Cecil, photographed prior to his ‘treatment’
Dear reader, Cecil sends us this fragment which indicates what he’s been up to. And the reading is very grim indeed. Now we’re not sure if the “Black hole of Calcutta’ is still an expression in common usage in India these days’. Since independence quite a few things have changed. For example, the trains are now pulled by diesels more often than steam trains, and it is alleged that the maharajah of Mysore has sold off all his Rolls Royces to pay for a health resort in which incredibly, people pay for the privelege of having themselves literally , “whipped into shape”. We gather that India still abounds in the surreal and unfathomable mysticism as described by Kipling and Newby, but shopping and ‘standardisation” is transforming the indian cities and turning them into places we would be familiar with. Dull places run by bankers, financiers and developers. Which is the tragedy of “standardisation” which we see before our very eyes as Melbourne transforms into “ Melba-pore”. A sort of hybrid city which bespeaks of anywhere and nothing. But in the country rituals still enforce a deep seated tradition of pain and suffering, and for the unwary, a lifetime of agony.
Read on.
The Maharajah of Mysore. Into health farms now. More lucrative than Tiger hunting and Rolls Royces.
‘Good morning, sir. It is time for you to be getting up.’ says the voice on the phone in that clipped Indian accent that only Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers seem to be able to replicate. 5 am. Bloody five am. I slide back in bed. The wife purrs. I think of Pussy Galore, lick my lips and reach out. Then I think of Donald Trump and that is the end of that. Dressed in the regulation loose clothing, sandals, the wife and I sip green tea with a dash of lemon from tiny glasses, among the other mid early risers. The early risers have already gone to the hall to get the best matts and best positions for the 6 am yoga session. Bleary eyed we join them picking up our yoga mats and pillows as we go.
Cecil (front) and other Australians practising their Yoga routine post ” treatment’.
I look askance at the row upon row of yoga devotee, sitting cross legged on their mats, thumb and forefinger touching, the other three fingers straight out. There is complete silence and stillness. I try to move soundlessly and put my mat down. The noise is loud, no one moves. I replicate the sitting positions of the experts, and think I blend in, despite my hair and fair complexion. Five seconds pass and I congratulate myself. Ten seconds and I’m still pretty pleased. Fifteen seconds and my left hip starts to grumble. In quick succession my right hip joins in. As does my knee, my other knee and my lower back. I put my left leg out, I put my left leg in . . . I resist singing, as I doubt the appropriateness of the song that is in my mind. Just then a deeper silence arises, the Teacher enters sits legs crossed, knees flat on the floor, right foot on left knee. We sit for ten minutes, ten pain riddled minutes, before he speaks. I strain to hear, then a great solemn ‘ohmmm’ engulfs the hall – where did that come from I ponder before the next ‘ohmmm’ arises and my memory takes me to comedy sketches on yoga which always include ‘ohmmm’s, so with a smile I join in.
Our Teacher leads us through a series of increasingly impossible moves, each seemingly designed to emphasise the firmness of his buttocks and the suppleness of his limbs. I feel, but don’t see, the women, and a couple of the men, swoon. Let this be over soon I chant soundlessly, and after one last ‘ohmmm’ it is.
Now for some special treatments!
Cecil Poole
Dear reader we are unable to describe the special treatments as suggested by Cecil, Suffice to say we refer you to chapter 69 of the Khama Sutra, and we’ll leave the rest to your imagination. No country attains a population of over one billion by just meditating.