got the job and was on the beach by 9:00 a.m. By 4:00 p.m., I had the worst sunburn of my life, but I did not care. I had a job and a place to live at the beach. On Saturday evening I moved into the Guardhouse and met my new roommate and future guru, Bootie.

After work on Sunday afternoon, a few hours before my parents expected me to be home, I phoned and told them that I was not returning until September. Giving them my “good news” that I had landed a summer job at the beach, I promised that I would return in time to start my first year at the University of North Carolina. I told them there was no use in arguing about my decision. Nothing they could say would change my mind. I was excited because I was following my dream to live and work at the beach. Fortunately, the call went down smoothly, and my parents said it was okay.

Buck also offered jobs working at the Barrel to lifeguards who wanted to earn extra money at night. In 1967, the legal age in South Carolina to drink beer or work behind a bar was 18. I told Buck my true age. Since I would not be 18 until July 19, Buck did not allow me to tend bar at the beginning of the summer. Ironically, he put me on a stool at the door, checking the I.D. of anyone who appeared to be underage.

This began the first of four summers living in Ocean Drive. I followed Daddy Fred's advice and found a job I loved.  

4. Men who could go without food, water, or shelter . . . was that possible?

My summer at the beach was more fun than I could have imagined. Keeping the promise I made to my parents, I returned home the day after Labor Day. They drove me to Chapel Hill to begin my freshman year at the University of North Carolina. 

I first heard of yoga during the spring of my freshman year. I was a pledge of the Sigma Chi fraternity. One afternoon I was hanging out with some of the other pledges and fraternity brothers. An upperclassman named Scott asked if anyone had ever heard about the yogis in India. No one had. He proceeded to tell us what he had heard.  

“There are guys in India called yogis who live outdoors and survive on nothing more than a cracker a day and a thimble full of water. They sit with their legs crossed like this.” Scott sat on the floor and folded his legs into lotus. I had never seen anyone do that, and I had never thought of doing it myself. 

Scott continued, “This is called ‘sitting in lotus.’ A yogi will sit like this for months. Then an emergency will happen. With super-human power, the yogi will jump up and save the day. Then the yogi will resume sitting in lotus. Yogis are the wise men of the East. They become older and wiser, not sick and senile like everyone else."

Scott’s statement might have been an exaggeration, but it got me thinking. The yogis that Scott described did not have to eat, or at least not much. Further, they probably did not have to pay rent. They were free from the shackles of the material world. 

I remembered Bootie’s words, “There is another way to live. You can go anywhere you want to go. You can do anything you want to do. Your only limitation is your imagination.”

5. My first yoga class was at a rock festival.

In June 1970, I took two classes during the first session of summer school. I spent the second half of the summer at the beach. In September I started my senior year.

The Atlanta International Pop Festival was held over the Fourth of July weekend. Woodstock was the most famous festival of that era, but Atlanta was possibly the largest. At least 350,000 people attended, perhaps as many as 600,000. There was no way of knowing the exact number. Tickets were $14, but like Woodstock the summer before, Atlanta became an open festival when the promoters gave up on controlling the crowd and threw open the gates. 

My housemate, Steve, my girlfriend, Leslie, and I drove down to the Middle Georgia Raceway in Byron, Georgia, south of Atlanta, the site of the festival. When we arrived on Friday afternoon, there were so many cars that we had to park a mile away and walk. 

Approaching the gate, we were unprepared for the scene before us. Dealers lined each side of the road selling marijuana and a variety of psychedelics. Due to the competition, many were hawking what they had to offer like carnival barkers. Their lack of paranoia astonished me.

Steve, Leslie, and I bought our tickets and entered. Once inside the fence, we realized the magnitude of the scene we were joining. I had never seen so many hippies. They were dressed in the wildest, most colorful clothing imaginable. In contrast, I was wearing cut-off khaki shorts, an Izod Lacoste shirt, and white Tretorn tennis shoes.

Due to the huge crowd, there was no way for us to get directly in front of the stage, but that was fine. We were happy just to be there, part of this enormous, peaceful mass of humanity. We found a place to settle in for the weekend in the shade of some trees off to one side of the stage and out of the blazing sun. 

Psychedelic drugs were everywhere. Everyone was sharing. It seemed like the whole crowd was tripping. Nothing seemed threatening. The music lasted late into the night, and the audience was ecstatic. 

On Saturday morning, the master of ceremonies, Tom Law, came onstage to start the day. I had never seen a male with such long hair. Tom had a beautiful blond braid that reached halfway down his back. 

"Where did this guy come from?" I wondered. "Another planet?" 

 At that time the Beatles had long hair, over their ears and past their collars. As for me, I had not cut my hair in over two years, not since the spring of my freshman year. Recently it had gotten long enough to tie in a ponytail. 

How could Tom Law have such long hair? He seemed to be about my age or a little older. He had not gotten a haircut in years. How did he get the idea? He had no role model that I knew about, but obviously he had started letting his hair grow years before the Beatles did. 

Tom greeted everyone and then said, “Before you get high on drugs, why don’t you try getting naturally high with yoga?” 

My ears perked up; my attention shifted from his long blond hair to what he was saying. I was intrigued. I moved as close to the stage as possible. 

Tom began instructing those in the crowd who were interested. He led us through a series of elementary yoga postures while telling us to do root lock and breath of fire. 

Root lock was continuously contracting the anal sphincter muscles. Breath of fire was pumping the navel in and out while breathing rapidly through the nose and keeping the mouth closed.

With hundreds of others, I followed along, contracting my anal sphincter muscles while stretching and doing the powerful breathing. The energy I experienced from the exercises amazed me. Indeed, I was getting naturally high. 

Tom led us for about fifteen minutes. I kept feeling better and better. Of course, breathing heavily like that over an extended amount of time was enough to cause hyperventilation, giving one the feeling of being high. 

By the end of the session, my mind was blown. I had heard the term "naturally high,” but the words did not make sense to me as they seemed mutually exclusive. That morning I experienced a natural high.  

Looking back, I recall a quote attributed to Lao Tzu, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." The journey of a thousand miles in my life began with that single step, a yoga session at a rock festival on a racetrack in rural Georgia. 

Saturday was the Fourth of July. Bands played all day and into the night. Jimi Hendrix played his rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” at midnight during a fireworks display. 

This was the largest audience of Jimi’s career and one of his last performances before his death from an overdose in London, England, ten weeks later. His performance was the highlight of the festival. 

Again, on Sunday morning, Tom Law started the day with yoga. Now that I understood what I was trying to do, I immersed myself even more deeply in the exercises. I was captivated.

By midday Sunday, the crowd began to disperse. Steve, Leslie, and I trekked back to Steve’s car. My return to North Carolina was a return to day-to-day reality, but in my consciousness, the seed of yoga was sown. 

--------------------14 MONTHS LATER------------------------

28. Have I died and gone to hell?

Our bus departed from the Pudding Shop. On board were two dozen of the wildest looking hippies I had ever seen. Ian drove through the center of Istanbul, heading east. He expertly navigated our vehicle through a maze of pedestrians, cars, trucks, buses, taxis, bicycles, and two-wheeled carts overloaded with a vast assortment of goods. It was an excellent tour of the city. I viewed it all with fascination.

There were no apparent traffic rules, no clearly defined lanes. After about an hour, our forward motion came to a stop. I assumed we were stuck in traffic, but Ian informed us that we were in line to board a ferry to cross the Bosporus Strait. At that time, there was no bridge between western Istanbul and eastern Istanbul. 

Eventually, a ferry arrived. The line of vehicles began to inch forward. When our turn came, Ian drove our bus onto the ferry, and we crossed the Bosporus. Amy and I stood on the deck and enjoyed the view as Europe receded in the distance.

When we pulled off the ferry, we were in Asia. We emerged from Istanbul and continued heading east through the arid countryside. Ian drove all night. Most of us slept. 

When dawn broke, everyone began waking up. 

“Look out there! Camels!” exclaimed one of our companions.

Indeed, we saw camels tended by nomads living in black tents. At that moment, I realized we were really in Asia. Someone got out a big hookah, or hubble-bubble pipe, filled it with hash, and passed it around, celebrating the dawn of our first day in Asia. 

We drove until midmorning. Then we pulled into Ankara, the capital of Turkey. It had none of Istanbul’s charm. Ankara was a big modern looking city with unattractive concrete high-rise buildings and lots of air pollution. 

Ian parked the bus in the city center. He announced that we were free until 4:00 p.m. After driving all night, he wanted to get some sleep. 

“If anyone wants to clean up, this is your chance," Ian said. "There is a hamam across the street.”

After my experience at the Turkish bath in Istanbul, that sounded good to me. I was accustomed to bathing daily, and this looked like the only way I was going to get a bath that day. 

Amy and I, along with several others from the bus, walked over to the hamam. As in Istanbul, men and women had separate entrances. After paying, we received towels and entered.

This hamam was even less expensive than the one in Istanbul, but it was also smaller and not as beautiful. Otherwise, they offered all the same services. This time, I paid for a bath and massage, but no shave and shampoo. I did not want to have to untangle my hair again. 

As in Istanbul, I lay on my back on the heated marble platform and got hot in the steam-filled room. I was clad only in a towel wrapped around my waist. There were a dozen or so other men. 

After a few minutes, a masseur began my treatment. He kneaded my muscles and cracked my joints. He was skilled, even better than the masseur in Istanbul. Since I knew what to expect, I was able to relax and enjoy the experience even more.

As my treatment proceeded, I noticed that a patron beside me was getting an adjustment I had not received. The man was lying on his stomach doing dhanurasana, the yoga bow posture, with his hands gripping his ankles. His masseur was lifting him by his wrists and stretching him. 

I got my masseur's attention. Using sign language, I pointed to my neighbor and indicated that I would like that same adjustment done to me.

No problem. He had me roll over onto my stomach, reach back, and grab my ankles. He stood over me, grasping me by my wrists and feet. He put one of his feet on my lower back and lifted me up, really stretching me. He was quite strong.

My masseur limbered me up by shaking me a little, and then he lowered the boom. With one motion, he pulled me up by my hands and feet and pressed his foot into my lower back. My spine did not just crack, it unzipped. Every vertebra in my entire back cracked, and I blacked out. 

I do not know how long I was unconscious. When I regained consciousness, I did not know where I was. I looked around the dimly lit room, saw all the steam, and felt the heat. I saw men, none of whom I recognized, wearing only towels around their waists.

“Oh my God, I’ve died and gone to hell!”

Gradually, I started putting it together. I realized, "I am in a Turkish bath. Everything is okay. As a matter of fact, everything is great!" 

My spine, indeed my whole body, had never felt so good in my entire life. I wondered, "How did I not know about this before? How was I going to be able to make this type of treatment a regular part of my life?"

When the treatment ended, I got dressed and met Amy outside. 

Upon seeing me, she commented, "You look different. I've never seen you smiling like this before."  

"I've never felt this good before," I said, adding that my masseur cracked my back, and I blacked out. 

I asked, "Did they crack you on the women’s side?"  

“No," she responded. "None of the masseuses were cracking bones. My masseuse gently massaged and bathed me while singing to me. It was a pleasant experience, but nothing like yours."  

---------------------------------------------------------------

34. "Do you wish to buy a fine gun, sir?"

After leaving Kabul, the road ascended into high mountains. We drove through the famous Khyber Pass, the main route between Afghanistan and West Pakistan. On each side of the road, we saw fortifications, one after another. For centuries, this route had been the scene of ambushes and battles.

Eventually, we descended from the high mountains to a desert plateau. We were approaching the border between Afghanistan and West Pakistan. It was late afternoon, and Ian knew that the border checkpoint closed at sunset. We spent that night at a caravansary about ten miles before the border. 

The next morning, we arose early. By 7:00 a.m., we pulled up to the border checkpoint. Ian handed our passports to the guards. No one got off the bus. Our passports were stamped and returned within a few minutes. 

"Excellent," I thought to myself. "No delay."  

We started to move forward, when from the side of the building, a western looking girl frantically approached Ian’s window.  

“Will you please get me out of here?" she begged. "I've been raped."

Ian opened the door. As the girl came on board, he asked, "Can you give me some money for the ride?"  

"I don't have any money," she said. 

Despite her lack of money, Ian let her stay on the bus. She thanked Ian for picking her up. We listened as she told him her story. 

The night before her ride stranded her at the border, and her nightmare began. She said numerous Afghan soldiers and border guards had raped her. The girl was disheveled, dirty, and carrying only a few belongings. It was hard for me to believe a female would travel alone in Afghanistan.

The girl sat by herself on one of the front seats. She appeared to be in a state of shock. In fact, all of us were in shock after hearing her story. She stayed with us until the next town, Darra, West Pakistan. Then she got off the bus. We never saw her again.

Darra was a dusty border town. The area was known as the northwest frontier, and “frontier” it was. We stopped for an hour to eat our first meal of the day. We walked around a bit. Not only were we offered hashish and opium, like everywhere else, we were offered weapons. 

I quickly realized that the main industry in this town was manufacturing and selling weapons. Shops on the main street had every type of gun imaginable on display and for sale. The guns were counterfeits of popular international models. By peering through to the rear of the shops, one could see workers reproducing weapons with primitive tools. These replicated weapons were on display out front. 

Shopkeepers greeted us with smiles and hospitably invited us in for a cup of tea and a smoke from the hookah. They asked repeatedly, "Do you wish to buy a fine gun, sir?"

They showed us rifles, pistols, and even machine guns. At one point, we heard shots coming from the next shop. Some boys were test-firing a rifle into the air. It appeared they had just finished making it. 

I felt like I was in the "wild west," except that this was the “wild east." Once again, I realized we were the only ones in the town who were not armed. All of the locals were friendly though, and we passed through Darra without incident. 

We spent that night in Islamabad, the capital of West Pakistan. The next morning, we drove to the border between West Pakistan and India. As we approached the border, we had to slow down to a snail's pace. We were entering a sea of humanity. There were thousands of people on foot, waiting to cross into India. It appeared the crush of people might trap our bus, but Ian drove slowly and skillfully forward. Lightly honking his horn continuously, he made it to the border checkpoint. The guards were surprisingly jovial and friendly with us. They let us through with little delay. I guess the guards had enough problems and did not feel the need to harass us. 

The first big city that we reached in India was Amritsar. We stopped for a few hours to rest and see the Golden Temple, the holiest shrine of the Sikh religion. The temple's huge gold dome was impressive. We walked around and looked at the temple complex. In front of the temple was a large reflecting pool, but there was no reflection that day because of algae in the water. 

It was our first day in India, and we were ecstatic to have finally arrived.

36. If this is yoga, I may have made a big mistake.

Now that Amy and I were in India, we began our search for yoga instruction. We went into bookstores that sold books in English and inquired if they had any books on yoga. If they did, I would ask a clerk if he knew a place where we could learn yoga. The clerk would confer with his colleagues and try to be helpful. I had expected that yoga instruction would be easy to find, but that was not the case. After lots of inquiry, we discovered there was a class each morning at 6:00 a.m. at a soccer field that was about a fifteen-minute walk from where we were staying. 

The next morning, we got up early. New Delhi was just beginning to awaken. A few people were out walking, and sweepers were starting to clean the streets. The streets were peaceful at that early hour, compared to the rest of the day, and the air seemed fresh and cool. 

As we were following our directions to the location of the yoga class, I saw something I had never seen before. There was a naked man walking down the street. No one was paying attention to him. I realized that one should be prepared to see anything in India. 

We found the soccer field. About forty men of all ages were there, many engaged in performing cleansing techniques. Some were forcing themselves to vomit by sticking their fingers down their throats. Now I had one more thing to avoid stepping in, puddles of mucous and vomit. 

Others were doing two cleansing exercises that I had read about, but not seen. One was dhauti, in which the practitioner swallowed about 22 feet of gauze soaked in water. After swallowing the gauze, he pulled it back out. They believed this practice absorbed excess stomach acid. 

The other practice was neti. To do neti, the practitioner used a neti string, a foot-long piece of cord covered with a thin layer of wax to stiffen it. Men inserted the string through their nostrils and then pulled it out through the mouth. 

Men were doing these cleansing exercises, using the gauze and strings and then returning them to a bucket of dirty water for the next person to use. 

"Oh, no," I thought, with a sinking feeling. "If this is yoga, I may have made a big mistake. I do not want to share these rags and strings after someone else has used them. For that matter, I do not want to do these practices at all. If this is yoga, I may have made a huge effort to come all this way to India for nothing."  

We watched for a while longer. Fortunately, no one insisted that we do any cleansings. In fact, no one seemed to notice us at all. Eventually, everyone spread out on the soccer field. Thankfully, it was finally time for asana class. 

Amy was the only female. A man led us through basic yoga postures for the next forty-five minutes. After the asanas, we all lay on the ground for a few minutes of relaxation in corpse posture. Then everyone got up and dispersed. 

My first yoga class in India was a huge disappointment. The "cleansing" exercises repulsed me, and the asana practice was elementary compared to what I was already doing. I knew I had to keep searching.

It was 7:00 a.m. when we left the class. The city was alive with traffic. Once again, there were lots of scooter rickshaws, cars, buses, and trucks, many of them belching clouds of black exhaust smoke. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians, and beggars continually solicited us, trying to get our sympathy and rupees. With outstretched hands, they beseeched us, "Baksheesh, baksheesh?" They addressed me as “Sahib” and Amy as “Amah.”

We walked to Mohan Singh Market. Since we had changed money the day before, the moneychangers’ agents immediately encircled us, offering the day's rate. They remembered that we were customers the day before. When I said, "So sorry, no more dollars," they changed gears, offering marijuana, hashish, and opium. 

What we really wanted was breakfast. In the food court of Mohan Singh, we had a fabulous breakfast of fried bananas, banana pancakes, and mango lassi. The food felt so healthy, especially after the food in Iran, Afghanistan, and West Pakistan. 

After eating, we returned to our guesthouse to bathe. It was so hot. We bathed with cold water at every opportunity.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the city. In the afternoon, we took a bus to Old Delhi to see the famous Red Fort and the Delhi Zoo. If we thought that New Delhi was crowded, it was nothing compared to Old Delhi. We were tiny fish in a sea of humanity. It was a sensory overload. Trying to take it all in, we wandered around in amazement.

82. I had my first class with Guruji.

Nancy and I woke up before dawn and bathed with cold water. On the street in front of our hotel, we awakened a rickshaw driver curled up on his passenger seat. He was not upset. He was happy to get an opportunity to earn. By 6:00 a.m., we were at Ashtanga Yoga Nilayam, 876/1 Lakshmi Puram, 1st Cross. 

The yoga room was in a detached two-story building behind Guruji’s home. We walked down an alley to the left of the front house and entered the building. We removed our shoes in a small entrance area. 

Peeking in, we saw the room had space for eight people to practice. The floor was a concrete slab covered by a well-worn, almost wall-to-wall, flat weave dhurrie carpet. There were two rows of sweating, heavily breathing middle-aged men. Guruji was moving among them, chatting, making jokes, and assisting them in various postures. When he saw Nancy and me, he greeted us and beckoned us to come into the room, sit by the wall, and watch. 

Each student was doing something different. The asanas they were doing were relatively elementary, but everyone was breathing deeply and quite audibly. I had never heard such continuous powerful breathing in a yoga class. I felt the energy, and I liked it. I was ready to get started. 

The yogashala (house of yoga) operated like a parking lot with eight spaces. When one student finished, another immediately took his place. No two people were doing the same thing at the same time. 

This format was new to me. In all my previous classes, the teacher named a posture, and everyone did it. Then we rested in corpse until the teacher called out the next posture. It was “stop, go, stop, go.”  

After watching for a while, I realized that everyone was doing the same series of asanas that I saw Guruji’s son do at Ananda Ashram. There was a flow to this practice, and no one rested between the postures.

Each student started his practice with Salutations to the Sun. The sequence was similar to the moves I had learned from Swami Satchidananda’s book, but it was not exactly the same. Guruji’s students did two variations of the Salutation to the Sun. The second one had more steps. 

After the Salutations came a series of standing postures and then floor postures. Everyone was doing the same series in his own individual way. Everyone finished with what I later learned were the three Finishing Postures. 

No one rested in corpse posture at the end of his practice as I was accustomed to doing. When a student vacated his spot, the person who had been waiting the longest took his place, put down his mat, and began his practice. 

The departing student touched Guruji’s feet with both hands. Then Guruji touched the student’s shoulder and dismissed him. No one left without touching Guruji’s feet. This was called “taking leave.” 

Eventually, two spaces opened up, and no one else was waiting to start. Guruji told Nancy and me that it was our turn. He directed us to sit beside each other, and he sat in front of us. Guruji crossed his legs in padmasana, lotus posture, and indicated we should do the same.

With a student interpreting, Guruji began, “I am going to teach you a classical method of yoga that is more than 5,000 years old. This is the most ancient form of yoga. We know the lineage of yogis who have passed it down, all the way back to the first yogi, Lord Shiva. It is taught move by move, breath by breath. This is an exact method. You must promise that you will not change it. Classical means unchanged over the centuries.”

We promised.

Guruji put one hand on each of our abdomens and said, “Breathing.”

We began deep breathing. 

“You must contract it, your anus. This is mula bandha. You must do mula bandha. You must not stop it, the mula bandha. Inhalation and exhalation through the nose only. Deep breathing!”   

We slowly breathed in and out while Guruji pressed and squeezed our abdomens with his fingertips. By pressing our abdomens, he verified that we were doing mula bandha correctly. 

Next, Guruji told me to stand up and do Surya Namaskara A, the First Salutation to the Sun. While waiting for my turn, I had watched students begin their practice with this series of movements, and I had memorized them. With a little prompting from Guruji, I went through the exercise. 

When I got to what we now call “downward dog,” Guruji, in his limited English, said, “You must see it, your navel.” He indicated that my chin should be touching my chest, and my gaze should be toward my navel.

After I completed the First Salutation to the Sun, Guruji told me to do it nine more times. Then he motioned for Nancy to stand up. He took her through the First Salutation to the Sun while I continued on my own. At one point, I paused. Guruji admonished me, saying I was supposed to keep moving and breathing in a continuous flow. He said that if I stopped, I would be finished for that session. There was no resting allowed until the end.

After I completed ten of the First Salutation to the Sun, Guruji had me sit on the floor again. He taught me the three Finishing Postures. 

First, he sat in front of me and indicated that I should sit in baddha padmasana, bound lotus, with my left leg on top. I crossed my arms behind my back and grasped my big toes. He motioned for me to lean forward until my head touched the floor. He instructed me to take ten deep breaths. 

After the ten breaths, Guruji had me come up and sit with my back straight for the second Finishing Posture. He put his wrists against his knees and did jnana mudra, the wisdom gesture, with his hands. He connected the tips of his thumbs and forefingers while pointing the other three fingers of each hand down to the floor. He gestured for me to do the same. 

Then he instructed me to engage the three bandhas: mula bandha, uddiyana bandha, and jalandhara bandha, and begin deep breathing. Mula bandha, the root lock, automatically engaged the second bandha, uddiyana bandha, the abdominal lock. Jalandhara, the third bandha, was the chin lock. I lowered my chin to my chest, as I pulled my shoulders down and back. 

Guruji said, “You must sit like a proud pigeon.”

I gazed at my navel and did 25 long, slow, deep breaths. Twice Guruji pressed on my abdomen below my navel to remind me that I was supposed to be continually holding the strongest possible mula bandha. 

At one point, I began to switch my legs and put my right leg on top. Guruji stopped me. He said I should only sit in padmasana with my left leg on top. Sitting in lotus with my right leg on top was incorrect. 

This contradicted what I had previously learned. As I understood it, a primary goal of hatha yoga was symmetry. Therefore, I understood that one should do every position equally on each side. 

“Guruji,” I asked, “In yoga, aren’t you supposed to alternate from side to side?” 

“No, not in padmasana. In padmasana, right leg first, left leg on top. Otherwise, it is bad for the liver and spleen.”  

Guruji was emphatic and left no room for argument. 

I was incredulous, but I did not say anything else. I thought, “This is my first class. Why argue? He is the expert, not I. I am not going to change his mind. I just want to learn what he is teaching.” 

Finally, Guruji demonstrated tolasana, the third Finishing Posture, and then asked me to do it. Still sitting in lotus, I put my palms on the floor beside my hips, lifted my body off the floor, and began breathing as rapidly as possible, like bhastrika, bellows breathing. He told me to stay up for 100 breaths.

I was relieved that I was able to hold the posture for the entire 100 breaths. Guruji smiled and said that I had completed my first class. We were to return at 4:00 p.m. for our afternoon session. 

He led us upstairs. There was a desk and several chairs. Guruji got out a school attendance book and asked us to tell him our full names. He wrote them in the book. I gave him the one-time joining fee and our tuition for the first month. He counted the rupees carefully.

Guruji reminded us that no matter what the circumstances, we must show up for every class, even if we were sick. We said that we understood.

He told us to go to the Khadi Shop near the Central Market and purchase dhurrie mats like the ones the other students used in class. He gave us directions. In his language, Kannada, he wrote the shop’s name and address and handed the paper to me. 

Following the example of his other students, we touched Guruji’s feet and thanked him. He touched us on the shoulder, gave each of us a nice smile, and thanked us in return. 

I left the yogashala in a state of joy. I was in India, and I was enrolled in classes with a yoga master.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------113. I met Tat Wale Baba.

After morning meditation, hatha yoga class, and breakfast, George, Nancy, and I walked down to the river and boarded the ferry to Swarg Ashram. We were going to look for Tat Wale Baba. I knew little about him, except that he had spent years in meditation, and he only wore a kaupina, even in the winter. Other than those two clues, I had no idea what to expect.

As the twenty seats on the boat filled, I observed the other passengers. A few men were local workers; the rest were sightseeing Hindu couples, going to visit the legendary village of Swarg Ashram. As a former lifeguard, I could not help but wonder how many of my fellow passengers could swim. No one was wearing a life jacket; there were none in the boat. Thankfully, the river was calm, and the crossing was easy. 

Swarg Ashram, on the east side of the Ganges, was directly across from Sivananda Ashram. Above the bathing ghat where our boat landed was a central square with the Chotiwala Restaurant and a few shops. In each direction, ashrams and temples faced the river.  

I imagined the range of possibilities if I had more time. I would have loved to stay in each ashram and experience the variety of yoga methods passed down through the centuries by each ashram’s lineage of gurus. 

Rishikesh was a holy place, and I was a pilgrim. There were yogis everywhere, far more than any other place in the world. Most of them wore orange clothing. Orange represents the fire of purification. The particular shade of orange worn by yogis is gerua. Gerua is a type of soil found around Rishikesh that is high in iron oxide. It is a natural dye.

A yogi’s orange clothing indicates that a guru has initiated him into sannyasa, renunciation. A chela lives with a guru, serves him, and learns his sadhana, his practices. Eventually, generally after ten years, the guru initiates the chela. 

A yogi’s initiation is a funeral. Prior to the rite, he must give away or discard all his belongings. He is shaved, hairless like a newborn baby. During the ceremony, the guru gives the initiate a new spiritual name. His past is gone. He has achieved liberation while still in the flesh.

The guru presents his disciple with two pieces of gerua cloth. These will serve as his clothing in the daytime and his bedding at night. He also gives him a begging bowl and a mala, a rosary of 108 rudraksha beads. 

The beads are seeds from the rudraksha (Elaeocarpus ganitrus) tree. The name rudraksha translates to “Rudra,” one of the 108 names of Shiva, and “aksha,” eyes. Each seed has five sections and represents the eyes of Shiva. The seeds are drilled and strung on red or black thread. A mala always has 108 beads. 

The holiest, luckiest, and most auspicious number in India is 108. Two cubed times three squared or three cubed times two squared equals 108. I once met an old yogi who was reputed to be over 100 years old. One of his six names was 108. 

After initiation, some yogis continue to shave their heads and beards on the full moon and new moon, but most never touch a razor again. They let their hair mat into dreadlocks. As the jatas get longer, they become heavier. It is said that the weight makes their hair continue to grow longer and longer. 

In the square, we came upon a yogi in orange clothes and a monkey wearing a miniature copy of the same outfit. The two had reversed their roles. The man wore a collar with a leash around his neck. The monkey held the leash and was the man’s master. The man held out a cup and begged on their behalf. Where else but in Rishikesh would one come upon such a pair? 

At a small provision store, we bought a kilo of rice and a kilo of dal. We walked downstream until we saw the sign for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Ashram. That was where, in 1968, the Beatles and the Beach Boys had lived with the Maharishi and practiced Transcendental Meditation. After six weeks at the ashram, on his final day, John Lennon wrote a song that he initially titled “Maharishi,” but later renamed “Sexy Sadie.”

As we approached the ashram, we saw little activity. Apparently, the Maharishi was not around. The few people there were workers. No one paid attention to us as we walked along the border of the property. We had no trouble finding the trail that led up the mountain to Tat Wale Baba’s cave. 

After walking uphill through the forest for about ten minutes, we saw two tarps tied to trees. Below the makeshift shelter was a group of about 20 yogis, sitting on the ground in a line, eating their lunch on banana leaves. Their meal was standard fare: a big pile of rice, dal, curried vegetables, chapatis, and raita. There was a fire and an outdoor kitchen under the far end of one of the tarps. The chef was a yogi with a huge coil of dreadlocks stacked on top of his head. Another yogi with massive dreadlocks was serving the food.

The diners were a wild looking group, most wearing nothing but a kaupina or a lungi. Each had a beard and long dreadlocks. A few looked up from their meals and acknowledged our presence, but the majority simply continued eating.  

A man, perhaps in his thirties, greeted us. He wore western clothing and spoke to us in English. 

“You have come to meet Tat Wale Baba?” he asked. 

“Yes,” we replied.

“Welcome. He is here.” 

We handed our bags of rice and dal to the man. He thanked us and set the bags in the kitchen area. 

“When people come to visit the baba, they know to bring food. The food is prepared and served to these yogis. They live in caves in the mountain above here and do not have a regular source of food. They come here each day for their meals.  

“I am a devotee of Tat Wale Baba. I own a shop in Haridwar. I come here whenever I have the opportunity. I will be happy to interpret your questions for him. I like learning from him in this way. He is my guru.”

The man indicated for us to follow him. We walked to the right a short distance to a slightly elevated platform.

Sitting on the platform, erect with his legs in half lotus, was a handsome man. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was taller and stronger than the average Indian. I estimated the yogi’s dreadlocks were at least 6 or 7 feet long, easily long enough to reach the ground if he stood. They were brown, with no trace of grey, and spread around him on the platform. His skin was soft and shiny, perhaps from applying oil. His eyes were clear and engaging.

The shopkeeper introduced us to Tat Wale Baba. We were fortunate. There were no other visitors that morning.

Tat Wale Baba gestured for us to sit on the platform in front of him. Nancy, George, and I sat and crossed our legs into lotus.

Pointing to an opening in the mountain a little above where we were sitting, our interpreter said, “That cave is where Tat Wale Baba lives. He has meditated in that cave for many years, since he was a young man. Summer or winter, he only wears a kaupina. He only leaves his cave to bathe in the Ganges at dawn and to meet people for an hour at 10:00 a.m. to answer their questions. The rest of the time, he is in meditation.”

Tat Wale Baba appeared to be a healthy 35 or 40-year-old. It was not until later that I found out that he was around 84 years old. His exact date of birth is unknown. 

“Tat Wale Baba does not speak English, but I will be happy to interpret. Please ask him some questions.” 

I thought for a moment. My mind was blank. Our interpreter turned to George. “Ask him a question.” 

George said, “For a long time, one side of my nose has been stopped up, and I cannot breathe properly. Even after all of my yoga practices, one nostril is always blocked.”

Our new friend interpreted George’s words and Tat Wale Baba’s advice. 

“Look within, back to the time when both sides of your nose were open. Then look forward in your life, and you will discover the cause of your problem. Once you return to the origin of your problem, you will find the solution to correct it.” 

The answer seemed to satisfy George. At least, he did not have a follow-up question. 

Our interpreter turned to me. 

“Ask him a question, any question.” 

Tat Wale Baba was the most magnetic, charismatic human I had ever met. He radiated strength, health, and well-being. My intuition told me that this man was a true yogi. Our surroundings and the other yogis present reinforced that feeling.

I thought for a moment, and then I said to our interpreter, “Okay, please tell him this. I have been practicing yoga for several years. I am happy with my yoga practice; I am happy with my life. I just spent several months in Mysore with a hatha yoga master. I am not looking for more teachings. I have enough to work on for a long time. Nevertheless, please ask the baba, as a big yogi to a little yogi, from just looking at me, does he have any advice for me?” 

The shopkeeper interpreted my question.

Tat Wale Baba smiled, looked deeply into my eyes, and spoke. “The hatha yoga that you are learning is not the real yoga. I can see that you are sincere. Go get your belongings and come live here with me. I will teach you the real yoga.” 

I could not believe my ears. This magnificent yogi was inviting me to come live with him. He was offering to teach me the real yoga. The relevance of everything in my life prior to that moment fell away. I felt Tat Wale Baba was the embodiment of everything I came to India seeking.

My response was spontaneous and unequivocal. “Sir, I want to live here and learn yoga from you more than anything. However, I have a problem. I have been in India for almost six months, and my visa expires in a few days. I must go to New Delhi and then leave the country, or the authorities will arrest me. May I leave and return to India as soon as possible and then learn yoga from you?” 

“Yes,” he replied. “When you return, come here and live with me.” 

I was overwhelmed. My heart melted. Although I had only spent a short amount of time with him, the power this man exuded captivated me. I felt I was in the presence of a great yogi, and he had offered to teach me the real yoga.

It was 11:00 a.m. The baba’s time for meeting people was over. We thanked Tat Wale Baba profusely. I told him that I was going to return as soon as I could. I was in ecstasy! 

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