Yogis

The Quietest Room

"OK, half pigeon. Put your left knee forward. Now twist. Bend the right foot up. Reach back with your left hand. Grab that foot. Pull it in."

"Oh no… my crotch."

"I love these Lulu Lemon pants. I've taken them to the tailor three times. Obviously nothing works. Lulu Lemon just doesn't make pants like this anymore."

"No one look, OK?"

Yogi 2 feels a giggly eruption rise in his bowels, trying to disguise a laugh as a cough in the desperately quiet room.

How is the whole room not bawling in laughter right now? he ponders.

"Oh no… not again."

He squeezes his abdomen.

"Oh no… not again."

He squeezes and breathes, constricting his muscles, loosening his lips and jaw, desperately struggling to contain a laugh.

"Are you OK, Yogi?" asks the teacher.

A laugh.

Cough.

Laugh.

Cough.

Blurts out.

"Do you need some water?"

Perspiration drops in a pool before Yogi 2.

Another laugh, cough, laugh, cough.

"Are you OK, Yogi? I'll fetch you some water."

Perspiration piles into the pool.

"I'm… I'm…OK."

The yoga teacher stands before him with a cup of water.

Yogi 2 averts his eyes.

"I know a good tailor," whispers Yogi 2 as the teacher bends over him and gives him water.

"Gee, thanks. I really appreciate that."

The other yogis stare on, stone-faced, in their down dogs.

The sound of their ujjayi breath reverberates in the desperately quiet room.

A story by Pemba Umoja