The practice’s modern iterations – including pricey paraphernalia and cultural appropriation – have left me cold, and I’ve had enough
I was saddened but not surprised to read yoga teacher Puravi Joshi’s recent newspaper account of her less than zen-like experience working in an industry that is supposed to be all about inner smugness … sorry, I mean peace. Joshi recounted a litany of micro-aggressions doled out by studio bosses who made her audition for prime classes, critiqued her physique and gave western explanations about Hindu gods being like “cartoon characters”.
For the past 20 years I have been haphazardly “practising” (as they say) yoga but I have finally decided to roll up my mat for the final time. “But why?” I hear you ask. It’s true that for a while it looked as if yoga offered a quick fix for all of life’s biggest challenges – materialism, anxiety, ageing, spiritual bankruptcy – but alas, in the aftermath of Covid, many studios faced actual bankruptcy. Now, as centres struggle to stay afloat, it’s becoming harder to find a “normal” class. By that I mean one where people show up without a £1,520 Prada mat. One where you do a bit of deep breathing, a bit of ouchy stretching, a bit of lying on your back thinking about what you’re going to watch on Netflix when you get home (possibly not Bikram: Yogi, Guru, Predator).
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