A week before my trip to Delhi, I dream of learning to ride an elephant. There’s no saddle to sit on, just a rough wool blanket right on the crown of the elephant’s head. I tumble off and am sitting in the dirt, defeated. Standing behind me is an Indian man, very thin and taut, shirtless but wearing a turban, who insists that I climb back on board that enormous creature and learn to ride properly. I’m afraid, but he insists. He’s a trainer of some kind – of people more than elephants. He’s all business; therefore, I do as he tells me, and when I’m seated again on the elephant’s head, I realize that the elephant doesn’t mind my being there, and that there is nothing to fear. I proceed to practice steering right and left by pressing the back of his ears with the soles of my feet. It feels good, like pressing my feet on the mat in tadasana. Not being very proficient, however, I steer him directly through the tall marsh grass and into a deep, calm, silty brown river. How can I describe the way the water feels? It’s like a grandmother’s embrace, soft and loving. The elephant is completely submerged, but I’m perched on his head, mostly high and dry, if somewhat perplexed. Again, the elephant doesn’t seem to mind at all. He knows I’m there to practice, and he has the virtue of patience.