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Articles > Magazines > Gourmet > Ayurvedic Spas
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Instant Karma - Ayurvedic Spas
- By Shoba Narayan
(This article originally appeared in
May 2001)
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So there I was, soaked in oil, sans clothes, lying on a rubber mattress on the floor, listening to the waves hitting the Indian shore. Above me stood a 23-year-old waif with surprisingly strong legs named Sreeja, who used her foot like a skateboard to ride up the slick curves and shiny planes of my body, varying the pressure skillfully as she tapped and kneaded with her heels and toes.
It was my first day at the Somatheeram Ayurvedic Beach Resort in Kerala, India, and I was experiencing a 'rejuvenative oil massage.' Sreeja held a long rope, which hung from the thatched ceiling for balance. She planted one foot on the floor and used the other to massage my body, periodically lubricating it with brown oil. The scent of Indian herbs suffused the moist, tropical air and brought back childhood memories. I exhaled. I was home.
Armed with this knowledge, I checked into Somatheeram one afternoon, eager to experience the Pancha Karma or Five Procedures that are the pinnacle of Ayurvedic seasonal treatments that prevent illness and promote health. The place was crawling with Europeans and Japanese. I encountered German students, a middle-aged British literary agent who called herself 'neurotic' and had checked in for 28 days, fresh-faced Swiss girls who looked like teenagers but were probably in their twenties, some Japanese tourists toting Gucci bags and cameras, a Dutch family with a little girl my daughter's age, and a few Indian businessmen who had come in for their annual cure.
The resort itself was picturesque with a profusion of hibiscus, violets, jasmine, and bougainvillea, lush mango trees, swaying coconut pines, and shimmering monarch butterflies. Birds chirped, cicadas hummed, and the rolling waves from the Arabian Sea provided a steady soothing undertone. Think of the South of France without the attitude; the Caribbean without the crowds.
After a refreshing cup of masala chai, I went for my first consultation with Dr. Raman and Dr. Sreelatha, two physicians who ran Somatheeram's Ayurveda Center. Dr. Raman, a genial man with thick gray hair, retired as President of the Ayurveda College in Trivandrum. Dr. Sreelatha, a gentle, smiling woman oversaw the three other doctors and 50 male and female massage therapists, who took care of male and female guests respectively.
Dr. Sreelatha gave me a brief introduction to Ayurveda and then diagnosed me. I had to answer questions about my appetite, sex drive, preferred foods, life goals, dreams and spiritual orientation. She took my blood pressure, felt my pulse, pressed my abdomen and examined my eyes. Later, I was informed that I was a Vata-Kapha, which surprised me. I had always considered myself a Vata, or at the most, a Vata-Pitta, but I wasn't about to argue with the Head of an Ayurveda College.
Dr. Sreelatha explained the rationale behind the Pancha Karma treatment. She said that lubrication through oil massages was necessary to loosen the toxins from the joints and inner recesses, after which they would be sweated out of the body. I left the doctor, carrying a cloth bag containing a booklet about Ayurveda and a card describing the various procedures that the doctors had charted out for me. After inquiring about my convenience, a coordinator scheduled my treatments for 10 A.M. every morning. Each treatment lasted for less than two hours and I was back at my room by noon, after which I showered, lunched, and spent the afternoon, reading, napping or sunbathing by the beach. Some of the other guests scheduled yoga lessons from the resort's in-house teacher in the afternoon, some rented a car and went sightseeing, but most just relaxed like me.
My treatment started right away with the Rejuvenative Massage (RM) followed by a cup of hot milk liberally mixed with ghee (clarified butter). This drink was supposed to soften my tissues and bring out the 'ama' (toxins) to the surface. Friends who had taken the Pancha Karma treatment at Ayurvedic spas in America told me that American spas mailed ghee to each patient/guest and asked them to ingest it for several days before arrival. I suppose this would be impractical for Somatheeram given that most of its guests lived overseas. Instead, the Center gave me this milk-ghee drink for the first four days of my treatment, right after my massage.
The Rejuvenative Massage was unlike anything I've ever experienced, even though I have visited many spas in America over the last 15 years. For one thing, feet are stronger than hands, and Sreeja's feet pummeled and pressed my body into pulp, liberally aided by oil. An hour later, she wiped off all the oil from my skin using a clean towel, gave me a long green robe to cover myself and sent me to my room for a shower. While it would have been nice to wash off the sticky oil in the adjoining bathroom, meandering through the garden paths in my somnolent post-massage daze brought back the urgent instructions of my grandmother, "Let the oil soak on your skin for at least half an hour before showering."
Besides, my bathroom was delightful. It resembled a large, open courtyard with no roof, tall walls, creeping ferns, and even a small tree. My daughter watched bees target flowers as she sat on her potty seat, and I imagined the water from my shower feeding the plants with a recycler's satisfaction. Ayurvedic herbal soaps and shampoos were left in the bathroom along with clean towels.
My room was furnished using antique furniture that the resort bought from traditional Kerala homes that were being dismantled. Such 'Heritage Homes' are all the rage within India. The light bamboo chairs in my room appeared incongruous amidst the heavy side tables, rosewood chests and teak bed. There was a spacious yard in front of our cottage with a hammock, deck chairs and a table for outdoor dining. I frequently sat on the hammock, nursing my tea, and watched the iridescent sea spread to eternity.
The next day, I had another rejuvenative massage followed by nasya, where medicated oil was inserted into my nostrils with a dropper. Nasya clears the channels of the head, and aids allergies, migraines, sinuses, and common colds. My mother used to boil sesame oil with ginger or pepper and insert a couple of drops into her nose when the seasons changed. I reflexively apply oil or ghee inside my nostrils during American winters, without realizing that my action had Ayurvedic roots.
Diet is a key element of Ayurveda, and Somatheeram was surprisingly casual about it. At most spas in America, my experience has been that diets are strictly controlled. Buffet lunches and 'healthy' dinners are the norm. Not at Somatheeram. The sprawling menu ran 8 pages and included Indian Malai Kofta, Wendy's Fried Chicken, Fish Au Gratin, Spaghetti Milanese, Tempura, Chinese Prawns, and everything in between. Clearly, the kitchen was trying to be all things to all its guests.
Rather than impose an Ayurvedic diet on its guests for the duration of their stay, Somatheeram offered suggestions. Each guest was given a list of menu items that were deemed suitable for their malady or body type. My personalized menu came with the general instruction, "Reduce oil and avoid red chili from all preparations." Beyond that, there were specific items from the menu that were recommended to me like herbal koftas and hearty stews.
I went for my first lunch with a fellow guest, a German man from Berlin, who planned to stay for two weeks. Like me, he had his own menu suggestions, and we cautiously pointed to items from our prescribed menus. Our waiter understood immediately and brought us our Kanji, a bland rice porridge. Then, Stephan had a vegetable salad while I had a stew. Feeling virtuous but not satiated, we finished our meal with coconut-water and lassi.
A prescribed menu was fine for two days but I was dying to taste some of the other items in the menu, specifically, the rich biriyanis, spicy soups, and noolapam (string hoppers), served with vegetable stew, an authentic Kerala dish that I loved. After two days of bland food, I decided that my system was in shock and needed some spice for balance. Since I am vegetarian, I stuck to the Indian dishes on the menu. While most of the items were tasty but not distinguishable from standard restaurant fare, there were some standouts. The noolappam and stew was so delicious that I had it everyday. The mulligatawny soup garnished with rice was robust and peppery, quite unlike the watery offerings at restaurants in America. I also loved the rice biriyanis with their complex spices and multi-layered flavors.
I wasn't the only errant. At dinner-time, I watched fellow-guests glance down at the prescribed Ayurvedic menu card. Perhaps it was the flickering candles, the salty sea air that carried the smell of fresh fish, the sizzling tandoori grill. After a few moments, they gave up the fight and picked up the regular menu. On most nights, the resort arranged a cultural program: live sitar music, a violin duo, and on one night, a spectacular Indian dance performance by the students from a nearby college.
On the third day, three women wearing identical blue sari-uniforms awaited me. As usual, after I stripped, I was made to sit on a stool. One woman pressed some warming powder on my forehead as she closed her eyes and uttered a prayer. Then she bowed and touched my feet- a gesture of respect in India- before massaging me briskly with warm oil.
I was made to lie on a wooden massage table with curved edges-- almost like a large wooden tray-- to prevent the oil from dripping on the floor. Instead there was a hole at the either end and the oil was collected in a vessel. Above my forehead hung a mud-pot with a hole in the bottom. The women centered the hole above my forehead, asked me to close my eyes and relax. A moment later, warm oil started dripping from the mud pot on to my forehead in a continuous stream for about 45 minutes, one of the most profoundly relaxing things I've ever done. The British literary agent with neurosis and insomnia told me that she was undergoing this Dhara treatment everyday for 15 days.
After the Dhara came Pizhichal, another pleasure. Two women liberally poured oil on my body and massaged it in identical strokes. The third collected the oil and warmed it on a stove. When the women asked me to turn from my back to my stomach, I couldn't. There was so much oil on my body and on the table that all I could do was slither like a contented seal. The women smiled as they shifted me, and continued mirroring each other's massage strokes for the next hour. By the end, I had so much oil, on my head, face, body, neck, joints, and body crevices that I felt like a supple newborn. As always, the women wiped me off with a clean towel, handed me a green robe, and sent me on my way.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, I rented a car to go into the city along with two Swiss girls, who told me that even though they weren't sure if the treatments were curative, they induced peace and contentment. I agreed. Certain Ayurvedic treatments are very effective for certain ailments: the enemas are good for chronic constipation and gastric complaints, the two-woman pizhichal massage for arthritis and psoriasis, the dhara (pouring oil on forehead) for insomnia and other nervous illnesses. The problem is that these require time: 14 to 28 days of daily treatment, something that most visitors to India don't have.
I met one woman at Vasudeva Vilasam, a bare bones Ayurvedic hospital in Trivandrum, that caters to the middle class Indians. This woman, a housewife from Madras, my hometown, told me that she had suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for 15 years. She had been taking Ayurvedic treatments for 9 years because they reduced the pain in her fingers significantly. Her primary treatment was njavarakizhi, which she experienced everyday for about a month. I had this treatment for two days at Somatheeram.
Njavarakizhi consists of muslin poultices containing a rice pudding mixed with herbs. Two women periodically dipped these into a vessel containing medicated milk. Together, they rubbed the poultices over my body streaking me with white. When I complained to Dr. Sreelatha that one of the two women didn't exert enough pressure, it was corrected the next day. By the end of an hour, I had a sheen of soft white rice powder all over my body. After wiping me clean and wrapping me in a green robe, they told me to lie on a traditional massage table on the other side of the room for my vasthi-enema.
The women showed me the dropper that would be inserted into my rectum- a fresh tube, just opened from its packaging. Although I dreaded the enema, I hardly felt it. Perhaps it was the oily preamble or the skill of the technicians. The dark colored fluid, which I was told, contained Indian herbs in a base of castor or sesame oil, didn't produce much of a reaction right away. However, about half-hour later, just before my shower, I had to relieve myself. I was told to take it easy that afternoon and eat light soups for lunch, which I did. Vasthis are supposed to be one of the most powerful methods of removing excess Vata-gas from the body and perfect for my Vata constitution.
That afternoon, I went to check out the competition. The road from Trivandrum to Somatheeram is dotted with Ayurvedic spas catering to all budgets. Right down the road from Somatheeram is Dr. Franklin's Ayurvedic Treatment Center. In fact, Dr. Franklin had founded the Ayurveda Center at Somatheeram before going off on his own. I was told that he was more knowledgeable than the doctors at Somatheeram. A brusque, dour man, Dr. Franklin interrogated me for an hour, pronounced that I was a Vata-Pitta, sent me off for a massage, which was better than the ones I experienced at Somatheeram, even though room was dark and tiny.
After my rendezvous with Dr. Franklin, I accompanied my mother-in-law to the Trivandrum Ladies Club feast in honor of Onam, the harvest festival. When viewed through the prism of Ayurveda, this feast conformed to its tenets. It was completely vegetarian, served on a banana leaf that is supposed to absorb toxins, and included all the six tastes. The first course was rice and sambaar, a spicy gravy made with vegetables and lentils. The second course was rice and rasam, a light soup made with tomatoes, tamarind and crushed lentils. Both courses were accompanied by dry vegetable curries such as bean poriyal and potato curry, and wet kootus made with vegetables and moong dal. There was also a pachadi made with raw cucumbers and yogurt, some bitter greens in small quantities, and hot cumin-water to aid digestion. Poppadom wafers and plaintain chips rounded off the meal. We ate three types of sweet payasam, and finished the meal with tangy yogurt-rice aided by a touch of spicy lime relish.
I was punished for my gluttony the next morning, when I barely made it for my last treatment, the rejuvenation therapy, where two girls massaged me simultaneously. I had read about this dual massage in American magazines, which uniformly raved about this particular Ayurvedic treatment. Either I expected too much or Somatheeram failed to deliver. The dual massage was not as good as my other treatments. I was then taken for a 20-minute steam bath, to remove all the toxins that the oil massages had brought to the surface. The doctors were waiting for me when I came out of the steam chamber. My final consultation included written recommendations about diet and lifestyle, and a couple of Ayurveda tonics that would nourish and balance my constitution.
I went back to the cottage feeling profoundly calm and happy to be alive. In the course of that one week, the tightness in my stomach had dissolved, my shoulders had dropped from my neck, and my eyebrows had lost their furrow.
On my last day at Somatheeram, I stood on the beach at dawn, watching local fishermen work a rope team and haul in their catch. Brown catamarans bobbed on the water as the fishermen pulled their nets, chanting rhythmically. Slithering white fish were auctioned off by the bushel-full, and some ended up on Somatheeram's dinner plates. The sun rose. The staff set up a few beach umbrellas and deck chairs. Sari-clad fisher-women congregated in a stone church by the sea, and sang Christian hymns in the local tongue.
It finally dawned on me why experiencing Ayurveda in India was so meaningful. For one thing, it wasn't separate from life. The herbs that the doctors used on us were the same herbs that common fisherfolk chewed on for various ailments. The spices that enlivened the food didn't come from a bottle but were planted on the premises. Somatheeram didn't exude the earnestness that I found in American spas. The staff didn't have the missionary zeal of the newly converted; the doctors didn't sport the seriousness of preachers who had to mould their malignant wards into good health in a scant few days. There was no prescribed diet, only suggestions, which most guests were free to ignore. There was no firm daily routine, no ringing bells to summon guests for the morning yoga. It was all very quiet and low-key. The easygoing manner disconcerted me in the beginning, having become used to the rigid schedules of America. After a week however, I slipped back into my Indian roots and enjoyed its flexible schedules, elastic sense of time, and "It's okay," attitude.
While America aspires towards holism, it is holistic in pockets. Life in India is truly holistic encompassing Ayurveda and allopathy, fisherfolk and spa-junkies, Christians and Hindus, all in one plot of land. Life in India is played out in myriad ways, sometimes fascinating, sometimes frustrating, but always more complete, more holistic. As Carl Jung said about India, "When your feet are naked to the ground, how can you forget the earth?"
This article originally appeared in
May 2001.
Copyright © 2001 Gourmet. All rights reserved. |
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