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Back in the Seventies, when hipsters lived in Kabul, most backpacker trails converged on Kathmandu. When he got there, a German named Klaus missed wholegrain bread. So he made some himself, in clay pots on a kerosene stove. He only opened a handful of outlets, then retired. The rest have mostly copied his basic recipe: create a space for foreigners and locals to mingle, and fill them up with glutinous golden brot , among other European treats. The German Bakery in Pune became such an icon of comity that Islamist terrorists blew up the building in It just reopened. Many others are effectively holes in the wall with a sign, hawking croissants, cakes and cookies with the loaves. The holy town of Rishikesh has around ten. Even the largest has no connection whatsoever to the original, although its manager and his staff are from Nepal, where Klaus got started. On a sunny late winter morning, all but one of its twenty tables is in use; the darkest in a corner at the back is still unoccupied. I sit and request a glass of fresh mint tea. The woman at the table in front of me sounds American. She wants to know how big the pizzas are. If you listen to sages in loincloths by the river, Rishikesh is as old as the forested hills above. Pilgrims and mystics flock here from all over India and beyond. Several provide Yoga Alliance certification, an internationally recognized piece of paper, available here at cut-price rates. The American giggles. Her last stop was the biggest human gathering on Earth: the Kumbh Mela in Allahabad, where millions of Hindus descend for a bath at the sacred confluence of the Ganges and the Yamuna. I had some amazing visions. Maybe that was the opium. She orders a muffin. It comes with a steaming glass of cocoa. I ask if her breakfast hit the spot. It probably is. Eggs are illegal ingredients in Rishikesh. In fact, the whole town of , people is fully vegetarian by law. Unlike vegans, Indian vegetarians guzzle milk. But eggs are potentially animals, even when unfertilized. A cage of chickens stands outside, along with a handful of drooling red-eyed Hindu men. Back at the bakery, the American departs. I switch to a table up front and grab a menu. There are items to choose from. I scan the cafe instead. An Indian woman in Gucci shades whines into her iPhone. No one gets into the dress code here as flamboyantly as Russians. One sports full-moon party flares covered in pockets. The rest of her is fluorescently accessorized. Her sidekick has gone for the virginal white-lengths-of-cloth look. Their guide keeps muttering reassurance. Cigarette smoke is the closest thing to incense here. This jars a bit with the wholesome clientele. A Korean girl coughs and removes her headphones in frustration. I keep reading the menu. Only two of these seem to be savory: spinach pie and burnt croissant. I order both and return to my seat with a bottle of Coke. The lunchtime crush has brought me company. A French girl now sits opposite, addressing Canadian friends to my right. My egg-free spinach quiche provides distraction. Its heaviness makes a change from rice and dal. I chew an end off my croissant. It reminds me of the vacuum-packed variants sold in the Balkans: a doughy blend of cake and sodden cardboard. My attention drifts again. The yoga girls have been joined by two male friends. A few are considerably older. Some wear luxurious trekking kit twinned with ethno-garb. That suits the manager. He says his business depends on attracting upscale backpackers, not the penny-pinching types who spend hours nursing one black tea. My neighbors are getting excited about almond triangles. One of the guys is from England. A lot of the people I meet here do the same. Rishikesh is difficult to leave. It feels a bit like living in a bubble. I settle the bill. As I stand, a towering presence blocks my path: a man wearing nothing but a thin strip of cloth and a brightly colored waistcoat. His eyes gleam like pearls with a hint of trickster sadhu. I wobble my head non-committally. He lifts my bottle, demanding another from a waiter, then looks at me. Instead, I shrug and walk away. The Iyengar style of yoga is precise. It lines up the body to still the mind and access insight. It's renowned for strictness and control. Its founder, B. Iyengar, was bullied by his guru. He passed this fierceness on to students via his family. Their teaching is often dogmatic: it seeks obedience in the name of liberation. It's helped me a lot, but I find it stifling in some ways. I've learned to combine it with other techniques. No approach to yoga works for everyone; to be devoted means exploring for oneself. Postcard From Rishikesh. Yoga Writing World. Further Reading. Daniel Simpson.

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