The Yogi

So I told you, I separated from my ex boyfriend, I went to rent an apartment, a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, whatever I need.  I could no longer go back to live with my parents, I am slim, have a good body, I can't explain why I don't have a boyfriend, so here I am at thirty-five with a rented mini-apartment, recently separated and in debt with my credit card.  I was feeling depressed.  They recommended me to go to yoga.  The instructor was a sixty-year-old Hindu, he spoke terrible English, with a skeletal body.  He always wore a tunic, filthy sandals, and in his hand, which he surely never washed, he carried sesame seeds and dried plums.

 There I met a friend.  She had a body full of tattoos and I don't think she ever washed her hair.  For some reason she inspired confidence in me, I told her that I felt very depressed and alone, she told me to go live with her and other girls in the Commune, which was an old house where there were eight women, and the Yogi, who were doing meditation.  and Yoga exercises.  So we asked the Yogi for permission and the following Saturday I was already moving to the Commune.

 In the Commune my problems ended, I stopped feeling lonely and the depression left me.  Every day we got up at five in the morning, there was no hot water and many did not bathe, at first I did, then I stopped doing it.  We did yoga at six in the morning and six in the afternoon, and meditation before going to sleep.  There were two bunks, they were occupied by the supervisor and the yogi assistant, the rest of us had to sleep on the floor.  We were pro-strength vegetarians and our entire diet consisted of herbs, lettuce, and many kinds of seeds.  The house was an old house, which must have had better days, the furniture was of a refined style, old and full of dust.  No one to the toilet.  In the morning I would get ready and go to work, in the afternoon I would come back and help with the kitchen chores to eat, pasta, ravioli, salad, the food was not bad, but we could not buy wine, nor cheese  .  When I collect my fortnight they told me that I should give half to the Commune, so I gave them half of my check, but I was pissed off when I saw that many of them were not working.  The worst thing was not eating meat, you couldn't drink alcohol, or cigarettes, I felt like I wanted to be able to smoke at least one cigarette.

 The following Saturday, very early in the morning, I asked the supervisor for permission to be absent a couple of hours to go with my mother.  I lied.  We had to report all the exits, if we went to work and if we returned.  One outing a week was scheduled to buy groceries and for this the supervisor and one of us went out, and if we went out alone, we had to report it.  So I waited for the supervisor to ask for my permission.  The Yogi was not there, so he gave me permission and told me to return before he returned.  I went out and took a taxi, I asked him to take me to the outskirts of the city, we passed the airport and arriving at the Centennial I told him to leave me there, ask how much it was, he told me that twenty box, I paid him and rushed to enter one of the  restaurants that were on the roadside.  Enter one that looked elegant.  A waiter greeted me and led me to a table.  I sat down.  What will you order?  I want a steak, a New York, I told him.  What ended?  Well done, I said.  I also want a glass, not a bottle of Concha Toro wine.  Right away miss.  She brought me the steak, well cooked, accompanied by potatoes and vegetables.  I put the vegetables aside and enjoyed the steak.  They brought the bottle of wine, they served me a glass and I took it in a sip, I asked to be served again and savored the wine this time, I felt my whole body relax.  When I finished I ordered a dessert, a Neapolitan flan.  In the Commune, sugar, coffee, wine, cheese, everything derived from milk, yogurt, sausages, aromatic teas, only chamomile and lemon, were prohibited.  You couldn't smoke either.  So at the restaurant, I asked for a smoking permit, but the waiter pointed out a sign for a smoke-free area.  I sighed.  When I finished I raised my head and saw that on the other side of the restaurant the Yogi was eating with his assistant.

 The Yogi, who had already seen me, said something to his assistant, who came to my table and asked me to accompany them.  We got to the table and the assistant sat down.  She was eating a broccoli salad with olives accompanied by a glass of water, she remained silent and continued eating.  The Yogi had in one hand a fork, with a knife he was cutting a steak.  With a sign she asked me to sit down.  I was disappointed.  No mames, months without eating meat, without drinking wine and he was here eating and drinking half a mug of draft beer and enjoying that half pound steak.  Full of rage, I only managed to say: Why?  Because you needed it, he told me.  I started to cry.  I don't understand, I said.  The Yogi explained to me: I have always thought that meat, alcohol and sugar are the origin of anger in humans.