Sometimes I think we are all turning Indian.
Jennifer, Aluna, and a girl from Iowa who calls herself Indra, as well as myself, are getting ready for a yoga class. We tend to hunt enlightenment in packs, as if it were dangerous to meditate alone. The women are fussing over their hair and makeup. Jennifer looks stunning in bright-red Agni bracelets from Lulu Dharma, a silky looking sports bra by Jala, a mala necklace by One-O-Eight Malas, an off-shoulder blouse (strategically exposing her tantra tattoo) by Be UP, with matching pants by SoLo — all worth a few bills. Her two sister yoginis are similarly feathered and preened. As we all pile into the SUV, the girls begin quibbling about the flavor of the devotional atmosphere: Jen wants to put on Deva Premal, while Aluna insists on a chanted version of the Bhagavad Gita, often called India’s bible. Indra takes advantage of the standoff to dial in her selection: devotional songs by Krishna Das, and soon all three of these American yoginis have joined in vociferously.
My friend Sandhya, visiting from India, is tagging along. Silent all the while, she is dressed in a pair of faded boxer-style gym trunks from her Gitanjali High days in Bangalore and a frayed Pink Floyd T-shirt. She is so attired because she has never swum in the ocean and wants to take the plunge immediately after yoga. Also, she does not own a swimsuit. As the threesome launches into the devotional songs, she looks on — wide-eyed.