I am Indian. And I can't do Yoga.

My body lacks the flexibility that is a pre-requirement in doing yoga, or at least doing the poised form of yoga. Other women can contort their bodies into shapes befitting gorgeous creatures, with a saintly smile on their serene faces. While my right leg attempts to stay still, as my outstretched left arm quivers, and my abs (or lack thereof), recall the white chocolate and strawberry muffin that should've been avoided. I stumble. Always the first in class to let go of the pose. Toned, white bodies around me pity my awkward fumbling brown body and perhaps wonder if I am really Indian.

"Why can't you simply sit crossed legs like everyone else in class?" The voice of my 3rd grade PE teacher, steeped in frustration,  resounds in my ear. I try again to place my right foot on my left thigh, and then slowly lift my left foot towards my right thigh....oops my right foot has slid of my thigh. A plastic smile stuck on my face I keep glancing at the clock, legs finally crossed, but my knees higher than everyone else. The rest sit in insta-worthy poses, blonde hair tied in perky pony tails, back curved at the right angle, and that tranquil but oh-so-smug expression.

Finally! Savasana. A pose I have more or less mastered. Lying on my back, which is threatening to quit on me, legs spread imagining unspeakable thoughts, arms by the side, palms facing up, praying for class to get over, slow breaths, 1...2...3...My eyes droop as I struggle to stay awake. They crave sleep and defying my instructions, they obstinately stay shut...long after the soft gong has stuck.

Around me the bikini bodies with exposed belly buttons in trendy yoga gear are rolling up their mats. They give me yet another fake smile that seems to suggest "Give it up already."

Maybe I should give up and find a support group of women who feel outcast because of their inability to strike yoga poses. I wonder if they would accept Indians? 

Resistance

I saw it for the first time. It looked like a sliver of the moon or a lightning strike in the sky. It was the colour of chemically washed pearls. Or a soft silken beige woven thread perhaps? It stared back at me like a blank sheet of paper, almost mocking me. My plan of attack was colour. I thought hard what colour it should adorn. Brown would be the obvious choice. Black maybe akin to faking it. A dash of red to spice things up? I was definitely not bold enough for a purple streak.

I looked again. Hoping it would’ve gone away. But it was still there. Like a speck of light, way out in the dark sea. Distinctive, confident, unapologetic. The exact shade of milky vanilla ice cream. Or dusty greying pages of a second-hand forgotten book. I could be poetic about it. I could even try and ignore it. It was merely a lone, aloof grey strand of hair today. But what would happen when it multiplied tomorrow? 

I had seen them several times before. Heavy, bulging, a weird shade of purple-black. Drooping, like gravity was working extra hard on them. They looked like lumps on what previously was a smooth vanilla milkshake. They were a testament of my troubles. A declaration of my distress. A reminder of the rat race. An advertisement of the adversaries. 

They were the first thing people noticed about me. Despite my pretty pink dresses and darling black shoes. I soothed them with whitish green cool cucumber slices. I nourished them with hot green tea bags, cooled down to room temperature. I indulged them with 8-hours of beauty sleep, interspersed with dreams from my beautiful youth. But my eye bags and puffy dark circles had become a part me. 

Finally, my hair had caught up with my eyes. It was futile resisting now.