Shivasana is the story of a yoga school, where the teachings include a murderous quest for enlightenment.
Excerpts:
The dining hall was full of books, beat up antiques, and instruments hippies used to play. Yellowed chandeliers hung low over the tables. On the buffet were platters of fruit, pots of hot cereal, and tureens of eggs. Judy took her breakfast out on the deck and found a table with a view of Cherry Road. After two bites, she opened the folder.
The first page was a black and white photograph, yellowed and stained, of a tree with two main trunks branching away from each other to dangle their leaves out over a downhill slope. At the left, part of a wall showed, a pale fresco of birds and vines—to the right, the slope to a dry creek bed. From each of the two branches, a rope dangled over the creek, mottled and frayed at the ends. The roots entangled themselves with the rocks of the creek bank. She flipped it over. On the back, someone had penciled, Frangipani Creek, Chandrapore.
Sitting back, Judy let her gaze wander out over the narrow valley Cherry Creek had carved into its mountain. Through the trees beyond the pools, she could see the vineyards; closer in, the dormitory–on the second-floor veranda, the yellow of her scarf draped over the rattan chair. In the garden below, someone was kneeling in front of the statue. She had long bones, and short tufted hair—but the slender neck belonged to a woman. She was looking up, head moving as if she were speaking to the statue. Now she bowed down until her upper body was flat on the ground, her face on the stones.
Judy’s view was obscured by students from the morning yoga class. Drawn and shaky, they drifted up the stairs to gather around the water cooler. A young woman pranced up after them with her green tea, and the faint smirk of a newly minted teacher who’d put her class through an ordeal.
Judy stood up. “Antimony, can I talk to you?”
“Of course,” she said, trapped. A recent graduate of Satya’s rather unconventional teacher training, Antimony lived in a yurt overlooking Cherry Creek, where her day began at five am. She only wanted French toast with bacon, and a long nap on her futon.
“I want to switch,” said Judy.
“Did you have a bad night?”
Judy sat down. “My room is fine. I want to switch programs.”
“Which one did you have in mind?”
“I’d like to try Kaivalyam, the one they call Perfection.”
Antimony perched at the edge of a chair, and placed her tea on the table.
“Tell me about the class,” Judy said, peeling the crust off her chia toast.
“What do you know about it?” Antimony was lovely, her dark hair captured in a supreme ponytail, her cocoa brown yoga ensemble setting off her cinnamon skin. Even if Cherry Road had bacon, she wouldn’t eat it. She never ate. To enjoy food is a weakness.
Judy knew all about that. After a lifetime of dieting, now she couldn’t keep enough weight on. In spite of the envy for one whose whole life lay ahead of her, she had a pang of empathy for the young, misguided, and starving.
“I know that Maggie flunked out of it.”
“Maggie?” said Antimony.
“And now she’s dead.”
Antimony took a moment. The years of ballet had not prepared her for this. Her dharma name exactly suited her. She was driven, judgmental, and pleased with herself. But the practice, its tedium and pain and striving, had only started with her. In this cauldron, the Durga would burn away her devotion to bodily perfection. One day this would make her an exceptional teacher. That day was a long way off.
“It’s a really hard class,” she said. “Impossible, really. And there’s no, um, substances.” It was not Antimony’s finest hour.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Judy took off her silver bracelet and rubbed her forearm. “She left me the file.”
“What’s in it?”
“I want to switch. Now, today. I don’t have much time.”
Unconsciously, Antimony fingered the point of her hip bone. The perfection of its solid sharpness grounded her. “It’s not being offered right now.”
“There’s another student.”
“Who told you that?”
“I know who she is,” Judy said, her eyes glittering. “I saw her practicing, just now.” She stood up. “Maybe I should speak with your manager.”
“The manager isn’t here at the moment.”
“Then perhaps I’ll talk to Heather myself.”
“Please don’t,” said Antimony. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When Judy was gone, Antimony allowed herself a long in-breath, raising the tattoo on her clavicle. A circle with a cross on top—the ancient symbol for her teacher name—the tattoo had been a gift from Satya. When Judy appeared below, making her painful way through the gardens, the breath went out with a groan. There was no manager. There was nobody.
