How I Forgave Yoga

My father’s devotion to yoga left me with an unexpected inheritance

Photo by Mor Shani on Unsplash

Dad’s unexpected announcement got my attention. “I’ll be late for breakfast tomorrow. I’ve enrolled in a yoga class,” he informed Mom, his voice carrying a hint of excitement.

Mom’s curry stirring slowed momentarily as she processed his words, her response a distracted “Okay” before she remembered to ask, “How are you feeling today?”

“So far, so good,” Dad replied.

Meanwhile, I sat at the kitchen table, textbooks open before me, but my attention diverted by yoga—a word I hadn’t heard in my twelve years of existence.

As Dad retreated to the living room, the soft creak of his chair signaled his retreat into the world of books.

After completing my homework, I approached him. With a gentle gesture, he lowered his book, welcoming my intrusion.

“What is yoga? What will you do there?” I queried.

In response, he offered a shrug, “I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Why are you going? Is this because you coughed out blood?”

With a sigh, he confessed, “Yes, I haven’t been feeling well. Hopefully, it will help,” before retreating once more into the comforting embrace of his book.

The following morning dawned with the usual hustle and bustle of the household. The notion of yoga slipped from my mind. I remembered as I noticed Dad’s absence at the breakfast table, his bowl of fruit untouched.

Upon my return from school, I saw Dad in quiet contemplation, cradling his cup of tea. With a rush of eagerness, I approached him, asking, “What is yoga? What did you do in yoga?”

Setting his cup back onto the saucer with deliberate care, Dad’s eyes met mine, his gaze reflecting the wisdom gleaned from his newfound practice. “Yoga means to connect. I endeavored to connect with myself through the ancient postures and rhythmic breaths of yoga,” he explained.

“What postures?”

“The trainer first taught me Surya Namaskar, a salutation to the sun. It’s supposed to have endless health benefits. It also stretches every part of the body,” he said, rubbing his calf muscles.

“Hmm. And then?”

“There were a few more. I realized that there are many types of yoga too. We ended the session with laughter yoga.”

“What is laughter yoga?” I inquired.

He hesitated, uncertain about his reply, “The group looks at each other and laughs out loud.”

It didn’t sound as fascinating as I thought it would, and I lost interest.

Sunayna Pal as a child with her father

In the years that followed, our lives underwent numerous transformations. I completed my schooling and ventured into the realm of college education. Meanwhile, Dad transitioned into retirement, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Amidst these changes, one constant remained steadfast: Dad’s unwavering dedication to yoga and his absence from our breakfast table. I felt jealous. It was unfair that the little time we got together as a family was taken away by yoga.

As the dawn of the new millennium ushered in a renewed interest in holistic wellness, yoga also experienced a resurgence, captivating the hearts and minds of people seeking balance and rejuvenation. Within our social circle, Dad emerged as an unofficial ambassador for yoga, his unwavering devotion serving as a testament to its transformative power.

At gatherings and social events, Dad would regale acquaintances with a familiar narrative, a tale I’d heard countless times before. He’d recount how a moment of fear, marked by the ominous sight of blood, propelled him toward the path of yoga.

Unknown people walked up to me and told me that my dad inspired them to do yoga. It had changed their lives, and they were grateful. These strangers proudly regaled me with their medical histories and conditions and, now, recoveries.

Because this kept on happening, and these people were so exuberant in their praise for a practice I’d dismissed as an activity that took Dad away from us, I resolved to follow in my dad’s footsteps, to embrace the ancient practice of yoga as a means of navigating life. If it had worked for him, and all these others who’d been influenced by him, maybe it was worth a shot.

However, as I entered the room, Dad sat with his brow furrowed in anguish as he gingerly massaged his temples. My heart constricted with worry. Though Dad had spoken of occasional headaches in the past, I’d never witnessed him in such a state of distress.

My voice trembled with concern. “What’s wrong? Do you have a headache?”

He nodded. “I have a doctor’s appointment for an MRI.”

This probably wasn’t the right time to ask him about yoga. I decided to wait a few days.

I thought I could ask him later, but the devastating news of Dad’s diagnosis shattered the fragile illusion of normalcy that had enveloped our lives. An MRI detected a stage 4 tumor in his brain.

In the blink of an eye, our world was upended, consumed by a whirlwind of medical procedures—surgery, radiation, and the chaotic dance with uncertainty. Slowly, Dad slipped into the abyss of coma and then slipped away entirely.

A gaping void engulfed our lives. Amidst the wreckage of our shattered dreams, questions lingered: What of yoga, that ancient practice to which Dad had pledged his allegiance? It seemed as though yoga had failed us, its promises of healing and renewal nothing more than hollow echoes in the wind. All it really did was take him away from us at breakfast time.

For years, he had been the staunchest advocate of yoga, never missing a morning session. Yet, as his daughter, I turned my back on the practice that had defined his existence, dissuading others from following in his footsteps. “Yogaismoga,” I would say. And as I got cheekier, I started saying, “Na Ma staying in bed.”

This helped me settle into the rhythm of my new normal life, the wounds of my loss slowly began to heal. A year later, I met my husband and settled down and had a baby.

It shocked me when he told me he was thinking of experimenting with yoga. I was chopping veggies for dinner. With a knife in my hand, I protested, “Please don’t waste your time.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I want to test it out,” he confessed, his voice tinged with sincerity. “Staying up at night for the baby has increased my weight, too. Maybe yoga will help. Will it be okay if I try it for a few days? Just to see what it’s all about.”

“Yoga doesn’t do anythi—”

“No harm in trying.” He cut me before I could say “Yogaismoga.”

“Sure,” I lied.

As my husband delved deeper into his newfound pursuit of yoga, I couldn’t help but harbor a twinge of familiar resentment. Every Tuesday, he faithfully attended his yoga classes, and every morning he would practice at home as I made curry in the kitchen. With each passing week, I watched his body transform with weight loss and newfound muscles. He exuded a quiet confidence and cheerful acceptance that spoke volumes of the inner transformation taking place. He also embraced fatherhood with renewed vigor, his laughter ringing through the halls like a melody of joy.

As my son reached the milestone of weaning himself at 15 months old, a wave of bittersweet relief washed over me, granting me a moment of respite amid the whirlwind of motherhood. Sensing an opportunity for self-care, my husband gently urged me to finally explore yoga, inspired by the transformative journey he himself had undertaken.

Reluctantly, I agreed, my skepticism giving way to a tentative curiosity as I embarked upon my first session. As the trainer guided us through the ancient practice of Surya Namaskar, I found myself immersed in the rhythmic flow of movement, my body awakening to the dormant energies within. Or maybe it just quivered.

I felt a little sore the first day but surprisingly, I didn’t realize the time at well past nine in the evening. If it weren’t for yoga, I would have been in bed or even asleep.

Next morning, as the soreness of my first day of yoga faded, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the practice, a realization that both surprised and unsettled me.

My husband rolled out two mats as a gentle reminder. As I moved through the familiar motions of Surya Namaskar alongside him, unsought tears welled within me. I found clarity after years of doubt and uncertainty.

Dad was bedridden for the last few weeks of his life. Patients with brain cancer can be in a coma or bedridden for longer than that. Yoga had kept him alive and thriving for so long that we didn’t even realize he had cancer.

As tears flowed freely, I offered a silent apology to yoga, recognizing the folly of my misplaced blame.

And so, with a heart filled with gratitude and hope, I embraced the practice of yoga, its gentle wisdom guiding me toward a path my dad had trod before me.

Sunayna Pal and her son doing yoga

Sunayna Pal was born and raised in Mumbai, India, now calls Maryland home. She has made her literary mark with her debut poetry book, Refugees in Their Own Country (B&W Fountain), which explores the Partition of India. Her evocative poetry graces the pages of numerous international journals and anthologies, museums, poetry festivals, and libraries, resonating with readers across the globe. Beyond her writing, Sunayna serves as the Director of The Poetry Academy and is dedicated to the practice of Heartfulness meditation. For a deeper insight into her work and journey, please visit sunaynapal.com.