“Breathe into the pain,” the yoga teacher says, and I think of other corpses that I have seen in recent years.

I had a musician friend once who found out that he was about to die and he started writing poetry. Did everyone say that he was good because they knew that he was dying? I knew he was always good at poetry. He used to have a book on yoga but never practiced it.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Another friend died. He wasn’t a poet or a singer. But he was very funny. And sometimes not funny at all. I miss him more because he didn’t leave any poetry behind. He probably would have approved of my doing yoga, and then made fun of me and told me there is no such thing as free-range chicken.

And another friend died. She was funny, fierce and tender. She made a life out of being that. She never had time for yoga. Only street cricket.

I console myself by thinking that all of them are in an eternal savasana without any lists.

The yoga teacher says, hug yourself. I do hug myself, but I am thinking: Here’s a grown-up telling other grown-ups to hug themselves. I hug myself and think of a friend who is still alive. He was the first person in our group to discover yoga. He had chronic asthma. He took some classes, saved money, wrangled a visa to India and studied with some famous yoga teachers. We lost touch. Recently I found out that he has become much sought after as a yoga teacher and does only private classes.

I ran into him and we arranged to meet for lunch. He told me what yoga has done for him. He is a mountain climber now, a serious one. He has reached eight of the world’s highest peaks. He saved $50,000 by teaching yoga. That’s the amount it takes to climb Mount Everest. Some people do it for much more. He said he did it the simple way.

We recalled that when we were young and lived on the same street and used to send out our C.V.s, employers looked at our address and threw them away. Our address was known for having constant troubles and long curfews. My friend, a lower-middle-class boy, has cured his own asthma through yoga, then gone on to climb the world’s highest peak. In the class, I cheat on my breathing exercises and wait for savasana to begin.

Mohammed Hanif (@mohammedhanif) is the author of the novels “A Case of Exploding Mangoes,” “Our Lady of Alice Bhatti” and “Red Birds.” He is a contributing opinion writer.

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