BIKRAM AND HUNTER, Part 1

One in many of my adventures in this strange life ... This first part of the story is uneditted and part of a much larger memoir. Hot yogis might enjoy this one.

BIKRAM AND HUNTER

Upon opening the paperback book Yoga, Youth, and Reincarnation (1965) by Jess Stern, I sank into its exotic content at the genesis of puberty, trying the strange shapes and practicing the odd breathing styles explained. Seven years later, seated upright, cross-legged on the worn wooden floors in the Dance Department at the University of Wisconsin, dressed in a Danskin leotard and cut-off tights, I feel almost profound and most certainly spiritual pinching off one nostril and then the other … something weird and fascinating named as Anuloma Violoma. As a member of Players of San Francisco, a touring dance/theater troupe (1973 -1975), we stripped down and practiced yogic body contortions stark-naked on a rooftop as a warm-up for dance and choreography sessions. Yes, naked and free, that was me, that was all of us. It was the 70s, and liberation and free body expression were a thing.

My first LA girlfriend, the stunning white-blonde Greta Ronningen, fiancé of infamous producer extraordinaire Bert Schneider (The Monkees, Academy Award-winning documentary Hearts and Minds, smash hits Easy Rider and The Last Picture Show, and Days of Heaven,) invited me to attend a hot yoga class. The buzz around Hollywood in the 70s was as follows:

This guy is outrageous and fun; he’ll say anything to anyone! … Lots of movie stars attend. Famous athletes train using his style. Supermodels, TV stars, movie directors—everyone is in that room together, bare-legged, sweating, laughing, crying, or both simultaneously. Bikram is shocking; you gotta experience this guy and his outrageously tough yoga…

Greta and I are a new crop of young aspiring actresses-- the more “liberated” feminist vintage, each dating older guys of considerable notoriety. We decide to check out the scene. Maybe I’d be seen or land a walk-on in a TV show or something.

Bikram Choudhury holds court in a wall-to-wall, carpeted, 105-degree room smack dab in the middle of Beverly Hills. He heats the room to Calcutta temperatures, as he explains, using simple space heaters plugged into sockets that often blow fuses. There is nothing fancy about this basement location. Large mirrors line the front and side walls, and bright florescent lights give the space an operating-room-like ambiance.

He singles me out 15 minutes into class. “Look at you, so young --think you are so hot … You have a body like a New York City cab, 250,000 miles on it. … pure junk.” Shocked and intrigued, I find myself vacillating between rage and surrender for the duration of the torture chamber class. My face is beet red, eye makeup dripping down my cheeks, and I’m soaking wet and breathing heavily. At one point, I barely hold back tears. And yes, the room is full of celebrities of every ilk. I’m not getting noticed today the way I imagined. We each attempt to survive the 26 postures as Bikram’s keen eye penetrates us, and his no-holes-barred tongue lashes as we stare at ourselves, fumbling and struggling, each reflected in the front mirror. Bikram dances around, gleefully describing us as weak, lost, spoiled Americans, etc., and even tells us we’re looking constipated on a toilet seat as we take Utkatasana, the awkward pose.

“Look everybody, see that older woman there, see her? That is Raquel Welsh, big Hollywood sex symbol,” Bikram announces, pointing her out in exaggerated broken English. “Look at that cottage cheese on her thighs ... she needs me and this yoga to save her life … and career!” Raquel fights back, “Fuck you, Bikram,” she shouts out. “Shut the fuck up!” Yet, she returns to class repeatedly, sometimes with her teenage daughter, Tawny. Only Bikram makes insulting comments like this to anyone, “Louis Malle, Louis Malle, you make great movies, but you look like half dead,” He points out in mock disgust. “And you, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, big athlete, look like praying mantis bug … grab the foot, lock the knee, lock the knee … My God, you people need me,” he concludes as we all laugh, soaked in sweat under the glare of those horrendous lights. “Dahlie, (his pronunciation of Darlene) do you cheat on all your boyfriends? Do you cheat on taxes? You certainly cheat the postures … now do the postures or don’t come back!” I did the postures. The banter shoots back and forth until we guffaw ‘till we cry. Bikram even boasts about being Richard Nixon’s personal yoga teacher. “I cured Richard Nixon’s phlebitis, yes…”

The Yoga College of India holds four classes daily: 9 am, 10:30 am, 4:30 pm, and 6 pm. Compact and handsome Bikram, teaches all four most days, wearing his favorite gold lame Speedo. His clean-shaven, bare, muscular torso reeks of expensive cologne. That thick Indian accent and melodious voice only add to his magnetic charm. After spending his youth bodybuilding as a student at the Bishnu Ghosh Center for Physical Culture in Calcutta, India, he recovered from a devastating knee injury by the healing power of yoga. His guru, Bishnu Ghosh, insisted he take his yoga to the West, and the rest is history. “I had to come to these fucking hot rooms and teach all of you because my guru made me. Do you think I can stand this smell and all of you weak, crazy, rich Americans? I do what my guru tells me. Now you do what I tell you … Feet together nicely. Let’s begin.”

These unique asana classes are big draws to people spoiled by too much money and fame and by those wannabes who blow smoke up celebrities’ asses seeking to use them, hoping that stardust might rub off. Bikram is a breath of fresh air with his no-holes-barred remarks. “Everybody here is going to work harder than you did in your entire life!” He barks, “You are going to kill yourself so you can live the best life outside. This yoga will improve your spinal column and probably save your marriage … I give old rich men their Eiffel Tower back.”

One class enters the stinky hot room as the previous class kneels for the final breathing exercise called “blowing.” Kalpalbhati breathing consists of snapping in the abdominal wall for 60 sharp exhales, repeating this twice. “Blow! Use your muscles, not your lungs!” Sparsely clad students, waiting to take the next class, each holding a small towel to stand on, immediately step into the wet spot on the shag carpet left by the previous person limping out, leaving a spicy mix of foul breath and body odor behind.

I quickly became addicted to this yoga style, its distinctive stink and all. If I take a few days off after practicing manically and sometimes double classes, Bikram calls me at home demanding, “Dahlie, be there in class tomorrow, or don’t come back!” He takes me seriously and whispers once in my ear during class,“Dahlie, you have a Hindu spirit and the excellent concentration of a yogi, perhaps a karmic connection.”

As the weeks pass, my body is sculpted, lean, strong, and more balanced. I am less fearful and more grounded in chasing the dream of becoming a movie star. Embraced by the “in crowd” of auteur directors, screenwriters, musicians, movie icons, and extraordinary creative types, I am admired for my muscle tone and radiantly healthy beauty. Becoming increasingly committed to hot yoga and disciplined practice, I find myself paradoxically involved in another life-changing event: a wild love affair with gonzo journalist, political genius, and --well, drug fiend Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, author of the infamous novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, a man and book I never heard of.

____________________

Part 2 in a few days…stay tuned.