An update on my Raging Rajeesh Romance (here forthwith, RRR). Unfortunately, it appears to remain one-sided.
I’m sorry, no photo; my pap attempts were thwarted by unideal lighting.
This afternoon, as per ush, my boy arrived 15 minutes before class. Yet another trait that he ticks on my list of the perfect man – punctuality.
Rather than the usual Hatha yoga, we did a session of ashtanga vinyasa, a more dynamic range of the asanas. If you think of yoga as a marathon, ashtanga vinyasa is more a set of back-to-back sprints for 90 minutes. So pretty much, it was faster, far more strenuous and required intense concentration. And a lot more sweat.
Baby boo Rajeesh was incredible at it. So swift, strong and supple. He moved with such grace it was like a flower unfurling in sunlight. Just beautiful. At one stage I was admiring his lovely shoulders when it suddenly hit me what he reminded me of; you know the Australian caramello koalas? When they’re out of the packet? The face of the chocolate creature is so smoothly rounded – like his bulging biceps. I guess although a slightly weird comparison, it means he is quite edible. And tasty.
At one stage there was an inverted triangle pose, my absolute dreaded asana. With my wobbly left knee, balancing in this position proves extremely difficult for old Pop. I was slowly gaging my way down, legs spread (completely innocently, was part of the posture you dirty beggar), and my head raised up to lock on my right thumb. And then Rajeesh suddenly appeared and yanked back my pelvis (how sexy).
I immediately toppled over, bringing my man down with me. In our tangle of limbs I noted that the height difference made no difference when we were lying down at all. Fantastic! There is hope.
At the beginning and conclusion of each class Rajeesh sings a mantra and we repeat it. Today he told us he would like us to learn them completely as they are his favourites and very special to him. I asked him what they meant whereupon he translated both, staring into my eyes the whole time. The words were seriously so beautiful, about coming from darkness to light and what not. I was transfixed! It was like this caramello koala was serenading me. I don’t know if a block of chocolate has ever sung to you, but it’s pretty fantastic. And he was so soulful, really believing in the lyrics and not reeling them off and reciting them off handedly.
Then came the sign that this is meant to be. After much pressing (he is so self-effacing) he divulged that he has a Bachelor of Commerce and is currently doing his Masters in Art and Yoga. Um, the ultimate qualifications for our New Zealand based yoga school and ashram or what?! It’s like my soulmate has been handed to me in one neat, little 155cm parcel.
Eva also coaxed out of him that although he is not locked into an arranged marriage, his parents must approve of any broad before any union. I wonder what constitutes the perfect bride-to-be for your son, and what aspect of myself might outshine the dark cloud of me not being Indian?
A Google search on the matter led me to India.com, which listed five criteria of the perfect Indian wife, as follows.
1. Be docile and virginal. (Hmmmm…)
2. Start saving up for a generous dowry. (What constitutes “generous”? Luckily this obligation would fall to Henio, and I’m sure the boat doesn’t mean that much to him).
3. Be from a cultured family. (Does religious weekly watching of Coro Streer count?)
4. Don’t smoke, drink or have any bad habits. (Luckily cigarettes just aren’t my cup of tea; I’m sure I could sneak a glass of vino unnoticed here and there; would cussing and the odd “fuck” laced into a sentence be deemed vulgar traits?)
5. “A good wife honours her husband by keeping a pleasant tone in her voice, a happy smile on her face and a dressed up, neat and clean appearance”. (Well I’m pretty fucked here. I’m prone to going a bit sour when I’m tired, and my love of pyjamas as soon as I get in the door of home may prove a problem).
All able to be worked on or faked, in the case of number one, if need be.