I teach the way
I was taught to live.

My roots are in the Bihar School of Yoga — a tradition that has never treated yoga as exercise, but as a complete way of living. I didn't discover it as an adult looking for calm. I was raised within it, returning again and again to a place that taught me how to meet my own life.

What I learned there wasn't a set of poses. It was a way of beginning each day with awareness, of giving the hours a shape, of letting the body lead the mind back to stillness. I have carried that out of the ashram and into the ordinary world — and that is exactly what I help others do.

The real practice was never on the mat. It was in how I learned to live the other twenty-three hours.

I wanted to understand not only what the practices did, but why — in the language of the body itself. So I took a Master's in Yoga Science, and studied the nervous system, the hormones, the breath, the way each practice meets a living anatomy.

It changed how I teach. Now, when I guide a breath or a posture, I can show you exactly where it lands inside you — why the humming breath calms a racing heart, why the cycle of stress unsettles sleep, where the yoga actually lives in the body.

The ashram gave me the practice. The science showed me the map. I hold both.

In Bombay I taught for a long while, including people whose lives leave them little room for their own health. I've sat with students managing serious conditions, and watched what a steady, gentle practice can do — not by erasing illness, but by changing how a person meets it.

I've moved now, and I'm building this practice here with an open heart — fewer students, more care, a slower and truer way of working. I would rather teach a small circle deeply than a crowd in passing.

I know what it is to carry something quietly, with no one to ask. So when someone comes to me, I begin by listening — really listening. Often that is where the first weight lifts, before a single movement.

I'm not here to fix you, or to make you into someone else. I'm here to help you come back to yourself — and to keep coming back, gently, for the rest of your life.

That is the art of returning. It's what I practise, and it's what I teach.