My Yoga Day moment

Kishore Singh explains how he had a chance to be a participant of the yoga event

There were anxious moments as we examined the spoils we’d managed to assemble for International Yoga Day. My wife’s yoga mat was worn out in parts. She hadn’t exercised in a while so the mat was used for things it was never intended for — repotting plants, handwashing clothes, drying vegetables for making pickles, bathing the dog. My daughter’s yoga mat was pretty and pink, almost new, but she insisted on its replacement as it was no longer trendy. I’d never owned a yoga mat. And now here was an invitation to participate in a yoga event to which I’d said yes. The Italian embassy had kindly invited spouses, and children over 13, so I persuaded my daughter to agree to accompany us, even though it was the crack of dawn. 

My wife volunteered to buy the yoga mats, one for each of us. The embassy had suggested round neck Ts of the kind I didn’t own, and “stretchable” shorts, so my wife took a measuring tape to my expanding girth. “It’s all that junk food you eat,” she announced grimly. My daughter contended that if I was to get new clothes, so would she. “Seeing how I’m doing you a favour,” my wife pointed out, “I’ll need the car and driver.” I could understand her not wanting to drive and park in the heat, but most days when my wife purloins the chauffeur, I have to Uber it home from work. 

My wife has a fear of missing out on things. If she “borrows” the driver for a lunch appointment with pals, she might ask to be taken to a salon first to get her hair done. Her itinerary will be erratic: Drop by to say hello to a friend’s cousin who’s in town for a day, careen off to an exhibition to post photographs with the artist on Facebook, stop by at a pop-up, decide on coffee and cake with another friend she hasn’t met in a fortnight, squeeze in a film because… why not? And then call to say the rest of us shouldn’t wait up for dinner, she just happened to have a change of clothes and shoes in the car and decided to meet a bunch of “girls” for wine and gossip.

So, on the day before our yoga rendezvous, I’d reconciled to managing the commute on my own. According to the driver, my wife started with coffee at a friend’s mother’s home because she saves jars of homemade marmalade for her, then dropped it at a saree sale, decided on an unscheduled potluck with another girlfriend, went shopping for veggies and meats at INA Market, drove to some far corner for organic fertiliser for her plants. At home, appearing remarkably guilt-free, she observed, “What with all the errands I ran for all of you, I didn’t have the time to get you the yoga stuff.” 

In previous years, I’d looked on enviously as acquaintances attended one or another yoga event. Now, here, finally, I had a chance to be a participant, no longer a voyeur. “I do hope you don’t mind too much, darling,” said my wife, carting her worn out mat to the embassy, while I looked on. “Don’t worry,” I sighed — for, truthfully, even with a mat and yoga wear, I wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.