The Woke Yogi – Opening my third eye to injustice.

A Meditation on Yoga

“Inhale, arrive on your mat.”

It was my very first yoga class, and I was there because I aspired to touch my toes.

“Exhale, shiiiiine your love outward like a rainbooowwww,” the Lululemon-clad instructor crooned, “and remember: yoga is whatever you make it!”

Throughout the 18^th and 19^th centuries, westerners viewed yoga as an esoteric tradition: practiced on the fringes of orthodox Indic societies by magicians and priests; shrouded in superstition. But when Hindu monk Swami Vivekananda spoke about yoga at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions in Chicago, and when the physical fitness revival of the early 20th century swept the globe, yoga exploded into the mainstream. Hindu nationalists hailed yoga with a newfound vigor, touting its indigenous character. New Age hippies were equally enamored; since the 1950s, yoga studios have popped up around the globe, attracting celebrities from Marilyn Monroe to Adam Levine, while brands like Alo Yoga and prAna have seized the athleisure market. Suddenly, yoga is no longer a secretive lineage from the ‘exotic East,’ but a popular fad – a stretching routine. Yoga is…just exercise?

“Inhale, stay.”

I closed my eyes and an ethereal sitar tune began to play, transporting me to the Indian subcontinent of millennia past.

The earliest known definition of yoga appears in India’s oldest text, the Rig Veda, dated 1500 to 1000 BCE. In these ritual prescriptions, yoga means ‘to yoke’ or ‘to connect;’ it is the action of harnessing a horse to a war chariot, therein submitting the horse to the charioteer’s will. Several centuries later, in the Upaniṣadic texts, yoga became a series of exercises for one to restrict the body and discipline the mind, usually as a means to seek metaphysical power or attain mystical union with god. The 3rd century BCE Kaṭha Upaniṣad asserted that yoga is “firm restraint of the senses.” As one harnesses a horse to a chariot, yoga harnesses the mind to the body. I was starting to understand this form of torture self-restraint as the instructor reminded me to return to my breath, even though we had been sitting criss-cross-applesauce forever and I couldn’t feel my feet. Whether the goal is to commune with the cosmos or simply to condition your quads, yoga is control.

“Exhale, downward dog!”

I pressed myself up, relieved to distract my mind, only to discover a new kind of fatigue igniting in my legs and shoulders. My body began to shake, and I fought the urge to collapse back to the ground. Evidently, yoga is as mental as it is physical. In the Bhagavad Gita, the god Krishna tells royal warrior Arjuna that yoga is “skill in action.” He commands Arjuna to be a yogi to fulfill his divine duty–of slaughtering his own family on the battlefield. Like Arjuna, I failed to see the purpose of my excruciating position, and like Krishna, my teacher was strangely militant about demonstrating yogic willpower – albeit through core workouts, not holy war. Yoga, then, is the discipline to do what you may not want to; the patience to serve a greater good that you may not yet understand. Yoga is control.

“Inhale, three-leg dog!”

The room burst into a silent symphony of swaying limbs. The yogis around me contorted themselves into incomprehensible shapes, touching their toes in a thousand ways that I never thought possible. The teacher rattled off foreign words: śvānāsana, añjaneyāsana, uttānāsana…

Āsana means “seat” or “posture,” and it is one technique by which yogis discipline their bodies in pursuit of spiritual power. Around 200 CE, āsana appeared as the third precept in the Yoga Sutra, an aphoristic text on yoga philosophy. At that time, however, the list of āsanas was limited to those suitable for seated meditation: sukhāsana, padmāsana, and vajrāsana. It wasn’t until much later, in the 13th century Haṭhapradīpikā, that āsana was elevated to a foremost priority. The Haṭhapradīpikā codified 84 total postures, and furthermore recommended bandhas (muscular locks), mudrās (gestures), dṛṣṭis (gazing points) and prāṇāyāmas (breath restraint techniques) to train and constrain the body. Yoga is control.

“Exhale, warrior two!”

The pace of class quickened, and the postures began to flow together, fast and fluid.

“Inhale, reverse triangle!”

The music intensified, matching the rhythmic pulse of breaths in unison.

“Exhale, extended side angle!”

A bead of sweat dripped off my forehead.

“Inhale, half-moon!”

My feet hurt. My breath burned in my throat. I wanted very badly to be done.

“Exhale, chaturanga dandasana!”

Really? Push-ups? I thought this was supposed to be relaxing.

“Inhale. Pause.”

I laid down on my back. The sensation of movement lingered in my tissues as my breath slowed.

In the Yoga Sutra, āsana is merely a step taken to prepare oneself for samādhi: a pure state of meditative consciousness. Yoga is citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ: “the stilling of the turnings of the mind.”

“Exhale. Rest.”

I dropped into śavāsana: the pose of the corpse. The air in the studio quieted. My body softened, my mind stilled. For a time, I was neither sensing nor sleeping, but simply experiencing. Yoga is the absence of sensory intake; both this moment of uncanny stillness and every moment that builds up to it. First, yoga is just exercise, and then it is control. But ultimately, yoga is surrender.

What is Yoga without Sexual Assault?

Stains on the Lineage: Ashtanga's Reckoning

On September 6^th, 2025, an anonymous collective of Ashtanga yoga practitioners on Instagram (@1percenttruth_) accused Taylor Hunt, longstanding Ashtanga yoga teacher, of “inappropriate sexual behavior.” They alleged that, among other forms of physical and emotional abuse, Hunt frequently coerces female students into sexual relationships. Two weeks have passed since their bombshell, and in that time, countless students and prominent leaders from the Ashtanga community have come forward to corroborate these claims.

The entire episode reeks of déjà vu. Back in 2018, a series of sexual assault allegations against primary Ashtanga guru and founder, K. Pattabhi Jois, very nearly destroyed the lineage. The esteemed yoga teacher was posthumously accused of groping, humping, and even fingering his female students under the guise of providing postural adjustments.

A Common Thread: Abuse Across Modern Yoga Traditions

The Ashtanga case is only the latest in a long line of global yoga/ sexual assault scandals. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, guru Satyananda Saraswati of Yoga Nidra faced investigations for child sexual abuse, and Integral Yoga guru Satchitananda Saraswati made headlines in 1991 for molesting his students. Bikram Chowdhury, creator of Bikram Yoga, accumulated five sexual assault-related lawsuits by 2014. The #MeToo movement in 2017 spurred a new onslaught of allegations, with Pattabhi Jois and Kundalini Yoga’s Yogi Bhajan joining the list of offenders. Nowhere in the yoga world feels safe – every lineage is a new can of worms, writhing with slimy intent underneath thin tin lids of ‘spiritual detachment.’

Every time these gurus come under fire, their respective communities are forced to grapple with the realization that their yogic teachings are ethically compromised. Some teachers, feeling that their philosophies are irrevocably tainted, close the doors of their studios permanently. Some condemn their gurus’ actions but refuse to abandon their pedagogies – instead opting to change the names of their studios (‘Bikram Yoga’ became simply ‘Hot Yoga’) or adopt new trauma-informed techniques (now, instructors often ask consent before providing posture adjustments). Still others reject the entire tradition of guru-disciple lineage (guru-śiṣya paramparā), which, they claim, feeds into cycles of sexual violence. They call for a “post-lineage yoga:” a movement that rejects the autocratic guru in a good-faith effort to democratize yoga, even as it flounders with the complexities of spiritual authority and orientalist epistemology.

Abuses are so interwoven in every fiber of these yogic traditions – from the modern brand names to the ancient education model – that perhaps the very fabric of yoga is sullied beyond redemption.

The question remains, then: what is yoga without sexual assault? Other lineage-based communities, such as Indian classical music, have successfully curbed misconduct by improving oversight and enforcing ethical standards. Yet, in the yoga world, sexual assault continues unabated, festering in the intimate and vulnerable confines of studios and ashrams. Why do these spaces – intended for healing and soul-searching – so often become ones of exploitation and coercion? And how does yoga itself abet these harmful patterns? The answer, I believe, goes much farther back than New Age misogynists and #MeToo.

Predatory Metaphysics: Gender & Power in Pre-Modern Yoga

Today, over 80% of global yoga practitioners are female. But in premodern India, circa 7th-13th centuries CE, yoga was a male-dominated tradition. Yogins (male practitioners of yoga) make frequent appearances in medieval ritual texts, art, and literature; they are usually human men who, by virtue of devout spiritual practice, have attained god-like metaphysical powers.

Yoginīs (female practitioners of yoga), on the other hand, are rarely mentioned. In texts on Tantric yoga, they are overshadowed by male ritualists; women, after all, are thought to be mere distractions from the spiritual path. When yoginīs do appear in ritual texts, they are terrifying and grotesque; fierce witch-like spirits who fly over the cremation ground, their feet turned backwards and their hair splayed wild as they accost innocent men. This textual canon reflects an age-old paradigm of patriarchy: men are impressively powerful, but women are only dangerously so.

The yoginī’s distinct role in medieval texts points to a long history of sexual skulduggery in yoga. In 7th century Tantric yoga texts like the Brahmayāmala Tantra and the Siddhayogeśvarīmata, the yoginī is a female ritual partner who provides bodily fluids for the male ritualist’s cāru (impure offering). These fluids are attained through a variety of sexual rites, in which the yoginī’s body is worshiped as a vessel for shakti, the divine feminine energy.

The 9th-10th century yogic text, the Kaulajñānanirṇaya, describes yoginīs as goddesses themselves and prescribes male practitioners to invoke them through ritual. This text promises that the yoginīs will appear to any successful (male) ritualist and “kiss” him with their vulvas, thus bestowing him with their supernatural powers. In such rituals, the yoginī exists to benefit the yogin; whether worshiped as a ritual object or as a divine being, the woman must surrender her sexual power for a man’s spiritual gain.

This gendered power dynamic is itself an outgrowth from an older, classical school of philosophy: Samkhya. In the Samkhya-Yoga ontology, women are potent sources of shakti: the fertile feminine force that animates the cosmos. However, premodern yogic texts were written exclusively by men and for men. Therefore, these texts tend to concern themselves not with the female practitioner, but with the male practitioner’s cultivation of feminine power. These texts suggest that yogins need not spend their own shakti – they should instead harvest it from yoginīs, who, of course, are assumed to have no use for it themselves.

On the Restoration of Tattered Textiles

Up until 2018, those who testified against K. Pattabhi Jois were dismissed and often met with vitriol. He was a great man and a great yogi, his defenders roared; how could he have hurt you? Yet, as many eyewitnesses have since confirmed, Jois’s abuses were hardly discreet. They were committed openly under the bright fluorescents of Ashtanga studios, so thoroughly entrenched in the practice itself that no one dared – for decades! – to question the master and his ancient methods.

For the yoginīs of the Ashtanga lineage, their shakti is not really their own. It is policed by men, crafted according to male standards, and eventually stolen: an impure offering to the deified male guru. Taylor Hunt – like K. Pattabhi Jois and many other yogins before him – gains power by draining that of his students. He elevates his own status by violating women.

The Ashtanga community is forever indebted to the teachers and students of 1percenttruth_ who are bravely working to expose physical abuses in yoga. But an insidious system of gendered metaphysics continues to pervade yoga spaces around the world, perpetuating a worldview that both enables and justifies the exploitation of women’s sexuality. Sexual assault is not just a taut thread that wrinkles a few lineages; it is the loom upon which these yogic traditions are woven. As we extricate one from the other, we must be prepared for the entire tapestry to unravel.

Acknowledgements

Amelia Wood for her important work on abuse in yoga.
Theodora Wildcroft for her bold attempt at redefining yogic education – I admit that I harbor a healthy skepticism of post-lineage yoga, but ultimately, it is the only way forward.
Christian Novetzke, Shelby House, and the other members of the Spring 2024 JSIS public writing workshop, who supplied invaluable edits and discourse for this piece.
The brave students and teachers at @1percenttruth_ , and everyone else who has survived abuse in a yoga space. Thank you for sharing your stories. We believe you. You are not alone.

Featured image (“Dakini with Consort”) courtesy of The Huntington Archive at the University of Chicago

Yoga Wasn’t Meant to Save the West

DISCLAIMER: The Woke Yogi is not an official site of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

The Promised Land

Every Wednesday night in Rishikesh, an organization called Bhakti Yoga Rishikesh hosts a kirtan and dharma talk in the loft of a local guesthouse. Spiritual seekers of all nationalities and religious backgrounds gather in this intimate space, seated knee-to-knee on floor cushions, listening in rapture as a guest speaker delivers a sermon on yoga philosophy. These speakers are as diverse as the audience to whom they speak, ranging from Brahmin monks raised in the Vedic tradition to German scholars who spent decades studying yogic texts.

Yet, despite their differing backgrounds, many of these spiritual teachers share a core message: that “the West” is a cesspool of materialism, capitalism, and individualism, populated by people who are overworked, wealth-obsessed, disconnected from their bodies, and out of touch with nature. By contrast, “the East” (India, in particular) is a spiritual place, characterized by collectivism, laid-back attitudes towards work, and a connection to the earth. With surprising regularity, the speakers of these Wednesday night dharma talks construct a binary of East vs. West to instill the value of yoga for ‘Western’ practitioners.

Bhakti Yoga Rishikesh is not alone in these ideas. Indeed, much of the yoga industry in Rishikesh rests on this messaging: that ‘the East’ is the moral antithesis of ‘the West,’ defined broadly by cultural practices, social behaviors, and spiritual beliefs. I have encountered many foreign yoga students who spout similar sentiments – that other people from [insert home country here] are too focused on money, too apathetic, too stressed about things that don’t matter. These respondents tell me that they’ve come to Rishikesh in search of an alternative lifestyle, and many of them seem to view themselves as *enlightened* just for having left ‘the West.’

Problematizing 'the East' and 'the West'

What is ‘the West,’ anyway? The United States and Canada easily make the cut, but Latin America usually doesn’t, despite being firmly situated within the western hemisphere. Often, when we speak of ‘the West,’ we mean wealthy, developed countries (what academia calls the ‘Global North’). But Australia and most of Europe are in the eastern hemisphere, so we can dispel any notion of ‘the West’ as a geographic locator. And if ‘the West’ merely indicates wealth or development, where does that leave underdeveloped countries in Eastern Europe, such as Ukraine and Moldova? What of the millions of Americans who live below the poverty line – does their socioeconomic status preclude them from ‘Western’ identity?

More confusingly, what is ‘the East?’ The geographic area suggested by this phrase is comprised of thousands of distinct ethnic, cultural, and linguistic communities who are united by little more than rough proximity. To group them together under the umbrella of ‘Eastern’ is to flatten their vast differences. Such homogenization was a tactic of early orientalists and colonialists in Asia, who deemed all Asians uncivilized to justify imperial control. In this way, the rhetoric employed by yogis in Rishikesh reflects a form of internalized neo-orientalism. They adopt overly simplistic language, reducing diverse individuals to a set of archetypal traits so they can more easily position themselves in opposition to an outsider group. It’s textbook tribalism: a classic “us versus them” mindset.

I might have expected such reductive discourse to be peddled within Indian circles, for many Indians are (understandably) keen to scapegoat colonization and Western influence for modern India’s problems. Quite to the contrary, however, the audiences of these talks are more commonly seas of white: foreigners from Europe, Australia, and the United States who, disillusioned with the ways of life in their countries of origin, are desperate for someone to blame – and some way to escape. This manufactured East vs. West dichotomy is a marketing strategy. It targets the woes of wide-eyed ‘Westerners’ to sell yoga in a neat little package.

But, as we know, neat little packages rarely contain the whole story.

Outcomes of Chaos

The glaring flaw in this East vs. West framing is the implication that ‘Westerners’ are the only demographic that stands to benefit from yogic teachings. But yoga first emerged around 3,000 years ago, well before British colonization and certainly well before globalization. If India really is this serene, spiritual place, a moral utopia with none of those pesky ‘Western’ problems, then why did Indians develop yoga in the first place? Why would they need yoga at all?

Contrary to what some yogis in Rishikesh would have you believe, yoga is a product of its environment. It was conceived to address a series of widespread societal issues that lower the quality of life in India. Yoga is a counterculture response to a set of uniquely South Asian problems – not a contrived remedy for ‘Western’ ones. Let me give some examples:

Cleanliness

India, like other industrializing nations, has a massive problem with environmental pollution and poor hygiene standards. Of the world’s 30 cities with the worst air pollution, 21 are in India. The country also suffers from poor waste management infrastructure. Open defecation remains the standard in rural areas, and littering is common practice everywhere – in most regions, trash clutters every street and clogs every waterway. As a result, contaminated food and water pose a significant threat to public health in India, causing millions of illnesses and thousands of deaths every year.

Taken within this framework, the classical yogic precept of Śauca, or cleanliness, reads as a practical public health intervention. This philosophy dissuades people from polluting their environment and, by extension, their bodies. Likewise, the yogic texts are rife with practices that claim to aid digestion, from herbal treatments to twisting postures to Nauli Kriya. While these techniques may promote digestive function in healthy individuals, it’s likely that they were originally intended to address serious gastrointestinal issues that arose from unclean conditions.

Silence & Solitude

As of 2023, India is the most populous country in the world, with a population of over 1.4 billion. That’s about 492 people per square kilometer (or 1,275 people per mi²). Unsurprisingly, India is plagued by excessive noise. Anyone who has visited urban India can attest to the constant cacophony of car horns honking, but it’s not just traffic that punctuates the morning air – it’s also the yells of street vendors, the howls of stray dogs, the tinny blare of political adverts over loudspeaker, and more recently, the baffling phenomenon of people watching Instagram reels on full volume.

It’s no wonder, then, that some texts suggest Ekānta, solitude, and Mauna, silence, as modes of yoga practice. These teachings are straightforward strategies for quieting people’s minds… by literally lowering noise levels on the streets. Yogis have always retreated to forests and secluded hermitages to engage in spiritual practice, but perhaps they were not intensely devoted so much as they were incredibly overstimulated.

Celibacy

Sexual violence is so prevalent in India that the nation has earned the moniker “the rape capital of the world.” In 2022, over 30,000 cases of rape were reported, and nearly 200,000 more were awaiting trial. I’ve written at length about this unsettling trend (read my articles on Durga Puja and Guru-Śiṣya Paramparā), and it’s worth noting here again: individuals who harbor misogynistic attitudes and commit sex-based crimes are not “a few bad apples” – they are products of systemic injustice, enabled by Indic philosophies and political theories that date back millennia.

Given this long history of sexual violence, it is possible that the classical yoga texts prescribed Brahmacarya, or celibacy, to curb libido and prevent sexual misconduct.

Contentment

In India, Plan B is Plan A. Indian culture operates on polychronic time, so meetings and events seldom start at the established time. Government corruption is rampant – many bureaucrats and law enforcement officers demand bribes before agreeing to perform their duties. Prices for goods and services are often negotiated, rarely fixed. Broadly speaking, life in India is chaotic and unpredictable, even for lifelong residents.

I wholeheartedly believe that this lifestyle directly led to the formation of Saṃtoṣa, the yogic doctrine of contentment. Yoga teaches us to accept things as they come, to relinquish expectations, and to live in the moment. Personally, I’ve found that this mindset is crucial to enjoying life in India.

Cleaning Up the Mud

Yoga wasn’t meant to save ‘the West.’ It was forged in response to the same suffering that many South Asians struggle with today. Pollution, overpopulation, sexual violence, corruption – these are very real, endemic issues with tangible consequences for the people who live here. And unlike foreign tourists, who can temporarily cosplay as renunciates before returning to the comfort of their home countries, most Indians have no escape. This is their only bed, and they have to lie in it.

None of this is to say that yoga can’t serve people outside India. It certainly can, and it does. Perhaps neo-orientalist narratives encourage people worldwide to open their hearts and their wallets – which has undeniable benefits for India’s economic and cultural capital. But yoga didn’t emerge from a vacuum. In mistaking yoga as a cure-all for ‘the West,’ we risk erasing the contexts that gave rise to its wisdom. And by collapsing complex cultural systems into tidy binaries of East and West, we’re prone to forget whose problems we’re trying to solve.

When I first arrived in Rishikesh, I too wanted a simpler life — one closer to nature, further from the challenges of modern life. But yoga isn’t about escape. It’s about presence. Yoga asks us to embrace contradiction, complexity, chaos. It teaches us to stay with the uneven ground beneath our feet. If we want to engage deeply with yoga, we cannot abstract it from its messy roots. Instead, we must clean up the mud from which it grew.

Ways You Can Help:

Advocate for policies and initiatives that aim to reduce particulate matter pollution, such as India’s National Clean Air Programme.
Talk to your Indian friends and family members about the negative impacts of environmental pollution. Many Indians are flippant about littering, car idling, and buying single-use plastics – explain how these activities lower life expectancy and quality of life.
Raise awareness about the adverse effects of noise pollution. In the meantime, carry headphones or ear plugs with you, and ask your cab drivers to lay off the horn.
Donate to Parichiti or MAVA (Men Against Violence and Abuse), two outreach organizations dedicated to ending sexual violence by empowering women and educating men.
Report all cases of corruption to the Central Vigilance Commission or to Lokpal India. If you are an Indian citizen, pressure the central government to enforce the Prevention of Corruption Act (POCA), 1988. Whenever possible, refuse to pay bribes and vote for representatives who support anti-corruption legislation.
While in India, adopt a chalta hai (“things happen”) attitude. Change takes time! Model the changes you want to see, and accept that most things are out of your control. You’ll be happier, I promise 😊.

Death of the Guru

The Last Lineage Holder

The shala walls are lined with photos. In some, a teenaged boy prays with his family; in others, the same boy, slightly older, demonstrates advanced yoga postures. Many more photos show the man in middle-age, pacing between rows of mats or posing with crowds of smiling students. At the front of the room hangs the largest photo by far, adorned with strings of marigolds and bathed in incense smoke. In old age, the guru smiles down upon his disciples.

Sharath Jois was, until very recently, considered the primary lineage holder, or paramaguru, for the entire Ashtanga yoga tradition. He inherited the lineage from his grandfather, K. Pattabhi Jois, who created and popularized the Ashtanga sequences. Today, Ashtanga is one of the last remaining yoga styles to emphasize guru-śiṣya paramparā (GSP), the ancient South Asian tradition in which knowledge is meticulously passed from guru to disciple in unbroken lineage. It was precisely this tradition that drew me to practice Ashtanga in Mysore: I craved access to the original teachings, supposedly so whole and pure, undiluted by modern interpretation and therefore irrefutably authentic.

But shortly after I received my confirmation to attend classes at Sharath Yoga Centre, mere weeks before I was scheduled to arrive, Sharath Jois passed away. His death was sudden and unexpected, leaving the Ashtanga community reeling. For the first time ever, the lineage was without a paramaguru.

When the news of Guru Ji’s death arrived, many students had already booked their annual trips to Mysore. No one knew what would happen – would the shala close its doors for the season? If so, would it ever reopen? After several weeks rife with speculation, shala staff announced that classes would proceed as scheduled. There would be only one small difference: in lieu of the guru’s teaching, all students were to engage in self-led practice.

This request was not altogether radical given the unique pedagogy of the ashtanga tradition. Even under regular circumstances, all practitioners do self-led or “Mysore-style” practice five days a week. They still go to the shala daily, but rather than following a teacher’s verbal instruction, the students move through a pre-set, memorized sequence at their own pace. The teacher(s) walks around the room to give guidance to students individually. I have found that this teaching style promotes a more meditative experience – without having to listen to the teacher’s cues or worry about what posture comes next, I can focus more deeply on my internal alignment and breath.

In the wake of Guru Ji’s passing, however, the notion of an entirely self-led season seemed only to heighten the uncertainty clouding the ashtanga community. Students were still expected to pay the usual course tuitions – so what incentive did they have to show up at all, let alone practice in good faith? I was skeptical, to say the least. Judging by my own shaky self-discipline, I doubted that anyone would travel all the way to Mysore just to teach themselves.

I could not have been more wrong. When I arrived for my first day of class, dozens of mats were neatly lined up before the altar. The room, though quiet, was animated by movement. Students in the front row contorted themselves into impossible folds, even as those towards the back were just getting warmed up with Sun Salutations. On occasion, students would pause their own practice to give their neighbor hands-on adjustments. Many advanced students lingered in the shala after completing their own practices to assist students who had just begun. It seemed that in the absence of a central authority, the ashtanga community had come together to carry the lineage forward collectively.

Next in Line

What I witnessed in Mysore resonates with sentiments I have heard from many of my respondents in other parts of India. When asked if they follow a particular guru or adhere to a specific lineage, most of my respondents say NO – they favor a self-guided approach to spirituality instead.

One of my respondents, a yoga teacher from Uttarakhand, explained simply: “I’m not following any [gurus]… My journey is my journey. I am following myself.”

Another respondent, a yoga teacher from Gujarat, told me that he wholly disagrees with spiritual seekers who blindly follow their gurus: “They’re sheep!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “They don’t think for themselves.”

My friend from Rajasthan also confessed that he’s wary of trusting any one spiritual leader. “These gurus or these ‘God-men—” (he paused to shudder at the word), “—they aren’t always right. It’s best to learn from many different people and come to your own conclusions.”

Even my aunt, a devout Hindu from West Bengal who studied under a guru for decades, warned me about spiritual authorities who claim to be enlightened. “Always do your own research,” she instructed me. “Anyone can say that they know the truth about the universe, but it’s just their interpretation of the truth.”

Their responses shocked me. Prior to starting my fieldwork, I expected to find a thriving culture of gurus and ‘God-men’ in India; I imagined that strict lineage-based practices would be the standard, offering a simple way to distinguish Indian yoga from its bastardized Western counterparts. Evidently, such a clear distinction does not exist. Modern yoga practitioners around the world reject the possibility of an all-knowing guru – and many distrust gurus at large. Even Ashtanga, the lineage that I have always perceived as unconditionally guru-centric, seems to function just fine without its foremost figure.

Is the Guru Dead for Good?

And if so, what has prompted the passing of this age-old tradition? Perhaps we are simply seeing the global trend towards individualism play out on the yogic stage. People around the world crave more privacy and self-determination than ever before, and their dwindling sense of co-dependence renders the guru obsolete. Alternatively, we might blame the explosive growth of the virtual yoga industry. In the past, spiritual seekers had to leave their hometowns or even their home countries to identify suitable teachers. Now, hundreds of yoga influencers offer digestible tidbits for the modern yogi on every social media platform. Even the most charismatic gurus cannot compete with the convenience of discovering God in your living room.

More insidiously, the past several decades have seen a string of scandals around yoga gurus, revealing just how fraught the entire guru-disciple complex is. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, Guru Satyananda Saraswati of Yoga Nidra was investigated for child sexual abuse, and in 1991, Integral Yoga guru Satchitananda Saraswati made headlines for molesting his students. Bikram Chowdhury, creator of Bikram Yoga, accumulated five sexual assault-related lawsuits by 2014, to say nothing of his brazen capitalistic corruption. The #MeToo movement in 2017 spurred a new onslaught of allegations, with Ashtanga’s Pattabhi Jois and Kundalini Yoga’s Yogi Bhajan joining the list of sexual offenders. Just last year, Sadhguru of Isha Yoga Centre became embroiled in international controversy amid accusations of brainwashing and spiritual coercion. The regularity of these scandals suggests not just a few bad apples but an institutionalized pattern of abuse. Modern yogis have no choice but to question the power dynamics inherent within guru-led communities – and wonder whether guru-śiṣya paramparā is even worth preserving.

Abandoning this ancient education model isn’t without costs, of course. Gurus offer a structured yet personalized approach to spirituality. They inspire and empower their students, serving to motivate consistent practice and hold students accountable for their own improvement. Most importantly, gurus protect their students from harm. In postural yoga, gurus ensure proper alignment and physical safety, while in spiritual contexts, they guide students through practices that are mentally challenging and sometimes even psychologically dangerous. For example, many yogis believe that some Kundalini yoga exercises can induce psychosis; therefore, aspiring practitioners of Kundalini are urged to only practice under the supervision of a learned guru.

In my view, however, the cultural shift away from GSP aligns with the core yogic ethic of radical introspection. Traditionally, gurus have been glorified as sacred sources of knowledge; they were revered as spiritual guides or teachers, loved as parents, or even worshipped as gods. Yet, yoga scriptures teach us that we are one and the same with God; we already carry divine wisdom within ourselves, and rather than deifying other people, we need only look inward to discover it. Yoga trains us to tune in to our inner teachers. Given this framing, it makes perfect sense that modern yogis trust their own intuitions over those of external authorities. This mindset is even encouraged by the classical yogic texts!

Moreover, the guru’s declining popularity makes space for a more inclusive, democratic yoga tradition. After all, gurus are, first and foremost, gatekeepers of knowledge. Their preeminence in South Asian spiritual circles has historically made it difficult for many demographics, such as women and low-caste individuals, to access yoga. But yoga itself is not exclusionary – it is a tool for collective liberation! When we relinquish our fidelity to the all-knowing, infallible guru, we may begin to distribute power more equitably between teachers and students. We can welcome yoga practitioners of all backgrounds and encourage them to cultivate self-reliance and self-confidence, thereby modeling yoga not just in the teachings we offer but in the very way we transmit them.

Ashtanga clearly lives on, despite the death of its guru. If my observations are any consolation, you can trust that gurus do NOT singlehandedly sustain their lineages. That duty is held by students, preserving their yogic traditions through the profound act of practice. Certainly, the coming months will pose new questions and challenges as the Ashtanga community begins to chart a way forward in Guruji’s absence. But personally, I can’t wait to see where the lineage goes next.

Sorting Science from Superstition

The Curse of the Monkey Skull

Shadows descended over Tali Forest in the early afternoon, the sun dappled by tall rhododendron thickets and cut mountain creases to the west. My trek leaders spoke in hushed tones of Himalayan superstitions: of birds who cry like children and fairies that dance in the wake of death. As we hiked up the mountain, I teased them for their childish ghost stories. But when we arrived at our campsite, a shiver crawled down my spine. The clearing was littered with dried bones.

Eerie though it was, I was delighted to stumble upon a monkey skull at the edge of the woods – nearly intact, with a half set of teeth.

Such a unique souvenir! I thought to myself as I gingerly wrapped the oddity in layers of plastic and cloth.

My delight quickly faded, however, when I became violently ill later that evening. The hiking had been tough on my body, and at 13,000 feet above sea level, I struggled to recover. Although I’ve spent my lifetime living at high altitudes, that night, for the first time, I was struck by acute mountain sickness (AMS).

The following morning, after a long, miserable night in my tent, a fellow trekker pulled me aside:

“Hey, I know this sounds out there, but legend says you should never remove anything from these woods… lest you fall sick…”

My eyes flickered to my daypack beside me, which contained my prized monkey skull. Without him saying as much, I knew exactly what he meant: I’d return that skull if I were you.

He was right – it was out there. So why was I immediately inclined to believe his superstitious explanation? All my symptoms pointed to altitude sickness, and yet, that clinical diagnosis sat uneasily in my gut. I didn’t want to believe that my body was succumbing to the harsh demands of high elevation. In my moment of vulnerability, the notion that I had fallen victim to a monkey spirit’s curse flooded me with understanding, even relief. I’m not weak or out of shape, I reassured myself, I just angered the forest’s patrons.

My feverish imaginings of a vengeful primate seemed to soothe my throbbing head and roiling stomach. It was dubious, implausible, but this supernatural story allowed me to make sense of my condition. It lent mystical meaning to a memory otherwise marred by discomfort and disorientation. Most importantly, it shifted the blame off my own shoulders – admittedly, I had neglected the cardio regimen that was, evidently, necessary for acclimatization.

There’s no doubt that modern medicine offered me something more pragmatic, more actionable than did Himalayan legend. None of our trek leaders knew how to reverse a curse, but we had medics on hand to treat AMS. My trekking cohort took it upon themselves to cure me with electrolyte packets, Acetazolamide capsules, and plenty of fresh water. Indeed, by the next day, I felt well enough to walk myself back down the mountain.

As I arrived back at base camp, flushed with pride and accomplishment, I began to wonder: Must we forgo empiricism to accept esotericism? Can science and spirituality coexist? It was hard to deny that medical intervention had saved my ass, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been called into the woods for a paranormal purpose. I had brawled with the forces of the forest and emerged none the worse, albeit with a newfound faith in the local people’s fables.

Shadows of Scientific Certainty

In a previous post, I wrote about how spiritual people are particularly prone towards pseudoscience. In their belief of biblical genesis, for example, Evangelical Christians often belie evolutionary science. Moreover, we all know an *astrology girly* who dismisses medical innovations as mere harbingers of the Aquarian Age. I once attended a workshop in Boulder on traditional breath and bodywork practices, ranging from reiki to yoga to chakra massage. One of the sessions, ominously titled “The Truth About COVID-19,” turned out to be a fervid condemnation of vaccines (in hindsight, maybe I should have seen that one coming…).

Before we write these conspiracies off, we must consider that for lay people, belief in science often requires just as much blind faith as spirituality. If NASA says that there is life on Mars, most ordinary people have no way to fact-check their claims. We possess neither the resources nor the know-how to conduct such experiments. We must simply take astrophysicists at their word, trusting that these mysterious elites, with their lofty credentials and their top-secret security clearances, are feeding us the truth about the universe.

The scientific method is grounded in evidence and transparency, to be fair. Peer-reviewed journals exist to substantiate all the discoveries that take place behind closed doors. But most of these publications are inaccessible to the general public. Scientific knowledge is hidden behind paywalls and buried in jargon, to the extent that even exceptionally resourceful individuals struggle to discern what humankind already knows to be true. You can imagine how certain populations might grow suspicious of science, especially when our education systems discourage us from questioning its authority. Think critically about everything, we tell our children, except science. That stuff has already been proven in ways that you don’t and might never understand.

Of course, scientists get things wrong every day. They work with existing information to develop theories, which other scholars then corroborate and modify and yes, often disprove. Our collective understanding of reality is ever evolving, but that doesn’t mean scientists are lying or incompetent or power-hungry. It simply means that they’re human. Scientists dedicate their lives to the pursuit of knowledge, and we must trust that their specialized expertise is superior to our feeble skills with Google.

Not everyone has that kind of trust. Just as I hesitated to concede my AMS diagnosis, many people refute science for reasons both personal and systemic. And who can blame them? To believe in science is to accept that fallible humans, who attempt to answer ethically fraught questions amidst a slew of competing financial and political interests, should dictate our perceptions of existence. By contrast, it seems a whole lot easier to believe in God.

Spirituality offers a way for common people to comprehend the inaccessible and oftentimes imperceptible findings of modern science. It is in our nature to seek answers about our surroundings; without access to peer-reviewed publications or the education to understand them, alternative explanations will inevitably arise. Long-lost legends and far-fetched fairytales are a means for us to grapple with the order of the cosmos and our place within it. They allow us to find solace, even comfort, in chaos.

Conclusions: On Coexistence

Two things can be true at once. Perhaps I came down with acute mountain sickness because I removed a monkey skull from the jungle. My willingness to indulge superstitions need not undermine my fundamental belief in science and its evidence-backed explanations of natural phenomena. When we accept that science and spirituality can coexist, we can begin to disentangle our faith from the pseudoscientific discourses that turn our spiritual practices into dangerous tools of misinformation and propaganda. We can work towards a more informed future, even while acknowledging the forces that may forever remain beyond the scope of scientific inquiry.

As for the monkey skull, I kept it! It was far too rare a find to return. My spooky souvenir now sits on my shelf as a reminder that belief is a spectrum — science salvaged my health, but superstition made my trek unforgettable. I have since identified the skull as belonging to a Hanuman Langur (Latin name: Semnopithecus).

If there was ever a curse upon my head, well, I suppose it was short lived. I made a full recovery after my bout with AMS and have since remained in good health. I certainly intend to take altitude training more seriously next time, but allow my story to reassure you: superstitions carry only the power that you give them.

Sacred Ruins in the Making

I was sipping chai and observing passersby at Sai Ghat, a peaceful spot in Rishikesh along the Ganges River, when a shrill scream pierced the soft sound of flowing water. I looked up just in time to see a group of giddy young people sling-shotted through the sky. They were strapped into a giant swing, dangled from a crane that read Thrill Factory. As I did a triple take, I wondered: how did this ancient yogic haven become an adrenaline junkie’s playground?”

For centuries, Rishikesh has served as a spiritual abode and a pilgrimage site for yogis. I was drawn to do fieldwork here not just by the rich culture of yoga and meditation, but also by the stunning natural beauty. The city is nestled in the lush foothills of Uttarakhand, atop the banks of the Holy Ganges River. Spiritual masters have long sought solace here, stopping to enjoy the region’s temperate climate and the river’s crystal-clear waters before they ascended into the mountains for months of meditation. Thus, Rishikesh earned its nickname: the “Gateway to the Himalayas.”

In modern times, Rishikesh has blossomed as a popular tourist destination for Indian travelers and foreigners alike. Newly rebranded as the “Yoga Capital of the World,” this city enjoys traffic from spiritual seekers as well as adventure enthusiasts and spring break vacationers. Now, it is not just austere yogis who travel here, but a full spectrum of householders – many of whom have little interest in meditation. They tend towards daytime activities like ziplining, trekking, white water rafting, and bungee jumping… and they spend their nights smoking, drinking, and partying in open-air venues. These tourists seem to defy the city’s yogic reputation as they indulge their senses and spend lavish amounts of money in upscale boutiques. Is yogic discipline in the room with us now?

Many visitors to Rishikesh are spiritual, to be sure. They come here to participate in yoga teacher training programs and spiritual retreats. The demand for wellness activities has skyrocketed since the Indian government inaugurated the International Day of Yoga in 2015, and especially since the COVID-19 pandemic. Yoga schools, studios, and shalas now crowd every gali, oftentimes stacked on top of one another to maximize space in this modest mountain town. Though Rishikesh still retains its quiet, peaceful ambiance – a real treat compared to most Indian destinations – rare is the day without sounds of drilling and jackhammering: the unsettling soundtrack of urban development.

The general sentiment is that Rishikesh is growing – both in popularity and in infrastructure – TOO fast. Through my research, I have found that many locals lament the amount of construction needed to accommodate the huge influx of tourists in recent years. Or, perhaps more accurately, they mourn the erosion of nature that results from such development. One gentleman bemoaned the near-constant construction: with the ruination of nature, he said, the spiritual atmosphere of Rishikesh would soon dissipate. He expressed these concerns to me seriously, sadly, even as he promoted his new business venture: a ten-unit apartment building, which offers easy access to major yoga schools and a homely environment for foreigners. He had only moved here himself a few months prior, and he did not seem to recognize the irony of his complaints – that entrepreneurs like him are prime enablers of these counter-spiritual schemes.

Indeed, outdoor activities are not just lucky bonuses in this yogic city, but in fact the very reason for its spiritual heritage. The swamis and monks of yore once congregated here precisely because of its pristine natural location. This is something of a Catch-22: people flock to Rishikesh to immerse themselves in its spiritual ambiance, but their presence paradoxically erodes the beauty and tranquility that make the city sacred. By visiting Rishikesh en masse, we encourage this destruction of nature. And by destroying nature, we are devastating the city’s spiritual core.

Of course, I am equally guilty. I am here, just as other outsiders are, enjoying amenities that are solely enabled by development. Worse, I spent the first month of my grant in a less-touristed part of the city, and I found myself frustrated, cooped up – I admit that in the absence of Wi-Fi cafes, I wondered how I would survive an entire year. Yet, since moving to Tapovan, the commercialized center of Rishikesh, I have delighted in my proximity to jungle trailheads, mountain vistas, and sunset river rides. I have also been able to engage much more heartily with the local economy and with the local people, who offer a diverse blend of yogic teachings from across India and around the world. Were it not for the widespread reputation of this sacred geography, Rishikesh would not exist as the prosperous global hub it is today – nor would it draw so many people into the sublime folds of yoga.

In the past, yogis would leave behind the trappings of the material world to commune here with Mother Earth. Rishikesh may not be the place that it once was, uncorrupted by manmade invention, but these spatial imaginaries from ancient times persist today. At Sai Ghat, people of all ages and nationalities still come to meditate. They perch on rocks rubbed smooth by the river’s rugged froth and breathe deeply in the sweet, clean mountain air. Between disruptions from the Thrill Factory, these modern yogis find inner peace on the beaches of the Ganga.

It may not always be this way, as my respondents warn. Rishikesh may soon succumb to the vacuum that is neoliberal development. But for now, so long as we relate to the land with reverence and deference, this place remains sacred.

On the Eve of Feminine Rage

2.13

अतुलंतत्रतत्तेजः सर्वदेवशरीरजम् ।

एकस्थंतदभून्नारीव्याप्तलोकत्रयंत्विषा ।

“Unequaled light, born from the bodies of all the [male] gods, coalesced into a female form and pervaded the three worlds with its splendor.”

2.32

अन्यैरपिसुरैर्देवीभूषणैरायुधैस्तथा ।

सम्मानिताननादोच्चैः साट्टहासंमुहुर्मुहुः ।

“Honored also by the other gods with adornments and weapons, the Devī [Goddess] laughed thunderously and defiantly again and again.”

2.33

तस्यानादेनघोरेणकृत्स्नमापूरितंनभः ।

अमायतातिमहताप्रतिशब्दोमहानभूत ।

“She filled the entire sky with Her terrible roar, and from the immeasurable din a great echo resounded.”

2.34

चुक्षुभुः सकलालोकाः समुद्राश्चचकम्पिरे ।

चचालवसुधाचेलुः सकलाश्चमहीधराः ।

“All the worlds shook, and the oceans churned. The earth quaked, and the mountains heaved.”

3.28

इतिक्रोधसमाध्मातमापतन्तंमहासुरम् ।

दृष्टवासाचण्डिकाकोपंतद्वधायतदाकरोत ।

“When She saw the great asura approaching, inflated with rage, Candikā aroused Her wrath and prepared to slay him.”

3.34

ततः क्रुद्धाजगन्माताचण्डिकापानमुत्तमम् ।

पपौपुनः पुनश्चैवजहासारुणलोचना ।

“Angered, Candikā, the Mother of the worlds, drank a divine potion, and with eyes reddened She laughed again and again”

3.37

देव्युवगच ।

“The Devī said:”

3.38

गर्जगर्जक्षणंमूढमधुयावत्पिबाम्यहम् ।

मयात्वयिहते’ त्रैवगर्जिष्यन्त्याशुदेवताः ।

‘Bellow, you fool, bellow for now while I drink this potion. After I have slain you, the gods will cheer in this very place.’

3.40

एवमुक्त्वासमुत्पत्यसारूढातंमहासुरम् ।

पादेनाक्रम्यकण्ठेचशूलेनैनमताडयत् ।

“Having declared that, She leapt upon the great asura, pinned his neck down with Her foot, and pierced him through with Her spear.”

– The Devī Mahātmyam

Full text here. Transliteration & translation here.

The Goddess arrived in Kolkata on the morning of October 10^th, her ten delicate hands dyed red with alta as they brandished the gods’ weapons. Joyfully she comes year after year to the capitol city of West Bengal, India, where the city’s residents build thousands of clay murtis (idols) to honor her many forms. Brahmin priests invite Her spirit with Sanskrit chants and clamorous drums, methodically consecrating the murtis so that Maa Durga may reside among us.

For Bengalis, Durga Puja is the climax of the year. The Divine Mother’s presence on earth is tangible: an exuberant energy that compels us to don our finest outfits and dance in the streets. The entire city is transformed with colorful LED panels, pop-up fuchka stalls, wandering balloon vendors, and advertising billboards. Each neighborhood crafts elaborate pandals: temporary structures that house Devī murtis in every shape and style.

On the final day of the festival, devotees lovingly immerse their idols in the holy Ganges River, disintegrating them. They release the Goddess from her mortal form, and with melancholic praise, they bid Her farewell until next year.

Yet, this year, beneath the din of festive music, devotional mantras, and friendly chatter, a dissonant thrum builds to a crescendo. A wrathful chorus of wails, issued by a growing mob. They have gathered in the streets to demand justice.

Two months prior to Durga Maa’s well-anticipated arrival, Kolkata was rocked by the discovery of a female doctor’s lifeless body in the seminar hall of RG Kar Medical College and Hospital. The young woman was found naked and bleeding from her genitals, mouth and eyes. Despite blatant evidence of a brutal rape and murder, the case was initially declared a suicide by the hospital’s president, who has since been accused of conspiring with local police to destroy evidence. It would seem that he is not the only one to have obstructed the investigation – for while the autopsy report clearly indicates multiple perpetrators, federal authorities continue to insist that one conviction is enough.

This crime and its subsequent mishandling have sparked protests across India. Protesters – largely women – have raised questions as to the structures of power within the hospital and within India at large that enable these horrific abuses. Indeed, this incident, as harrowing as it is, is not altogether unfamiliar. The 2024 events at RG Kar harken back to the 2012 Nirbhaya case – involving the gang-rape and fatal assault of a physiotherapy intern on a Delhi bus – which likewise drew international attention to the alarming trend of gender-based violence in India.

Across the country, nearly 100 cases of rape are reported each DAY – to say nothing of the countless acts of sexual violence that go unreported. Due to the slim chances of conviction and the pervasive stigma against women’s sexuality, published statistics only convey a fraction of the dangers faced by Indian women. India is plagued by sexual assault, domestic violence, female infanticides, dowry deaths, and honor killings. And despite its ancient history of Goddess worship, India remains the most dangerous country in the world for women.

Herein lies the problem with ancient Indic scriptures, written always by men and for men: Śakti, the cosmic feminine force, is thought to animate our reality – and yet this power may only be cultivated and controlled by men. Woman’s life is given by man, and it is forever liable to be taken by man as well. How is it that men reserve the right to desecrate the body of the Holy Mother, be she doctor, intern, or else, even as they consecrate her form sculpted from clay? How can those very same men claim to venerate the Divine Feminine while they beat and batter women, leaving them to die excruciating deaths on street sides and in seminar halls?

Perhaps what we need now is not reverence for the Goddess, but rather unbridled fear. When She bares her teeth to issue an earth-shattering roar, men should not bow but cower. They should tremble and beg for Maa Durga’s mercy, knowing that they have not done enough to keep Her daughters safe.

In her last moments on earth, a young woman at RG Kar was made to cry tears of blood. This Durga Puja, she returns to Kolkata in the form of the Great Goddess, her eyes blazing red with unfettered rage. Through the clay idols of Devī, through the sorrowful shouts of every woman who has ever known pain, she will exact her revenge. She, and we, will know justice by her sacrifice.

Let us arouse our wrath in service of our fallen sister, a promising young medic who had so much of her life ahead of her. Like Mahadevī, her life was designed and dissolved at the hands of men – taken too soon by a system that treats female bodies as less than male desires. May the oceans churn and may the mountains heave with the force of our rage and terrible grief, which we offer unto the world so that our daughters may live in a kinder world than do we. After we have slain this demon of our modern times – this violent, senseless patriarchy – we will not wait for the gods to cheer. We will laugh defiantly again and again, reclaiming our śakti as our own.

Join the Fight:

Donate to Parichiti, a Kolkata-based women’s group that works towards gender equity by empowering women AND educating men.
Donate to MAVA (Men Against Violence and Abuse), an outreach organization dedicated to dismantling violent and patriarchal modes of socialization among young men.
Donate to Swayam, a feminist NGO committed to advancing women’s rights and ending gender-based violence.
Spread awareness about gender-based violence and injustices in India – even if you don’t live here. International visibility is highly effective in catalyzing social change.
Advocate for legal and social accountability – both the perpetrators of violent crimes and the bureaucrats who cover them up must be brought to justice.
Talk to your male friends & family members about what they can do to protect women. Gender-based violence is NOT only women’s problem to solve.

Reflection on Sounding Off

Welcome back, yogis! This is the final part and conclusion to my Sounding Off series. If you’ve made it this far, congratulations – I know I’ve overloaded you with complex ideas and convoluted histories, but trust and believe that the yoga industry is better when all of us engage in these critical conversations.

First, let’s review everything we’ve learned over the past seven weeks. Then, I’ll reflect on my own experiences with Sanskrit in modern yoga, and we can decide how to move forward together. Allow me to remind you of the question that we have sought to answer throughout this entire series, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Review

Part 1: Aurality

Sanskrit originates in the Vedic oral tradition; it is meant to be spoken, heard, and transmitted aurally…

But in Vedic ritual, incorrect pronunciation defeats the purpose of aural recitation.

Part 2: Antiquity

We can trace the Vedic-Sanskrit lineage back to ancient civilizations…

But the Vedic-Sanskrit lineage has been plagued by socio-linguistic inequities since antiquity…

And much of the Sanskrit we use in modern yoga is not as ancient as it seems.

Part 3: Alchemy

Sanskrit is spiritually nuanced or even “transformative” in a way that modern spoken languages are not…

But mindless memorization of Sanskrit words promotes misinformation…

And misinformation breeds pseudoscience and ‘conspirituality’ (conspiracy + spirituality).

Part 4: Austerity

Committing to learn complex Sanskrit words can serve as a form of tapas: an act of yogic discipline…

But knowing a few Sanskrit words does not equal Sanskrit literacy…

And those few Sanskrit words are constantly appropriated, commodified, and reduced to their aesthetic appeal in the modern yoga industry.

Part 5: Authority

The Sanskrit textual canon is often regarded as a centralized source of yogic authority…

But yoga has historically been developed and transmitted by many diverse communities – not just Sanskrit-literate ones.

Part 6: Authenticity

Sanskrit has come to connote “authentic” pre-colonial yoga…

But Sanskrit supremacy IS a legacy of colonialism in yoga.

Part 7: Accessibility

Sanskrit is inaccessible to beginner yogis…

And yoga teachers often ignore the exclusionary history of Sanskrit culture…

But by offering Sanskrit education to all yogis, we can democratize yogic wisdom!

Evidently, the answer to our question is not so black and white. Over the past seven parts of this series, I have elaborated on seven reasons in favor and eleven reasons in opposition to Sanskrit in modern yoga. Whether we should speak Sanskrit is not a simple matter of respecting the tradition or honoring yoga’s roots; after all, yoga has a long, complicated history, and Sanskrit is just one small part of it.

Now, we know that Sanskrit was strategically selected to represent yoga – first by high-caste Hindu elites, then by European Orientalists and colonialists, and now by American consumers. When we perpetuate the falsehood that we must speak Sanskrit for our yoga to be authentic, or non-appropriative, or anything else, we are playing into reductive, exclusionary stereotypes about what yoga can be and who can practice it. Sanskrit does indeed have a rich heritage, but this language is not the end all be all for yoga. Let’s broaden our horizons – I know it’s possible.

So, do I speak Sanskrit in my classes?

Yes, sometimes! When I teach in gyms, rec centers, or in random pop-up situations, I rarely use Sanskrit save for certain poses that most people know (śavāsana, mostly). When I teach in yoga studios, however, I speak Sanskrit with some regularity. There are multiple reasons that I do this:

When recited in rhythm with the breath, Sanskrit words take on a lovely cadence which can be soothing – even meditative! I often teach three rounds of the same sequence, with only the third in Sanskrit. This pattern ensures that students have already committed the sequence to muscle memory before they begin translating foreign words.
Some Sanskrit words are so commonly mispronounced that I like to say them in my classes – just so my students can hear the correct pronunciation for once. In this case, I always follow the Sanskrit with its English counterpart, and I tend to emphasize the part of the word that is often mispronounced (i.e. “pra-SAA- rih-ta pādottānāsana, wide-legged forward fold”)
Many yoga postures have clear, succinct, well-known Sanskrit names but long or convoluted English names (i.e. janu śīrṣāsana AKA “head to knee pose” – what does that even mean?). If I choose to use Sanskrit for the sake of efficiency, I usually demonstrate the pose at the same time so that my students can easily follow along.
Unfortunately, many people still equate Sanskrit with “authentic” yoga. Even though we’ve debunked this myth throughout this series, I often feel the need to perform my authenticity as a Desi yoga teacher by reciting Sanskrit words in my classes. Whether I like it or not, this action boosts my credibility, and it tends to catalyze deeper conversations with my students about yogic spirituality and philosophy.

Outside of these few instances, I have mostly stopped using Sanskrit in my yoga classes. I have found that the practice is deeply classist, inaccessible, and prone to misuse. Moreover, the prevalent misconception of Sanskrit as a marker of “true yoga” is harmful and reductive of yoga’s diversity throughout history – it continues to erase yogis of various castes, nationalities, religious backgrounds, and gender identities from the yogic tradition. This pattern of erasure doesn’t just limit the types of yoga that we get to enjoy in the west – it also impacts the development of political ideologies and policies in contemporary South Asia. Such influence is far beyond our scope of practice as postural yoga teachers.

Where do we go from here?

I know I’ve thrown a lot of information at you throughout the Sounding Off series, but we’ve only just scratched the surface. The yogic tradition is vast, multi-layered, and infinitely complex – to truly do the work of Woke Yoga, we must continue to learn and listen to the voices that have been muted throughout yoga history.

The decision to use (or not use) Sanskrit in your yoga classes is entirely your own – so long as you think critically throughout your decision-making process. I hope that I have provided you with compelling arguments both for and against Sanskrit in modern yoga, and that you can continue to return to Sounding Off as a resource as you consider this quandary. I’ll leave you with one final set of questions for self-reflection; please engage with each one thoughtfully, using your answers to inform the future of your yoga teaching and practice.

Self-Reflection Questions:

Do I speak Sanskrit in my yoga classes?
- When? How often?
- In what circumstances/ yoga environments?
WHY do I speak Sanskrit in those instances?
- Is it to honor yoga’s history as an oral tradition?
- Is it because my lineage relies on ancient Sanskrit texts or teachings?
- Is it because Sanskrit feels more nuanced or spiritual than English/ my native language?
- Is it because I have only read yogic texts that were originally recorded in Sanskrit?
- Is it an effort to decolonize yoga or return to yoga’s South Asian roots?
- Is it to make my cues more efficient or accessible?
- Is it for another reason? If so, what is it?
How does Sanskrit impact my own experience as a yoga practitioner?
How does Sanskrit impact the classes I teach?
- How do my students respond to Sanskrit?
- Is Sanskrit common in the studios/ yoga spaces where I teach? Why or why not?
Where can I go to find credible information about yoga’s history and socio-political dynamics?
- Do I know how to find reputable non-Sanskrit sources on yoga?
- Who in my yoga community can I speak to about these topics?
How can I continue these conversations with my yoga students, fellow teachers, and studio owners?

Thank you so much for reading and engaging with Sounding Off! I look forward to continuing this discourse and answering any questions you may have. Please drop a comment below or contact me on any of my social media accounts – I would love to hear from you!

I have also compiled a complete bibliography – with NO Sanskrit sources! – for you to continue learning and expanding your perspectives on this subject. Feel free to download, share with your friends, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts as you work through it:

Sounding Off Bibliography

Don’t forget to subscribe to my Substack newsletter (sign-up in the sidebar to the right) if you haven’t already, as I’ll be posting about lots of fun stuff in the coming weeks. Wishing you all love and light!

Sincerely,

Kaya (The Woke Yogi)

Accessibility

Welcome to the 7th and final part of Sounding Off: Accessibility. If you’re new to the Sounding Off series, you can quickly get caught up on the series archive!

This week, we’re circling back to a few topics that we’ve discussed in previous weeks – namely, socio-linguistic hierarchies and histories of exclusion in Sanskrit culture – to explore barriers to entry and the potential advantages of Sanskrit education. As you explore the content in the tabs below, consider the question that we seek to answer, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Thank you SO MUCH for reading and engaging with Sounding Off! This week’s post is the final part in this series; however, be sure to check back next Wednesday for my reflection on all seven parts, including a round-up of each week’s takeaways and a complete, compiled bibliography for your further reading pleasure.

I’ll also continue writing about my yoga experiences and research in the weeks to come. If you’re not yet subscribed to my Substack, you can do so now to get all my writings straight to your email inbox. The sign-up is in the sidebar on the right!

Much love,

Kaya (The Woke Yogi)

Authenticity

Welcome to Part 6 of Sounding Off: Authenticity. If you’re new to the Sounding Off series, you can quickly get caught up on the series archive!

The first five parts of this series have covered a lot of ground, from ancient proto-Hindu practices of oral recitation to medieval Tantric alchemy to contemporary ideologies of linguistic ethno-nationalism. This week, we’re honing in on the colonial era (roughly, 19th and 20th centuries) to explore Orientalist Sanskrit literature, yoga under the British Raj, and colonial legacies in modern yoga. As you explore the content in the tabs below, consider the question that we seek to answer, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Check back next Wednesday for Part 7 of Sounding Off: Accessibility!

Authority

Welcome to Part 5 of Sounding Off: Authority, and thank you so much for your patience with this release! I have been dealing with a number of personal catastrophes recently, not to mention that I just moved to India! I’ll be here in Rishikesh, the yoga capital of the world, for the next year, where I’ll be conducting research as a Fulbright-Nehru Research Fellow (hence the disclaimer at the top of this post). It has taken some time to get settled in, but I look forward to sharing my travels and research with you all very soon.

If you’re new to the Sounding Off series, or if you just need a refresher after our little break, you can quickly get caught up on the series archive.

This week, we’re diving into Sanskritization: the historical process by which diverse yogic practices from many languages and cultures come to be codified and legitimized within Sanskrit texts. As you explore the content in the tabs below, consider the question that we seek to answer, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Check back next Wednesday for Part 6 of Sounding Off: Authenticity!