Tara beamed at her class. "Let's finish by finding our centre. Lotus position... breathe in... out... close your eyes... and centre yourself."

From her spiritual centre Tara surveyed her class. As her eyes fell on Mr Smith she felt her centre wobble. Mr Smith had far too much yang for Tara's Yin. She felt her centre slip, and then it was lost.

Once again she tried to analyse why it was that Mr Smith disconcerted her so.

It was not because he was male. Heavens, she had tried to encourage more men to take an interest in yoga. If men were more centred, more balanced between their physical and spiritual planes, then wars would cease, famines would be history and many of the more communicable diseases irradicated. But men rarely turned up at the hall of their own volition. Not with the right intention, anyway. She had tried to encourage her class to recruit their significant life partners. They would turn up (always in a group), attend for a week or so, and then, amid the giggling and showing off, they would drift away, never to return.

Mr Smith, on the other hand, was a perfect, non-confrontational... well, as much as she hated the phrase... gentleman. He treated everyone with equal respect. He was always interested in anyone who spoke to him. He was never inappropriate with his words or his actions. And of course, the thought that any women in the class might be tempted to act inappropriately with him, well, it was just unthinkable. Mr Smith was neither overtly straight nor gay. He was as asexual a person as she could imagine.

No, Mr Smith's gender and sexual preference, or lack of it, was not an issue.

It was not (and she was most emphatic on this point) his ethnic origin. She remembered the day when as a little girl she had heard the argument between her parents and her grandparents. Granny had suggested they go to a 'chinky restaurant'. Mum had corrected her, and from there the row had grown. Granny's generation could see nothing wrong with calling an Asian a chink, blind to the offence. Tempers had flared, Granny left early, and it was years before Tara had seen her again.

So it was such a shock when her own parents had questioned whether it was really appropriate for someone like Mr Smith to be in her class. Someone of his type. It was obviously a reference to his race. She had reminded them of their confrontation with Granny. They could not see the connection. His people were totally different. 'His people'. She was so enraged that she was trembling. It was the first real argument she could ever remember having with her parents. Usually they had been so liberal and so reasonable she had fought hard to find something to rebel against. But this blind xenophobia her parents had exhibited had disturbed her aura so severely she was sure it was a darker hue, even now. And even if she believed in racial stereotypes, Mr Smith was such a shining ambassador for his ethnicity that she would have gladly welcomed any of his compatriots.

It was not that he was not keen. Far from it. He had hardly missed a class, and then it was only because he had a function to attend at the embassy. And she knew without asking that he practised every day. It was the same instinct that told her that the vast majority of her class did not practice any of the lessons outside of the weekly session. She suspected that it had started out as part of his role as cultural attaché, but he gave every sign of enthusing for the subject. He was even interested in the spiritual teachings and the history of yoga. Most of the women in her class were interested only on the effect it would have on their figure or their sex life.

It was not that he was no good at it. It was true that he was no good at it. In fact, he was spectacularly bad at it. But then so many of the women in the class were just as bad.

Something was there, just below her consciousness. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, searching for her centre again. She tried to empty her mind, to allow the thought to crystallise without forcing it. She knew that the harder she tried, the deeper it would hide, the same way that the harder Mr Smith tried for the Cobra position, the worse it became.

And then it was there, in the forefront of her thoughts. The reason he unsettled her was because, despite his enthusiasm and practice, he never improved. And Tara knew with a certainty that he never would improve. That here was a case for which yoga was simply not the answer. It shook her to the core. Since she had discovered her own inner peace through yoga, she had firmly believed that there was no situation that could not be improved through yoga. And here was Mr Smith, throwing that belief back in her face.

It was something she had hidden from herself, but now that it was in the open she knew she would have to say something about it. To continue to take his money, and especially to encourage a false hope, was bad for her karma. Not to mention the weekly reminder that she might not be the teacher she hoped she was.

She became aware of a certain restlessness in the class. She opened her eyes, and glanced at the wall clock. Whoops, she had lost track of time, and the first aid class would already be queuing in the vestibule.

"And relax", she smiled. "Remember, you are not leaving your centre, you are taking it with you."

And the class got to their feet, folded their mats, put on coats, made dates for coffee and filed towards the door. Last as usual, slowly making his way across the floor, Mr Smith followed the ladies.

Tara intercepted him. "Mr Smith?" (Mr Smith! As if his name was actually Smith. He had probably chosen it to save the embarrassment of hearing people mispronounce his real name. But then, what was a 'real name'. 'Tara' was much more of a real name for a Yoga teacher than 'Susan', which was the name with which Tara had been blessed by her parents.)

Talking to Mr Smith was an exercise in patience. Tara (nee Susan) found it strangely relaxing. Though his expression never changed, you could sense Mr Smith first translating the English into his native language. Then he considered the question. Next he formulated his reply. Finally he translated it back into English.

"Ms Tara?"

"May I ask you a question?"

Translate... consider... formulate... translate.

"Of course."

"I can't help notice that you still seem to be having some problems with some of the positions. Are you sure that you are really benefiting from these classes?"

...Translate... Consider...

Mr Smith looked impassively at Tara's face for what seemed to her an age.

... Formulate... Translate...

"This evening, I think I got closer to my centre than ever before, but..." and here the cultural attaché for the first embassy of Sirius XII to the People of Earth slowly looked down at his single gastropod appendage, "...the lotus position is very difficult to achieve."

And then he turned and continued his slow slide towards the door.