She had been highly recommended. Over forty reviews and a five star rating. The comments were also glowing, talking about an experience like no other.
I had spent an inordinate amount of time looking lingeringly at her photos. Photos of a young, Asian American woman, wearing skin-tight clothing, and displaying her obvious suppleness and bodily control in a variety of asanas.
But it was the close-up portrait that really caught my attention. Lustrous dark hair framing a dusky face with heavy eyebrows, and exhibiting an infeasibly high level of symmetry. And her eyes. There was something about her eyes. They had depth.
So here I was. Sitting on my mat in a lotus position that felt angular and awkward compared to the more serene and composed posture facing me. My instructor was obviously feeling warm, as she wore only minuscule, white athletic shorts, and a minimalist black sports bra.
The yogini had said her name was Maada Haathee, but that Martha would do. Her limbs looked lithe and powerful, and she exuded health and vitality. I was conscious that I was doing a little exuding of my own in response to her.
The room was indeed warm, despite being air conditioned. Martha had lit a number of agarbatti, and their aromatic fumes made the air heavy and sensual. My thoughts turned to a nice shavasana.
I blinked sleepily, waiting for the session to commence, but Martha was in no hurry. I began to feel my eyelids droop. Forcing them open, I saw that she had stretched her arms out sideways. We were clearly going to start. I closed my eyes briefly, and must have dragged rheum across my pupils as, it now seemed as if Martha had more than four limbs.
I really was feeling drowsy. I looked at the other woman hazily, and her features seemed to melt and elongate. It must be my tired eyes. I rubbed them and looked again. Suddenly I was awake.
"You! You're... you're him!"
Martha, or whatever Martha was now, breathed, "Hush, it's all OK, just relax. Nothing bad is going to happen, and maybe something good will."
Her mouth was now obstructed by a long, fleshy proboscis, its tip a smooth dome, without any apparent nostrils. And there was no denying the four arms now.
"You're... him. Ganesha... the elephant god," I blurted.
"Well, hardly, I'm still a girl, though such distinctions are less important to us than you." It was still the same voice, I was tempted to say, still the same person.
My brain was overloaded, and my mouth uselessly gaped.