Yoga's Bad Boy: Bikram Choudhury

He sells Rolls Royces in Beverly Hills, hobnobs with Hollywood glitterati, and claims that he alone teaches true hatha yoga.

By Loraine Despres

Bikram Choudhury, self-proclaimed guru to the rich and famous, has been teaching yoga in Beverly Hills for 26 years and living the good life. He makes no secret of his stable of Rolls Royces, his mansion and swimming pool, and his vaunted friendships with Hollywood stars. His Web site promises "the most exciting, hard-working, effective, amusing, and glamorous yoga class in the world." Glamorous yoga?!?

I'd heard his classes were torture and his studio a sweatbox, but he must be doing something right, because in the last few years Bikram-method yoga schools have been springing up all over the country. To find out more, I go to the source, meeting Bikram at the Yoga College of India, located over a furniture store on the busiest street in Beverly Hills.

Bikram exudes warmth and charm and does not suffer from an excess of humility. "I (and the teachers I certify) are the only ones in the U.S. who teach hatha yoga," he announces as soon as we are seated in his cramped office, crowded with family pictures, a framed wedding license, and shopping bags filled with papers and clippings. "Hatha is totally crucified in the United States," he continues, adding something about circuses I don't quite catch. Not wanting to misquote him, I ask, "Did you say other teachers are like circus acrobats?"

"No!" he replies. "I said circus clowns. They are all a bunch of clowns." Bikram goes on to insist that his guru, Bishnu Ghosh (brother of the famous Paramahamsa Yogananda, who founded the Self-Realization Fellowship and wrote Autobiography of a Yogi), was the highest authority on hatha yoga. "Nobody here knows what the hell they are doing. There is no such thing as Kundalini Yoga. No such thing as Power Yoga. No such thing as Ashtanga Yoga." Bikram claims he alone follows Patanjali and teaches true, pure hatha yoga.

Imagining a war breaking out on the letters pages of Yoga Journal, I ask Bikram if he really wants to say such a thing for publication. His reply: "In India there is a saying, 'The truth is the most bitter thing in the world.' From our birth we listen to lies so that we can be happy. Later we learn the truth and hate each other, because life isn't the way we thought it would be. We go to yoga to learn the truth. Even when I give an interview, no matter what I say, I have to speak the truth."

Suddenly, Bikram charges off onto a completely different subject. (Soon after meeting him, I realize this is his usual speaking style. He's like a rap singer, darting from one topic to the next as if his mind were whirring so fast he can hardly keep up.) The names of all the famous people he's cured and the medical miracles he's worked seem to circle the room and bounce off the ceiling. "Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. He wanted to play one more year. I make him play seven more years. John McEnroe couldn't walk. His whole left side was shot completely. I make him play six more years. Everyone in this town knows me—politicians, stars, the Hiltons, all the top families."

And there's no doubt that Bikram has played a role in the lives of many well-known people. When you enter his school, you can't help but notice that every square inch of wall space is covered with photos of Bikram—Bikram with Shirley MacLaine, Bikram with Ted Kennedy, Bikram with President Clinton, with Fernando Lamas, with Indira Gandhi, with Mariel Hemingway—along with pictures of Bikram's guru, a statue of the Buddha, and an advertisement for Bikram's Auto Repair with a Rolls Royce logo in the corner. But my favorite image is the photograph of a young Bikram pulling a car with people sitting on the hood and fenders. Underneath is the caption, "Bikram's 24-hour towing service. Can you believe it?" I begin to suspect that Bikram is a man with a sense of humor to match his enthusiasm.

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