On another occasion I played Captain Ahab from Moby Dick and all I had to say was, "Ahoy matey! Is that the white whale I've been searching for? Out of my way, woman! I'll harpoon that blubbery fish that took me leg!"

I also had to remember to limp – with only one leg Captain Ahab would certainly have had a limp – and deliver my lines with a suitably roguish, nautical accent. Simple enough, surely.

But when I leapt out from the audience and shouted 'Ahoy matey!' things started to unravel. The combination of limping, feigned piratical accent, remembering to face the audience and use the mike, and remembering my lines proved too overwhelming for my overtaxed and panicked brain and in what I clearly recognised as a New Zealand accent I heard myself say, "Is that the white woman that took me leg? Out of my way, matey, I'll harpoon that blubbery beast that I've been searching for!"

In a fog of despair, dimly I saw play director Sanatan standing off stage, glowering at me and my gaffe, and my confused co-actors, reeling with uncertainty, also looking at me in surprise. The audience, too, were unsure as to the identity of the blubbery white woman I wanted to harpoon and how she had managed to take my leg, but finally things rolled on and I was released out of the play and free to escape, crestfallen but relieved, back to the sanctuary of my seat. Captain Ahab had it easy – losing one's dignity is always much, much worse than merely losing a leg.

Incidents like this linger in the minds of other play directors too and suddenly you begin to notice that requests for you to perform in their productions are steadily declining. Mercifully too, since treading the boards is hell for a reticent introvert like me.

    – Jogyata.

I hate yoga. There, I've said it! Believe it or not though, I once taught yoga at an adult education night class in Auckland, a course called 'Paths to Tranquility' which combined yoga, meditation and nutrition.

In those days I was 15 lbs lighter and could still bend at the waist. My students were mainly overweight housewives who were only interested in yoga – and I was only interested in meditation. Using my tutorial prerogative and much to the dismay of the housewives, 75% of the course was meditation, 24% was yoga and 1% was nutrition.

Casually but professionally outfitted in mandatory leotards, t-shirt and bare feet – de rigueur for we yoga teachers – my confidence was only slightly dented by the mirth which my appearance excited in my wife Subarata.

I did a crash course and had crammed on 'Yoga Made Easy' the week prior to course start, but hopelessly inflexible, had only managed to master 3 of the 30 or so asanas ('postures' to the uninitiated) in my book. To mask this glaring deficiency and to establish my professional credibility early on, I would meticulously demonstrate these three asanas and run through them slowly and patiently with my students at the beginning of each class. These became the basis of my eccentric yoga course and the foundations of Jogyata's Yoga Teachings. Master these, I assured my spellbound and riveted audience, and all the secrets of the East will be revealed!

When it came to those asanas I couldn't do, I would simply call up a volunteer and then, my own mastery already a given, instruct them on how to adopt the various poses while I cajoled, instructed, prodded and pushed. Little did they know that had I even attempted to touch my toes the sound of tearing flesh and sinews would have sent them fleeing – screaming – from the room. As the weeks wore on my housewife students became increasingly restive and rebellious during the protracted silence of meditation practice and Paths to Tranquility began to take on an uneasy and decidedly un-tranquil air.

By mutual consent between students and teacher Jogyata's Yoga Teachings never ran into term two – the housewives jumped ship and enrolled in 'Integral Yoga with Alison' on another night.

Across the city Subarata the bogus chef was conducting a course in vegetarian cuisine – ovens, real organic food, the works – and desperately trying to remember recipes she had swatted up on earlier in the day. She also had a nutrition component in her course but bypassed this boring topic by handing out mind numbing charts of incomprehensible stats to placate her employers and disguise her own utter lack of interest. Neither of us felt inclined to pursue these careers any further – I became disillusioned with yoga and took up running while Subarata moved into a whole new world of cuisine, the exciting world of takeaways.

    – Jogyata.

An Australian student of Sri Chinmoy called Prabhir and I once entered into a public race in upstate New York – was it a half-marathon?

I can't remember. We were race-walkers, and after about one hour into our journey, we found ourselves at the very back of the field – everyone had disappeared, including course marshals, cones, all evidence that there even was a race! After some further miles, with no idea where we were, we spotted runners on another road off in the distance, proceeding in quite another direction – so we race-walked down a motorway off-ramp, ran across a freeway, climbed a wall, scrambled down an embankment, cut through some forest and there we were, back with our race!

Trouble was, we were now unaccountably way up in the top third of the field, on world record time and being loudly cheered by hundreds of people who sensed history was about to be made. We charged the last few miles at a frantic pace in keeping with our new-found celebrity status – but at an opportune moment dived into some roadside trees and skulked there for ten minutes to allow a plausible amount of time to elapse.

But even here we miscalculated, for as we resumed our mad surge towards the finish line the announcer's voice was very audible and frantic with excitement, *"Wait! Yes! And here come the first race-walkers – what an incredible time – my God, it's going to be a new national record!"* And so we lunged dramatically across the line amid loud cheers and ovations from a fairly large crowd – understandably thrilled to witness a national record being so convincingly smashed by these two elite athletes.

After some of the post-race adulation had dissipated, we quietly melted into the crowd, flagged a ride with a friend and beat an ignominious retreat before the prize-giving could ratify or unmask our adventure. But our brief moment of celebrity was most enjoyable and the one photo I have of that triumph, a moment frozen in time, shows arms flung back in elation, a victor's thrilled smile and the intensity of that exhausting effort etched into every fibre of our being. And is that a slightly guilty look on our faces? But it's nice to break a record or two once in a while.

    – Jogyata.