Ayurveda promises many things, including the cure of a variety of aches, pains and diseases, as well as, more sensationally, the reversal of the ageing process.
The reason I turned to the ancient Indian science, whose roots date to the second millennium before the Christian era, was a slew of ailments that were perhaps the result of Dubai’s frenetic lifestyle.
A chronic sensitivity on my left arm owing to cold draughts from air conditioning; an aching left foot when I walked barefoot on tiled floors; a twinge in the right ankle I was left with following a mishap while visiting a construction site during the course of my job and a cluster headache on Wednesdays.
Since I was in Kerala, home of Ayurveda, during the monsoons last year, I decided to check into a traditional clinic. After a lot of internet research on exotic but distant spas and realising that the famous Kottakkal Arya Vaidya Sala was unavailable, I decided to go back to the Santhigiri Ayurveda and Siddha Hospital in Kozhikode. Two years ago a visit to Santhigiri had proved beneficial to an aching right hand, a result of spending hours on a touchpad, combined with air conditioning. And although I attended only four days out of the mandatory seven-day treatment, the pain never returned.
Santhigiri is not your regular rose-petals-floating-in-a-giant-brass pot sort of spa, where doe-eyed ethnic beauties lead you to your treatment. It’s a no-frills wellness experience — but I swore I would complete the seven-day treatment this time.
Day 1
A young lady doctor questions me in detail about my health. Fried and spicy foods aggravate headaches, she explains. As my parents live nearby, I’m advised to take a treatment once a day over a week instead of staying at the centre. I’m also given a prescribed diet and medication.
My appointment is for 5pm. A point to note: you must not eat a heavy meal before a massage. Two young women say a prayer and then start with a vigorous head massage using a fragrant oil. I’m then asked to lie down on a smooth wooden table. As the synchronised therapists take over, I discover that my sore points really hurt, the ankle being the most sensitive. Post massage, I have to sit in a wooden steam box with my head sticking out, while the girls start to wipe down and sanitise the massage table. I repress an irresistible urge to giggle as I feel like a Roman in a sauna, but instead I gaze out of the window, watching the rain fall on the swaying coconut trees.
The treatment ends with an old-fashioned hot water wash from a bucket in a basic but clean bathroom. I feel sleepy as I step out. wI decide to stick to a vegetarian meal at night and eat a fenugreek and rice coconut milk broth (uluva kanji), a favourite health recipe in Kerala during the rains, and make plans to raid Kozhikode’s bookshops the next day.
Day 2
I wake up with various aches, pains and a headache. The therapists warned me that the first two days would be a bit difficult as toxins are released and cause distress. An understatement. I am reprimanded by the doctor for not telling them that I have a sinus problem. Apparently cooling ayurvedic hair oil must be washed off half an hour after application for sinus patients.
She’s shocked when I tell her that I’d slept the entire day before coming for the treatment. I realise this is far from the one-day massage at salons in Dubai; these are serious riders. Although I’m not staying at the centre, the instructions follow me home. I’m asked to avoid air conditioning and cold water, watch very little TV and not use the computer for too long. Oh yes, and the fan must be on a low speed while sleeping. I have to endure more pain during another massage, but the girls calm me down and continue working on me relentlessly.
Day 3
I wake up exuberant. By evening, the thought of the torturous kneading of my ankles gives me cold feet. I think of calling in sick, but I find myself yelping again in the massage room. My parents are such staunch believers in ayurvedic treatments that they would have dragged me to complete the course, anyway.
The massage, steam session and bath is always followed by rasnadi podi (a fragrant medicinal powder) that’s rubbed into the top of the skull to prevent you from catching a cold after the day’s session.
The sun’s shining and three kites circle the blue sky. My father buys me my favourite chocolate pastries from Cochin Bakery and I guiltily gorge on one; but find myself thinking of pepper-fried chicken. I settle for an omelette followed by the uluva kanji, followed by the medicines. Each has a unique taste. The vile kashayam is a bitter herbal medicine that cleanses the system, while the sweet arishtam is to be taken after meals, for digestion and well-being.
Day 4
Today’s session is a naranga kizhi, an intense rub down with an oil pouch filled with lemon and other herbs. After a simple warming massage, my two therapists are joined by a third, who heats three pouches in an iron skillet. These are then passed on to the two original therapists who stamp them on wood to lessen the heat, then test them on their hands before using them on me.
Post the session, cotton dipped in medicinal oil is placed over my ankles, which are then bandaged. I’m told to wipe off the oil with a hot towel, but forbidden from having a bath till next morning. I sit with my feet up, walk at half hour intervals so that blood circulation is maintained and I don’t take the bandages off till the next day.
Day 5
Another day, another session. I notice that today’s massage rakes up memories of different unresolved issues. I drink lots of water in the evening and take it easy. I eat two pieces of fried chicken at night, only to feel guilty later.
Day 6
I go out in the morning, then watch TV and surf the net. End result — swollen legs. I am advised to alternate rest with movement. An almost 14-hour bathing ban and stickiness of the oils take a toll on my nerves. Used to neglecting my health issues and with my resentment against rules, I almost skip the session that day.
Day 7
My body is one big pain zone. Now I realise why people stay in ayurvedic centres during their treatment. Clothes and sheets are stained with oil and the monsoon means the linens stay wet. It’s my dad’s birthday and we go out for a sumptuous Kerala lunch followed by two desserts. I come back home and call the centre to tell them I’m not coming. I feel guilty, but at the same time I’m happy. Next year, I tell myself — all seven days.
The results
Post treatment and back in Dubai, I realise that my aches and pains have improved by about 80 per cent. That too, despite the lapses on my part.
