the ashtanga cult

when i first went to mysore, i wasn’t chasing some big spiritual awakening—
i just wanted to see where this practice came from.

i’d been doing ashtanga for a while.
i kept hearing people talk about mysore like it was the holy land.
everyone made it sound like this magical place that would change everything.

so i figured... why not.
let’s see what the hype is about.

but within days of arriving, i remember thinking vividly:
these people are fucking crazy.

it wasn’t the asanas—those made sense.
strong. methodical. rhythmic.

it was everything around them—
the altars to pattabhi jois,
the hush around questioning authority,
the way people’s eyes darted around if you asked uncomfortable questions.
the yoga police—self-appointed guardians of "purity"—side-eyeing you if they caught a hint you drank alcohol or, god forbid, ate meat.
the weird ass conversations about "guruji," delivered with the kind of solemn reverence usually reserved for saints.

it hit me fast and hard that even though saraswathi was his daughter—and a truly remarkable teacher—
her son took the throne.

i saw how small her shala was compared to the anointed one’s.
it already made no fucking sense to me.
so i went back.
over and over.

maybe i’d missed something?
maybe they weren’t really this far gone?

i’d traveled halfway around the world to practice yoga.
but what i found felt a lot more like a well-dressed cult.

rigid rules.
idol worship.
a kind of quiet obedience that made my skin crawl.

sharath jois sat at the center of it all—
benefiting immensely, both financially and culturally, from the system as it stood.

and when the me too movement finally cracked the surface?
his response landed like a soft deflection.
more about his struggle than the people who had come forward.

and people praised it.
clapped.
sighed with relief.

because if they didn’t—
they’d have to face the truth.

that their practice, their teacher, their whole carefully curated identity
might be built on top of something cracked.
something dark.
something deeply fucked up.

it wasn’t just spiritual bypassing.
it was collective delusion.
the kind that protects power, punishes dissent, and wraps itself in incense and sanskrit to keep from being questioned.

i stood in the middle of it thinking:
how the fuck is this still happening?

mysore was powerful, yes.
but not because of the bullshit hierarchy or the inherited thrones.

it was powerful because it showed me—up close—
how quickly devotion turns into denial.
how easy it is to call something sacred
just because everyone else does.

snaps fingers
wake up