Martial MAIDEN

Our correspondent goes kung fu fighting, finds her chi and unlocks her back. Yes, it hurt

Saturday, 5: 30 am. My shrill cell phone alarm wakes me up at the ungodly hour. Outside, the rain patters on my ancient air conditioner and urges me to snuggle back into bed, but I stagger out, rubbing the sleep away from my eyes. “You, my dear, are going kung fu fighting,” I tell my bedraggled other staring back grumpily from the mirror. Shaolin kung fu. Ancient martial art which Indian Buddhist monk Bodhidharma taught the Chinese at the Shaolin Temple in Henan way back in 6 th century AD. Jet Lee does it. Jackie Chan does it. So will I.

So I’m at Vasant Kunj’s Green Avenue, staring at a pagoda where classes are held. As the drizzle pelts the manicured lawns, Kanishka Sharma, my instructor in bright yellow robe, walks out. Is he — a small, wiry 29-year-old—the Shaolin warrior, the first Indian to train at the Shaolin Temple in China, the fight choreographer of Don who taught Shahrukh Bruce Lee-style kickboxing and Priyanka Chopra Shaolin Xing Yi Liu He boxing? I’m a mite sceptical but I begin.

I’m asked to flex my ankle against a pole in the pagoda where the small group is practising. “80 times,” barks Kanishka nonchalantly before sauntering off to the next student. Eighty? I’m at 10 and already tiring. I think I’ll cheat a bit. So I count faster and—what do you know—I’m heading for the 70-mark. I was never really good at numbers, now, was I, I think to myself as a smile spreads across my face. That did it. In a flash, Kanishka’s disciple is near me, pinning me with the sternest of looks. Till the end of the session, he refuses to budge from my side. Ankle stretches done, now for some exercise for calf muscles. But my stiff legs are in protest mode and I’m in dire need of inspiration. “Time to go into the open and meditate,” says Kanishka. Umm, hello? What of the sleek punches, the flying kicks, the karate chop that will beat the crap out of lecherous Romeos and drill fear into hearts of lascivious landlords? “Surrender to nature. Listen to the chirping birds, the rustling leaves and the sound of the wind. Focus on dan tien, below your navel where your chi (energy) is stored,” Kanishka insists. This can’t be how Shaolin monks whet aggression. I try nonetheless. My wanders—to deadlines, the lunch date I want to cancel, my maid who is on a week-long leave. Oh my god, did I lock the door?

The panic fades in a while and it’s time for ma bu, the shaolin tactic I’ve been impatiently waiting for. Ma bu or the horse stance is no child’s play, I discover. Legs wider than the shoulder width, knees bent, back straight and one hand pointing like you’re riding a horse— ma bu hurt from top to bottom. “Let your mind rule your body,” Kanishka’s familiar voice commands as he makes us do a series of body-breaking, muscle-tearing exercises. I am a mass of pain and my instructor is pitiless. “I decide when you’ve had enough,” he says. Hey, isn’t Buddhism about non-violence?

Next up: self-defence or how to escape ogling men. Sounds good, but my hands hurt. “If somebody grabs your wrist, this is how you break free,” Kanishka continues. I’m taught how to let my energy flow, twist my arms and break free from the tight grasp of a burly man. It works. Delhi buses, here I come.

By now my instructor is in action mode, as he moves like Jackie Chan and hurls his student Ashok around like a sack of potatoes. Ouch, that must hurt. Suddenly, he turns on me. He’s flung me on the lush grass carpet and pinned my arms behind my back. I shout but hysteria doesn’t move shaolin masters. As he bends my back like a bow, I long for office, deadlines and my rickety computer. Suddenly, I hear a click. “I’ve opened your back. Now your posture will be right.”
I look up at the yellow robe against the grey sky. Enlightenment dawns—this hack can’t be a shaolin warrior.