The Reinvention of Martha Ross

by Charlene Allcott

  I stay sitting on the floor cross-legged, hoping to find a moment when I can join in successfully. I try to put together an expression that looks peaceful. I don’t feel at peace, though, I feel out of step with everyone there and that’s a familiar feeling. It’s tense and awkward and seems unfair but I recognize it and that knowledge makes me feel unsettled and frustrated, which in my opinion is the worst combination of emotions one can experience. I know I need to cry but not sad tears; sad and angry tears, which are much uglier and generally louder. I close my eyes to try and halt, or at least delay, the process.

  After a few seconds I feel a presence behind me. Above my head I hear Sunbeam: ‘Carry on with the sequence, everyone. Whatever stage of your yoga journey you are in, remember that yoga means breath. As long as you’re inhaling, you are in touch with your yogi.’ Without request for consent, two hands clasp my belly. I have to swallow an instinct to start elbowing her in the ribcage, a move I was shown at a self-defence class at university. Her breath is on my neck. ‘Just exhale all the negativity you’re storing,’ she whispers. ‘I can feel the tension in your body, it’s like it’s full of static.’ I’m not sure what she expects; she is essentially trying to mount me and she hasn’t even bought me a drink. ‘Breathe with me,’ she says, and the whole thing levels up from creepy to creepy as all hell. I open my eyes and everyone is on all fours and I think I will feel marginally less self-conscious if I attempt to join in.

  I wriggle free of Sunbeam, who takes the hint and continues her journey round the class. As the group moves, I try to move with them. The woman to the left of me looks very pleased with herself but if I could put my forehead to my knees, I would also feel smug. The man to my right seems to be struggling with the positions but he is enjoying his struggle, sometimes chuckling to himself as his body fails to meet up with his ambition. The class is much faster than I anticipated; no lying down at all. I have to keep looking up to see what everyone else is doing and as a result I am always a few seconds behind. At one point I stand up to see that everyone else is on all fours again and I feel like crying. The class seems like an analogy for something, something I don’t actually want to think about right now. I get down on the floor just as everyone else glides into the next position and I give in. I stay where I am, heavy-limbed and cow-like.

  There was a moment during my labour with Moses when I found myself in the exact same position. It did nothing to ease the searing pain of contractions but for some reason I felt safe down there. I could smell the disinfected floor and feel it cool against my palms. The midwife was trying to convince me to stand but I was immovable. Alexander returned from getting a coffee and she said, ‘You’re gonna have to get her up.’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ he said.

  Sunbeam comes over to me and places her hand on the small of my back. ‘That’s right,’ she says, ‘just stay in the moment and breathe.’ I can do that; breathing is about all I can do.

  Sunbeam announces a five-minute break before chanting begins. I know that I will be tempted to chant, ‘You are all frickin’ loopy.’ So, as the others are milling around, getting water and bowing to each other, I slip out. My intention is to sneak back to my room and eat my contraband and catch up on the four hours’ sleep I was robbed of this morning, but as I approach the stairs I’m halted by a little girl, sitting on the bottom step in tears. She’s a pretty, skinny thing. Her shiny, brunette curls are in sharp juxtaposition to her muck-strewn overalls. I crouch down in front of her and ask if she’s OK. She collapses on to my shoulder and sobs energetically. ‘What happened?’ I whisper.

  ‘He took my roooooock!’ she wails. I hold her at arm’s lengths in an effort to protect my eardrums.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I say. Not seeing at all.

  ‘I was playing with a rock and Jack, to—, to—, took it.’

  ‘Where’s your mummy?’ I ask. The girl points towards the hall door, where the groans of Sunbeam and her followers can be heard.

  ‘OK then. Should I go and talk to him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, whilst nodding violently. I stand up and hold my hand out. She grips it with a surprising force for such a small hand. My new friend pulls me into the garden and then behind the kitchen, where, in a clearing surrounded by thicket, is a small crowd of children; it looks like a scene from Oliver Twist. The children – a variety of ages and sizes – are shouting and chasing each other and seemingly trying to cover themselves with as much debris as possible. Sitting at some distance is a long-limbed teenage girl, tapping industriously on a mobile phone; I assume she is the allocated supervisor. Watching her, I feel a wave of irritation, partly because she has such a lax attitude to her responsibilities but also because of her access to social media. I also feel sad for the kids, left to fend for themselves as their parents chase enlightenment. I look down at the little girl. Her expression is fearful and something about her vulnerability reminds me of Moses. She deserves more than a rock.

  ‘Is there a tiger here!’ I yell. The children stop and stare at me; they look like startled woodland creatures, awaiting further gunshots. I see their shock turn to confusion and morph again to mirth. ‘I lost my tiger,’ I say, ‘have you seen him?’

  ‘Nooooooo!’ the children chorus.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I say, and scratch my head in pantomime fashion. ‘If I don’t find him, he’ll get hungry and you know what he eats …’ Some of the children giggle nervously. ‘Children,’ I say with a growl. The kids scream and scatter. I hold my hands up and shout, ‘I’m kidding! He’s a vegetarian. He eats vegetables but he’ll eat absolutely everything, the whole garden, and then we’ll have nothing for dinner.’ The children stop and come towards me. ‘But you know what he likes? Singing! Especially children singing. Do you want to help me?’ The supervisor breaks eye contact with her phone screen and looks up just long enough to roll her eyes at me, but the other children come together and sit on the grass in front of me, my little audience. I sit down with them. My new friend nestles next to me, her rock seemingly forgotten. ‘Are all your parents doing yoga?’ I ask. They nod. ‘What are your names?’ All the children shout out their names at the same time. ‘OK, OK! One at a time. You start,’ I say to the little girl with the curls. ‘Tell me your name and something you’re really, really good at.’

  I teach the children how to sing a round and we manage to produce a pretty rockin’ version of ‘London’s Burning’; the supervisor is even inspired to record a performance of it on her phone. When we hear the breakfast bell ringing, the children beg me to stay and teach them another song. I remind them we should get to breakfast before the tiger does and they scatter. I feel lighter than I have in a long time as I walk back to the main building to find Tashi. Being with the children made me think of Moses and miss him even more but it also made me realize I can be something other than his mother. I had feared that without him to think about I would feel even more lost, but for twenty minutes I had felt more in control than I have in a long time.

  I find Tashi in the hall, her face flush with excitement. She disengages from the man she is talking to and rushes over to me. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. ‘You didn’t stay for chanting. Was it too emotional?’

  ‘Yeah, I think it was all a bit much for me. I won’t lie, I felt like a bit of a prat,’ I say. I start towards the kitchen; everything is better with carbs. Tashi tries to reassure me that it’s all just part of the process but I’m concerned it’s a process I no longer want to go through. I’m feeling a little embarrassed; I had visions of massages and sitting in window seats reading. My mind flits to my brandy stash.

  ‘It will get easier,’ she says. ‘When I started yoga, I couldn’t even touch my toes.’ She says this as if I should find it shocking, as if touching your toes is a thing you’re supposed to be able to do. As we reach the kitchen Tashi suddenly stops.

  ‘Uhm, go without me,’ she says.

  ‘No way!’ I counter. I’m not going in alone, but also my stomach is growling an angry
protest. I grab her arm and we wrestle a little in the doorway. I’m about to abandon the cause when I turn to see the source of her distress, all six feet of him. The man walks over to us and places his hands in prayer position.

  ‘Namaste,’ he says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. Tashi says nothing. I give her arm a little tug but she doesn’t respond.

  ‘Tashi, is this … is this him?’ Tashi nods. ‘Excuse us,’ I say to the man before pushing Tashi back into the garden. ‘Did you know Guido was going to be here?’ I say from the safety of behind a tree.

  ‘No, no. Of course not. I thought he was in Kerala,’ says Tashi, her eyes still trained on the kitchen.

  ‘You still talk to him?’ I ask.

  ‘God, no. I just check his Facebook … and his Instagram and stuff.’ I place my hands on Tashi’s shoulders.

  ‘Well, maybe he’s here for a reason. Maybe he’s been sent here so you can finally have closure, so you can be at peace with him.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ says Tashi.

  ‘Tashi,’ I say, ‘you are ten times the man he is. Well, you’re not a man but you know what I mean. You are so much better than him and so much better than this.’ I mean the whole hiding-behind-a-tree thing but a little bit of me means the whole retreat, the whole charade. It’s all starting to feel like cheap theatre and if anyone knows about pretending it’s me.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ says Tashi. She breaks away from me and runs back in the direction of the main lodge. I can taste my anger and, propelled by the sense of injustice, I turn and march back to the kitchen.

  Guido is standing in the centre of the room, his hand placed on the breastbone of a tall blonde woman. As I approach I hear him say, ‘I can feel your prana expanding …’

  I tap him on the shoulder. ‘So you’re Guido?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says to the blonde, who bows prettily and walks away. ‘I am honoured to be in your presence,’ he continues. ‘How can I aid you?’

  ‘You can’t,’ I say. Momentarily he looks irritated, and in his face I can see the petulant little boy he once was. ‘What you can do is wipe that smirk off your pretty face and go and apologize to my friend.’ It is a pretty face, so attractive it almost becomes boring – almost.

  ‘Who is your friend?’ he asks. It is this comment that tips my anger into full-blown rage. Tashi is my friend – somehow this ridiculous trip has sealed us – but also she is every woman who has been dismissed by a man. Tashi is my friend but she is also me.

  ‘My friend is someone who you should never have had the privilege of breathing the same air as, let alone been allowed to have anything close to a relationship with. She is a person that if you are clever you will remember as the best thing you never had and who will remember you as a brief and regrettable footnote in her otherwise amazing life. My friend is someone who is so beautiful you were blinded by her light, which must have been why you tripped and let your dick fall into some other hippy tramp. My friend is wonderful and graceful, and her name is Tashi.’

  Guido lets his mouth fall open for a few seconds. He then shakes his head and says, ‘You are filled with so much anger.’

  ‘You bet I am,’ I say. Then I pick up a glass of something algae-coloured from the table next to me and throw the whole thing in his face. I think it best to quit whilst I’m ahead, so I leave to look for Tashi. I won’t lie; as I walk I hear Beyoncé in my head. At the door to the kitchen a petite Asian girl smiles widely and holds her hand up, and I raise mine to meet hers in a very unzenlike high five.

  Tashi is huddled on her bed in our cell. Her face is damp and blotchy, and she wipes her nose messily on her sleeve when she sees me come in. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘For dating that nimrod, you should be.’

  Tashi gives me a weak smile. ‘I don’t know why I let him get under my skin; we only saw each other for a couple of months.’

  I sit on Tashi’s bed and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. ‘Tashi, there are some people that are put on this earth simply to steal part of our soul.’

  Tashi sighs. ‘I guess if I hadn’t met him I wouldn’t have found Tula Shiki.’

  ‘Yeeeeah,’ I say.

  ‘At school I was such a geek,’ Tashi says. ‘The idea that someone like him would even look at me …’ I want to slap her – affectionately.

  ‘He is clearly riddled with insecurity; he sweats the stuff. You deserve so much better,’ I say. ‘You know that, right?’

  Tashi shuffles towards me and gives me a hug. ‘I’ll meet someone else?’ she asks as we untangle ourselves.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ I say, giving her a playful prod. ‘It could be worse – you could have married him.’

  Tashi laughs. ‘Can you imagine?’ Sadly, I can. ‘I can’t go back out there,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t think he’s gonna be bothering you,’ I say. I tell Tashi about the smoothie facial I gave Guido.

  ‘Oh my God, I love you,’ says Tashi.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Do you want a Bounty?’ Tashi nods.

  Tashi and I share her bed and my chocolate until she feels ready to face the world, or at least the world of the retreat. ‘I think you’re right. He was sent to test me,’ says Tashi. ‘I’m so ready for the meditation now.’

  ‘What does that consist of?’ I ask.

  ‘Just being,’ she says.

  We return to the same room we did yoga in except it’s been filled with candles and cushions. Tashi encourages me to take a seat next to hers. The cushion seems to be primarily decorative because I can feel the floorboards through it. The room is filled with quiet chatter; there’s definitely an air of anticipation. It amuses me a little that everyone is so excited about essentially doing nothing. The elderly woman I helped in the garden is at the front of the room; she waves at me and I smile back. I probably wouldn’t admit it to anyone but I am feeling very peaceful.

  Larry walks in and the room falls silent. He sits on the floor facing us all; he does not use a cushion and no one offers him one. Once settled he makes a loud moaning sound and then nothing. No one moves, no one speaks, no one does anything. I sort of want to scream. This is a habit I have – finding myself wanting to do the most inappropriate thing at particularly sombre moments; I can’t even see a church without wanting to shout an obscenity. I find myself wondering what George would be doing on a Saturday morning. I picture him sitting on a sofa, flicking through the weekend broadsheets, but this is not really George; this is something Alexander would do, is probably doing, committed as he is to carrying on with his life as if nothing has happened. My leg gets an itch. I try to ignore it but it yells at me urgently. I wiggle around trying to find a more comfortable position but doing so seems to make the itch worse as well as draw the attention of the people around me. Then I want to pee – does nobody else need to pee? I cave and get up, avoiding Tashi’s gaze as I creep out backwards.

  Sunbeam is in the reception. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Just need a water break,’ I say. Sunbeam gives me another of her bows, as if she’s blessing the emptying of my bladder. I examine her properly. Her face is dramatically and irreversibly sun-damaged. Her long hair, naturally highlighted with white streaks, is starting to dreadlock in the lower half. It’s difficult to tell if this is intentional or the result of chronic mismanagement. If I saw her on the high street outside a Tesco Metro, for example, I would think she was deeply troubled. I would assume she was a woman rejected by a society insensitive to the needs of the traumatized or addicted; but here she looks very serene. Trite as the word seems, she appears happy.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I ask her.

  ‘Of course,’ she says.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Sunbeam doesn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m here to welcome new followers and help them commit to their path.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, frustrated at what I see as her avoidance of my enquiry, ‘but how did you end up here; what was your life like befor
e?’

  Sunbeam laughs. I know she’s not laughing at me; she’s amused by a previous iteration of herself. ‘I had a life,’ she says, ‘of sorts. By anyone’s standards, I was successful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘House, husband, friends …’ Sunbeam waves her hand dismissively, as if these things are mere trinkets on the charm bracelet of life.

  ‘And you gave it up?’ I ask. ‘For this?’

  Sunbeam pauses. She looks up at the ceiling, searching for the right words there. ‘I was playing a game,’ she says, ‘and I didn’t know the rules; no one did. My husband, the one I had dedicated my life to, given up almost everything for, just left me. No word, no explanation. I realized that nothing in life is guaranteed; everything is so transient. What Larry and the group showed me is the only thing you can rely on is the present. You can never hope for more than this moment.’ She clasps my two hands in hers. ‘This very moment.’

  ‘How long does it go on for?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows? Time is a man-made structure. A moment could be a lifetime, if we wish it.’

  I pull my hands away and try not to look afraid. ‘No, I mean how long is the meditation?’

  ‘We meditate for the morning,’ says Sunbeam. She offers this as if it’s a gift. I feel like a ten-year-old who’s just found a book voucher under the Christmas tree.

  ‘What’s the morning?’ I ask.

  ‘Around three hours.’

  ‘Right … OK … And how long have we been going?’

  Sunbeam looks at her wristwatch. ‘Nineteen minutes.’

  ‘I feel really uncomfortable,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit hot in here – are you hot?’

  ‘The growth is in the discomfort,’ says Sunbeam. ‘We all live in a personal hell. Enduring this is the key to your awakening.’

  I don’t want to endure a single second more of discomfort. I hastily scribble an apology note for Tashi and tell Sunbeam to book me a cab. I don’t leave her side until she confirms that it’s on its way. I’m getting the hell out of hell but not before getting my phone back.