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The Wonderful World of Ayurveda

Traditional Holistic Treatments

for Chronic Modern Ailments

♠

John Herlihy

A first-hand account of a recent three-week stay to an Ayurveda Nursing Home in

the State of Kerala in South India to undergo treatments for detoxification and

rejuvenation of the body in a form of alternative medicine that treats the causes

rather than the symptoms for most modern afflictions using ancient therapies

based on a sacred philosophy of medicine and well-being that lie embedded in the

Vedic sutras of the Hindu traditions.

I am no stranger to the mysteries and miracles of Ayurveda. Over a decade ago

at the beginning of the new millennium, I had the ill fortune to suffer from ten-

donitis of the shoulder, what is commonly—and fittingly—called frozen shoul-

der, a condition that put an immediate halt to my tennis game for many months.

After suffering this annoying affliction for nearly a year and having undergone a

number of allopathic treatments at hospitals and clinics, such as heat, electric

shock and ultra-sound therapies, I had given up all hope of a cure unless time

itself could work its magic to soften the muscles and relieve the awkward stiff-

ness. I still woke every morning to the nagging pain, to the limited extensions of

the arm, and to the inevitable reminder that time’s glacier moves at its own

pace and does not heal everything,

One unexpected day, I had the good fortune to be advised of beneficial

Ayurveda treatments that date back thousands of years and whose unique

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knowledge and philosophy of medicine find their source in the ancient wisdom

of the Vedic sutras that form the underpinnings of the Hindu tradition. Even

today, the business of healing, well being, and cure is a serious endeavor—

indeed a sacred vocation—in the southern state of Kerala in modern-day India,

where the practical treatments of Ayurveda medicine are preserved and prac-

ticed by an innovative group of medical practitioners using home-grown herbs

and roots drawn from local farms in the area to serve the sick and enfeebled

patients seeking cure from their ailments, myself among them. Welcome to the

wonderful world of Ayurveda.

My first experience with these ancient therapies happened in the spring of

2001. I was living in the Arabian Gulf at the time and a regional flight from Du-

bai to Cochin in the Indian sub-continent took about three hours, not much dif-

ferent from flying between New York to Miami except that Dubai and Cochin

were worlds apart in terms of language, culture, and facilities. It wasn’t as if I

had to travel half-way round the world. When I landed at the small airport in

Cochin amid the coconut palm plantations of the region, I soon realized that I

had entered an alien world of treatments and therapies that would require total

commitment on my part, patience to endure the restrictions to long-standing

habits, the will power to follow the strict dietary rules, and the wherewithal to

meet the commitment to remain in treatment in the clinic for a minimum of

three full weeks in order to complete the recommended time cycle of the cure.

This was not a quick fix from pills that people in the Western world are accus-

tomed to that promises to bring overnight relief without lasting results; but

rather an extended stay in an Ayurveda hospital in order to address and treat

the source of the problem, and not just mask over the symptoms with painkill-

ers or operations that simply cut away the problem without fully understanding

its cause. On that first visit, I experienced the full benefits of the cure and when I

left three weeks later, I no longer suffered from tendonitis of the shoulder and

was able to resume my love of the racket sports, such as tennis and squash

which I continue to enjoy to this day as I cross the threshold into old age.

I returned for a follow up visit in 2005, finding it the perfect place to with-

draw from the world for a while. In addition to undergoing their blessed treat-

ments for rejuvenation and longevity in the summer of 2008, I spent two weeks

at the clinic for a number of chronic concerns that needed attention. When the

head physician asked me what my problem was this time, I jokingly responded:

“Old age”, an answer they understood very well in light of the fact that bodily

systems do gradually atrophy with increasing rapidity given the kinds of foods

we eat, the polluted cities we live in, and the life-style that we follow with high

stress, unreasonable work demands, lack of sleep, false ideas of leisure and

happiness, and chronic sickness.

Four years later, as we were approaching the summer holidays and deci-

sions had to be made about what to do and where to go, I began to feel the urge

once again to return to the serenity and repose of the Ayurveda Clinic that I had

been to on a number of previous occasions. Recently, fortune has given me a job

that has written a three month summer holiday into the bargain. In this world

of expatriate living, we often speculate among colleagues and friends where

people might be going during the extended holidays. Many people return to

their home country of Australia, England, Europe or the US; but the Emirates is

well positioned as a crossroads. Places like Istanbul, Athens, Beirut, Cairo and

Casablanca are not far off, not to mention the more exotic locales, such as the

Maldives for the beach bunnies, Madagascar for the adventurous, and Thailand

for the jaded, although Chiang Mai, Thailand’s second largest city in the foothills

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of the Himalayas to the north, is a bargainer’s delight with elephant farms and

jungle treks nearby and no doubt the best kept secret in the travel industry.

Where else can you fine exquisite hotels designed in the unique Thai style re-

splendent with tropical flowers, natural orchids, tasty buffet breakfasts, spa-

cious rooms with panoramic views, and jungle settings in the near distance, all

at reasonable prices, where you are welcomed with a gracious smile and the

traditional folded hands of the Buddhist greetings casting an aura of holy gentil-

ity over one’s head and across the path like colored confetti?

Imagine a holiday, I challenge my colleagues at work, where you can give up

the world and withdraw inside yourselves in pursuit of your inmost reflections

as in a religious retreat. They look at me askance of course, thinking I am mad.

Perhaps I am, at least in the mad light shining back at me from their eyes. In this

modern-day world that seeks every comfort and enjoyment without giving heed

to the price that one may have to pay, people are not especially on the path of

inward reflection, much less in pursuit of herbal treatments and dietary re-

strictions that may require a considerably amount of time, not to mention a

personal commitment, to stay the course of treatment with rigor and discipline.

Imagine a time that makes no demands, when there is no work to drain your

energy or stress your mind, no family or friends who make their own set of de-

mands on your failing good will and sentiments, nothing to do but what lies

within your own imagination and the call of nature to induce.

Imagine a time of robust and natural therapeutic treatments that are based

on ancient Vedic sutras and bound by a spiritual philosophy of health and well

being that makes no compromises and guarantees clear results for those who

are willing to make the effort, giving up in return their treasured lifestyle. Re-

turning to habits that agree with the natural order and the seasons of life, such

as going to bed and rising with the sun, eating natural, uncorrupted foods, keep-

ing silent for most of the day and learning to live with oneself in a silence with-

out compromise actually constitute the first step on the road to health. Imagine

placing yourself within the hands of traditional doctors, nurses, and masseurs

all devoted to the treatment and cure of afflicted souls, people who suffer from

serious physical ailments, children and the elderly who are wasting away with

muscle and nerve problems, many of which would go undiagnosed by Western

allopathic medicine that seems to specialize in recognized symptoms of the

disease and treating them, without tracing the cause of those symptoms to their

original source. By now, I have lost my audience as they have wandered off to

make their bookings to the ramparts of Malta, the villages of Crete, the moun-

tains of Chiang Mai, or the pristine beaches of the Maldives and the Seychelles

where presumably sun and surf will wash away their cares and create the illu-

sion that they are happy, at least for a time. I am on a different adventure into

the palm forests of South India and seek a retreat from the world, taking me to

places and having experiences that most people never think to imagine.

* * *

Judging from the way I felt when I woke up in the morning, I realized it was time

to head back to Kerala in South India. It is the only place I know of where I can

settle in to treatments of alternative medicine whose therapies date back 5,000

thousand years, find their source materials and their overarching philosophy of

medicine, health and well being. Ultimately, the treatment addresses the issues

of longevity of life and happiness of mind, and whose treatments comprise the

herbs and roots, together with the medicated oils that form the basis of the pu-

rification of the body, rebalancing the entire corporal system, and realigning the

muscles and nerves along their natural meridians. I needed once again to with-

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draw from the world, to find a sanctuary when I could make a spiritual retreat

in order to replenish the cup of my soul with higher sentiments and virtues, to

sink myself into the heart of nature in order to absorb its miraculous blessings,

far from the corrupting influence of our modern-day cities, to find rest and re-

pose where I can sink myself once again into the majestic splendors of classic

literature, meditate in silence with my only mantra the chirping of crickets and

the buzzing of bees, to eat only natural and freshly-grown foods (no meat of

course) that will do no further harm to me or my body, and to sleep the sleep of

the innocent, wrapped within the folds of the night of darkness whose ebony

wall breaches no light except the canopy of stars that may occasionally peak

through the monsoon clouds to shed their phosphorescent finery, like a white

lace shawl, on the earth below.

The Cochin Airport, small and diminutive amid the lush coconut palm plan-

tations that abound in the region, greeted me like an old friend with its familiar-

ity and serviceable size. There was the pre-paid taxi stand that would take me at

a fixed and pre-arranged price into the wilds of native India without the fear of

being ripped off that you often experience in other places. Convenient stalls set

up just outside the front door of the arrivals hall sell phone cards and access to

mobile internet at very reasonable prices. I could tuck my connections to the

world securely into my pocket and take them with me as I seclude myself for

three weeks within the confines of the Ayurveda nursing home. Not more than

50 minutes in torrential rains brought us into the vicinity of the clinic, the trees

along the side of the road dripping heavily with moisture, and draping the road

like Kashmiri shawls. In the end, I had to tell the local driver where and how to

go. “Turn left, no right, and there it is,” I cried with joy as we drove through the

entry arch, passed the security guard with a wave as though I belong there, and

down a small incline crowded with dripping vegetation to the building that I

now remembered from years ago suddenly into view. Tendrils of smoky incense

make their way out the front door and waft gently upward, reaching for the

heavens, writing an ever-changing script of traditional welcome.

I am escorted to my room by one of the female receptionists elegantly

draped in a colorful sari, the distinctive vermilion markings painted in a vertical

brush stroke on the forehead, nestled within the parting of her jet-black hair,

leaving no doubt to her status as a married woman. The room itself enjoys a

panoramic view which I have specifically requested when I made the booking,

charging me an extra 100 rupees a night (around $2 at then current exchange

rates) for the privilege of a balcony overlooking the ever-watchful palm and

jackfruit trees that surround the building. For a moment, I look out from the

height of my third-floor room to the paddy fields, the oxen, the thatched cot-

tages of local Keralites in the distance, and the ever-present palm groves with

their stately trunks standing tall against the horizon like sentinels of primordial

nature, swaying in the wind in tribute to the approaching wind and rain. The

sweeping flow of the natural landscape before me that promises to sooth my

anxious mind of its city surfaces is periodically interrupted by elegant redbrick

smoke stacks associated with the brick factories in the surrounding neighbor-

hood, with their smoky exhaust scribbling lettered narratives into the dark

monsoon clouds. My three week into the Ayurveda treatments lies before me,

but this sight captures in a glance the mystery and magic of this adventure into

the unknown.

As I gaze once again into the familiar sight of the simple, uncluttered, yet

spotlessly clean room, I think how time takes us into its embrace and then swal-

lows us up, all the years of our lives vanish in the blink of an eye, my immediate

past has simply disappeared into the black void of the timeless present, while

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the room itself has remained constant and resurrects memories of my previous

three visits here. I feel comfortable with the thought, thinking I could live here

forever and not feel the worse for wear. It is exactly the same as I remember it

to be, except perhaps for a look of weathered aging that the knife-edge of time

has carved upon the walls and cabinets, curtains and fixtures. It is a simple

room, impeccably clean, with its cream-colored tile floors. I know I will quickly

cast of my shoes and socks and never wear them again, until such time that I

take my leave of this place. I will now unpack my meager supplies and slip into

my Malaysian sarong in anticipation of what is to come, a welcoming bid for the

future to enter the present as a conscious desire.

There is a small table where I can keep my laptop and lay down a small cot-

ton towel to have breakfast after my early morning treatment. A ledge built into

a corner of the wall will hold the volumes of books that I have brought with me

to while away the empty hours of the day, including Tolstoy’s wonderful short

stories, a hardbound edition of Gogol’s much neglected tales, including the

whimsical “The Nose” and (in)famous “The Overcoat”. As tribute to my eclectic

approach to reading, I have brought Robert E. Howard’s gripping and classic

adventure tale Conan the Barbarian, the first of many sequel volumes that he

wrote, alternatively identified as the greatest sword and sorcery hero of all

time, an unbelievably descriptive work that provided the source material of the

Arnold Schwarzenegger film of the same name, although the wild ambiance of

the book and its chilling descriptions of adventure would be difficult to recreate

pictorially in celluloid without the benefit of words to seize our soul with their

haunting quality. That ought to keep me occupied during the lonely hours of

God’s long day I thought to myself.

French doors opened onto a charming balcony with its magnificent pano-

ramic view. An air conditioned room could have been accommodated at a negli-

gible increase in price, but I deferred this extravagance for those who don’t un-

derstand the blessings of the monsoon season which brings wild storms during

the day and gentle cooling winds during the night that stir the hanging drapes

into a ghostly whirl and bath the sleeper with the west-wind zephyr of dreams.

There will be no special need for the conveniences of modern living, such as air-

conditioning, to intrude upon this natural environment and the healing process

that will result from living within its curative embrace.

It is nearly lunchtime when I have unpacked my meager clothing, including

a variety of baggy t-shirts and a few Malaysian sarongs to wrap around myself

for convenience sake, settling my books onto the nearby shelf in sweet anticipa-

tion of having the leisure to get lost in the lush world of high literature and

quickly checking to make sure the TV was working as a concession of last resort

to the modern world. The ring of the phone startles me, thinking who could

possibly know where I am, as though the outside world still had the capacity to

invade my private space with its intrusive clutter? The call is from reception

letting me know that the chief physician was ready to receive me in his office. I

had been asked to prepare a statement of my physical condition, including any

specific ailments and whether I was on any medication that they needed to

know about. I wrote proudly “no” to pill-taking. I am still relatively free from the

modern-day affliction of taking pills to cure a wide variety of chronic ailments

such as cholesterol, high blood pressure, pills to regulate the beating of the

heart and the like, a blessing that has ushered me into the downhill slope of my

sixties relatively free of nagging and perennial medical problems. As for ail-

ments I presently suffer from, apart from the inevitable old age that no one can

escape, I wrote in my report to the doctor of various pains in my left and right

elbow, a chronic stiffness and layered tension in the neck muscles. The head is a

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heavy object (weighing about 10 pounds) and requires firm support from the

tired muscles of the neck to hold it up.

The doctor, the son of the grand patriarch whom I had consulted with dur-

ing previous visits, received me with stately calm and a distant smile as a con-

cession perhaps in remembrance of my former visits. He too was dressed in a

neatly pressed white safari shirt overhanging a white sarong trimmed with a

golden brown edge. He remembered me from previous visits and acknowledges

me with a nod, reading carefully through my comments about my health condi-

tion and asking various questions to clarify some points. Then, he prescribed

the first week’s treatment, calling for the bundle massage which I was familiar

with from my previous experience and the nasiyam “oil in the nose” treatment

for nerve endings in the skull and cleansing of the sinus areas of the node and

bridge of the face of their offending mucus and toxic fluids. “That will give you a

good start to better health,” he said with a smile of encouragement. “I think

about three weeks should be enough for your treatments, give or take a few

days. We will consult again next week.” And with studied efficiency and a be-

nevolent smile, he gestured for me to take my leave.

The following morning at 6:00 am sharp, the wheels of the coffee cart came

rumbling down the hallway to my room, awakening me to feelings of refresh-

ment after a deep sleep in open air to the dawn of a new day with the sun still

but a promise on the eastern horizon beyond the stately swaying palm trees,

silhouetted against the harsh reality of the emerging morning light. The quietly

elegant palms stood silently in their native dress, dark, rich and mysterious, as

though awaiting divine revelations they could pass on to the people of the

world. The attendant reaches for the coffee thermos for hot coffee with cream

and sugar which he doesn’t stir put pours back and forth between two steel

silver cups with an exaggerated flair in order to fully integrate the sugar into the

coffee mixture. He never fails to do this with studied accomplishment, even at

this early hour. It is not café latte with sprinkles of nutmeg and cinnamon that

you might find in more fashionable climes at outrageous prices, but this little

brew steaming hot in my silver metal cup is glorious indeed in the first light of

day. Never has a cup of coffee been more fully appreciated and tasted so good. It

is the simple pleasures that one begins to enjoy in this period of retreat and

recuperation, when the trappings of civilization are withdrawn from our cus-

tomary routine and we are required to rely on and appreciate what little we

have available to give satisfaction to our diminished desires. I do not have much

time to sip my steaming brew and read a few pages of one of Tolstoy’s unforget-

table short stories as I await the early morning knock on the door for the bundle

massage treatment, which commences at 7:00 sharp. There is a tentative, a gen-

tle knock on the door with the arrival of the masseur, dressed in his customary

blue cotton uniform, who will escort me, as per protocol. to the treatment room

as though I were an invalid or perhaps as a concession to my appearance which

gives away my status as an old man.

My local Keralite masseur, a little guy with curly hair and a ready smile,

takes my cotton Keralite towels provided by the clinic and leads me away to-

ward the massage service room. It is only when I lay all but naked on the lac-

quered wooden board flat on my back and drenched in hot oils that I finally

open my eyes and see my old friend Sugatham, who has arrived for duty breath-

less and a little late. “Sugatham,” I shouted from the depths of my repose,

“where have you been all my life.” “I am here, sir,” he replies as he proceeds to

take up his duties with the bundle massage from where he had left off several

years ago, pounding away in delight at the memory of his old friend now lying

supine and at his mercy on the wooden platform. It is a happy reunion and in

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the following days, the faithful Sugatham continues to be there, to take care of

me, watch over the aging body, lift me off the table at the end of the massage,

and towel me dry before returning me to my room. “Give me some of your white

skin,” he says cheekily with a laugh as he wipes away the accumulated oils used

during the bundle massage. I respond: “Only if you give me some of your dark

sun-tanned skin,” I reply. “All white people want that kind of tan.” I tell him with

mock envy. “In the States, you would be the envy of everyone.” He is clearly

delighted with this banter.

I realize that the masseurs do this every hour of the day, every week, month,

and year. Sugatham tells me at one point that he was been working here for 15

years, but every day seems to be his first encounter with a person who needs

his skills and attention. This is unqualified devotion to duty, I think to myself,

sitting on his tongue waiting to tell me of the love of his work and his duty to the

sick and the infirmed. Every individual in his care is a person in need of his

therapeutic blessing. You can have all the doctors, nurses, hot oils and internal

medicines in the world, but without the effective cure from the hands and ener-

gy of the masseurs, very little true healing would ever take place. They are abso-

lutely critical to the healing process, the unsung guardian angels of health and

well-being.

In fact, given the holistic nature of the treatments, the bundle massage is not

just hot oils and pounding poultices. The massage room itself is a study in effi-

ciency, tranquility and repose, spotlessly clean with tiles on wall and floor, and

broad open windows looking out onto the lush foliage and greenery beyond the

building as though nature itself were in conspiracy with the practitioners to

service the public with their curative balm. As I enter the room, I immediately

notice the eerie sound of a distant flute coming from some unknown corner of

the room. I listen more closely to the music that is truly mysterious and evoca-

tive, in addition to being a source of therapy and cure in this holistic ayurvedic

environment. The music floats through the air and into the open ears of the

patient, filling the ailing soul with its serenity and peace. As I slip off my sarong

and prepare to climb onto the plank of wood used as a massage table, suitably

equipped with drainage routes for the excess oil along the side of the board, I

notice the little Hindu shrine to the god of health in the corner nearby. Its flick-

ering candle sets a mood of whispered calm as its moving shadows move silent-

ly across the wall. I have to laugh inwardly to myself at those who scoff at all the

different gods within the Hindu pantheon. If there is a god of health and well

being that watches over humanity, then I will accept whatever benevolence and

grace may come my way from whatever direction it may arrive. Why should I

write off such a benevolent deity on the strength of a frivolous prejudice? After

all, if devils roam the earth, then why not the presence of deified entities as well

in service to the Supreme Being.

The treatment itself begins with a vengeance. Imagine yourself lying flat on

your back on a hard wooden plank, naked but for a kind of breech clout or g-

string, completely oiled from head to foot with dark, hot, medicated oils whose

herbs are farmed and produced locally at a nearby factory, applied by two mas-

seurs on each side slapping on the hot oils with gusto, all the while chattering

like birds in rapid-fire Malayalam, no doubt about things that concern them.

They gab and titter and laugh about only God's knows what else, although as I

lay there supine and quite helpless to those around me, one cannot help but feel

vulnerable to the comments of the onlookers. It appears that Sugatham wants to

give me my money’s worth. "You very strong," he says with good humor, seem-

ingly enjoying himself, as he pounds my tender belly with a hot poultice.

Through the window floats the chant of Vedic sutras to soothe the mind with

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their sacred rhythms and sentiments as I attempt to relax and enjoy the mo-

ment, although this is not a massage that one comes to enjoy.

The real insult to the body commences when the two masseurs get serious

about proceeding with the heart and soul of the bundle massage. Legs spread

and arms akimbo, with a masseur on each side of the massage board, they begin

to pummel first the upper torso, shoulders and neck with the scalding hot poul-

tices, stuffed with rice and herbs, which they apply with rigorous pounding to

the body. They then throw back the cooling poultice to a third attendant that

stands at the end of the wooden plank and tends to the fire of the wok that re-

heats the poultices in the hot medicated oils steeping in the wok. A smoky,

musky earth smell permeates the air with its distinctive, pungent aroma. Leav-

ing the upper chest and arms, they proceed to the soft belly area that burns and

stings at the reception of the hot poultice into the bed of soft belly tissue. Then

down to the legs and feet where the hot oil treatment feels like a soothing balm

for the weary, well-travelled feet that have done miles and miles of road run-

ning over the last few years. Not a crevice or corner of the body is to be passed

by in these vigilant ministrations, including the tender valley troughs between

fingers and toes.

About a half hour into the massage, the masseurs attempt to turn the body

over on its side on the now slippery wooden plank. I feel a hundred years old

and as heavy as a battleship with my head in a fog, well in need of strong hands

to get me into position on the other side as I now lay on my chest and stomach,

and again the pummelling continues up and down the back, the spine, the

thighs, buttocks, legs and finally the tender pads of the feet. Nothing is left to

chance and no area of the body is neglected. After one hour of this onslaught,

one feels that something unique has happened. From this netherworld of pa-

tient endurance to the intense massage, I am picked up in a daze of relief at the

finish of this ordeal and sit on the side of the wooden plank, legs dangling over

the side. The masseurs towel off the residue of slick oils with the cotton towels I

have brought with me that will be used throughout my stay in the nursing

home. Sugatham, ever the joker with his limited English, says: "You are getting

younger and I am getting older. What is good about that," and I reply, "it’s good

for me but not for you, my friend." He laughs merrily as he hands me my first

oral medicine of the day, heated in the wok. It is a small bottle of dark liquid

that tastes horrible that I gulp down with a grimace, determined to enjoy all the

benefits of nature’s own goodness, even if it doesn’t always taste good. One of

the masseurs then escorts me back safely to my room and tells me to rest for

half an hour. For that I don’t need encouraging. The bundle massage, for all of its

benefits, is an exhausting experience. I feel thoroughly drained as I lay myself

down on one of the beds in the room to rest until breakfast arrives from the

cafeteria below. The curtains are drawn across the open door onto the balcony,

but they billow out and blow back into the room with the cool breezes of the

early morning and the promise of impending rain. There is a hypnotic languor

to the movement of the drapes, while the flapping sound echoes into deeper

chambers of the mind where mystery resides and imagination flows as I drift off

once again into deep consciousness.

* * *

After the half-hour rest period, the accommodating cafeteria waiters bring a

local Keralite breakfast to my room. Nutrition plays a critical part in the thera-

peutic process of Ayurveda in addition to the more standard treatments. There

are many dietary restrictions that patients are requested to follow. These in-

clude the avoidance of fried, spicy and sour foods. Trained and well-advised

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cooks in the cafeteria attached to the building on the ground floor, where the

patients can eat or from where food is sent up to the patients’ rooms, are careful

to follow rigorous instructions from the medical staff and only local produce

and fresh vegetables are used in the preparation of the patients’ cuisine. Mineral

water and cold water are not to be taken under any circumstances. Instead, the

water cart comes around regularly to provide fresh, warm drinking water that

has medicated powder giving it a healthy, inviting pinkish appearance. Fresher,

cleaner, tastier drinking water cannot be found in all of India; I have ended up

drinking gallons of it without worry, which is otherwise a serious concern when

travelling throughout India. They speak of Montezuma’s revenge in Mexico; but

people quietly die from dysentery if not quickly treated in India.

Sometimes, in the broad margin of the morning, I sat on my open balcony af-

ter breakfast until noon, wrapped as though in a velvet cloak in a reverie be-

yond the rigors of time, amidst the palm and tamarind trees in a dreamy world

of undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around the buildings

or the chipmunks scatter noiselessly across the rooftops in playful romp until I

hear voices in the hall and I am called back into the hard truth of present time.

Consciousness reminded me once again of the sweet lapse of time that had in-

terrupted my day with its casual sense of eternity and a timelessness that noth-

ing could interrupt. I grew within myself then like corn in the night. This was

not time subtracted from my life; on the contrary, it was like an unexpected gift

that represented benevolence much beyond my regular allowance. Instead of

singing like the birds, I smiled silently at my continued good fortune. The hours

passed; but they were not punctuated by the ticking of a clock; instead the sun

shadows moved across the room until they were no more and the eastern sky

lost its brilliance to the advancing day.

The clinic provides a general diet chart for patients with advice about what

to eat, and include their Indian names, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. In fact,

Keralites treat themselves to delicious vegetarian breakfast dishes, both tasty

and healthy, that are relatively unknown even in other parts of India. I have

sampled regularly through my three week stay in the clinic idili (a kind of fluffy

rice pancake presented as hand-sized round pudgy ovals), both wheat and rice

dosas which are a type of fermented crepe made from wheat or rice batter, and

spicy black lentils, idiyappam, (small clusters of spaghettini noodles),

oothappam (a kind of flat bread made with flecks of onions and tomatoes), all of

which are eaten with a number of indescribably tasty and well-seasoned vege-

table curry sauces. While many foods are forbidden, surprisingly both coffee

and tea are allowed, so patients all take advantage of the coffee and tea cart that

comes through the hallways in the early morning and at tea-time in the late

afternoon.

For lunch, I am served basumathi rice with mixed vegetables steeped in a

variety of seasoned curries and buttermilk in a silver metal cup to retain its

coolness. As an added treat and complement to the food, the waiters also serve

two dry-baked wafer chips made of rice, called papadam, the granddaddy of all

chips that I munched on as a baked alternative to the oil-drenched potato chips

of the Western world. For the evening meal, I round off the day with the tradi-

tional chapatti, wheat dosa (a kind of leavened ultra-thin pancake without the

sweetness of Western pancakes) with vegetable kurma and/or a vegetable

soup. One evening in the first week, confused about what to order and relying

sometimes on the advice of the friendly waiters, one of them suggested gobi and

I looked at him blankly. “Yes, that’s sounds wonderful,” I intoned deadpan,

thinking I hadn’t a clue about what it might be. Bring it on, I thought to myself.

10

You can come to these places and feel skittish about unknown foods and

miss out sometimes on culinary surprises you would never otherwise experi-

ence. When the dish came, it looked like pieces of chicken stir-fried with other

vegetables such as onions, tomatoes, and green peppers (not the devilish red

chilies they love to put into their food that burns the mouth, singes the throat

and causes watery eyes and annoying hiccups). When I started to scoop up the

veggies and sauce with my freshly baked chapatti, I wondered about the wis-

dom of following the advice of the waiter, since I wasn’t supposed to eat meat

during my treatments, and in fact, I thought that the restaurant itself was strict-

ly vegetarian. However, I continue to eat the food with guilty abandon. Only

later, when I got to know some of the other local Indians under treatment, did I

learn that it was actually cauliflower covered in rice flower before being mixed

with the other vegetables. “It’s like imitation meat for the meat lovers,” one of

the patients told me.

In this way, my culinary needs were taken care of. Otherwise, I had nothing

to worry about, including the mundane tasks associated with eating such as

shopping, cooking, and cleaning up. Needless to say, if one can mention such

unmentionables, this kind of diet has seriously changed the nature and con-

sistency of the stool and the entire evacuation process that the doctors and

nurses seemed so interested in. The color of the stool turned a puckish creamy-

light brown and not the murky, dark-chocolate color that heavy meat consump-

tion produces, while the process of evacuation itself is effortless and free, com-

ing out as a moist rich lather, in a gush as it were. I go into detail with the doc-

tors every morning when they ask me about my bowel movements. I do not like

to disappoint them through meager comments. Indeed, this continues the tradi-

tion of the old school when ancient practitioners could make serious judgment

calls from the pulse rate of the heart, the color of the stool, the pallor of the skin,

or the condition of the tongue in order to assess the common indicators and

diagnose the true nature of the ailment.

Because of the extensive oil applications and their uses for treatment and

cure, I am given special instructions regarding taking a bath, not a shower and

certainly not a bath in a tub, but rather sitting on a wooden stool, with a battery

of buckets—hot, warm, cool—in front of me like patient puppies waiting to

serve my needs. Resident patients are advised not to use commercial soaps, or

any other off-the-shelf products for that matter because of their heavy chemical

and synthetic compounds, I had to discard all perfumes, face creams, body

washes, soaps, deodorants, toothpaste and other cosmetics lest they compro-

mise in some way the beneficial process of the treatments and the cure with

their corrupting chemical toxins. Instead, I am given a grungy–looking, army-

style, dark green powder that when mixed with warm water turns miraculously

into a frothy broth of a rich, creamy mud that is pleasant to look at, but nasty to

apply. After an initial drenching of the body with warm water like a child in a

mud puddle, I apply this strange concoction, smearing the muddy paste all over

the body. I find it curiously refreshing, since it cuts through the greasy oil that

has been applied through the therapies and washes the oil away as I douse my-

self from the bucket of cooler water, leaving the skin feeling fresh, tingling, and

clean as I think: So much for my beloved Camey and Dove soaps that leave a

slimy film on the body even with multiple rinses and a sickly artificial scent that

cannot compare with the wild earth aromas of this application.

During the last three days of the first week of treatments, I undergo another

well-known Ayurveda therapy in the late afternoon called nasyam, or what I

affectionately call the oil-in-the-nose treatment. The nasyam procedure ad-

dresses the accumulation of congestive fluids within the sinus canals behind the

11

face which in turn affect and atrophy the full functioning of the nerves flowing

from the brain cavity down the cervical spine and further out into the open bay

of the body. The doctor and attendants are careful to prepare the patient for the

treatment, explaining what will happen and how it works. It sounds worse than

it actually is. The thought of pouring warm oils into the nose may sound offen-

sive indeed, but the reality of the experience proves otherwise.

I am instructed to lie down flat on my back with a pillow propped up against

my neck to achieve optimum angle for the nose to receive the warm droplets of

oil. The doctor, with the aid of the attendant masseur, then administers some of

the warm oil first to the right nostril, followed quickly by application to the left

nostril. Once applied, the doctor and attendant massage the face, forehead, legs,

while the patient rubs his hands together to create warmth and friction from

the extremities inward. This in turn stimulates a process within the sinuses for

the quick elimination of mucus. I am instructed to breathe in hard gathering

excess phlegm , and then expectorate the accumulation of phlegm and mucus

from the area and to continue doing this for about fifteen minutes for best ef-

fect. Then, I was told to gargle with warm water to clear the area of any residue

of oil or mucus.

Nasyam serves as an effective treatment for a number of ailments, including

the graying of hair, headaches of various origins, migraine and stiffness of the

neck, not to mention nasal allergies and sinusitis. In general, it cleans and detox-

ifies a delicate area of the body that often goes ignored and is actually the

breeding ground for multiple diseases, including colds and flu. It also generally

tones up the nerves and removes tension in the cranium. One immediate benefit

that I noticed after the three days of late afternoon treatments was an unusual

clarity of voice – in addition to clarity of mind – that often denotes a strengthen-

ing of the overall immune system and well being of the body. My voice sounded

like a refined wine glass when struck with a finger, crystal clear inside my head.

Curiously enough, I was also advised during the course of the three day treat-

ment to avoid using the eyes as much as possible, including reading and watch-

ing television, so as not to compromise the full benefit of this therapy.

There is a feeling here of being in another world, free of the worry and tur-

moil that we have grown accustomed to in the routines of one's everyday life.

Confined as I am to my room and balcony, I spend much of my day walking

around barefoot like a child. I give no thought to shopping, food, or other re-

quirements of my daily routine. I have breakfast delivered to my room from the

cafeteria down below. I make my way down to the cafeteria for lunch and din-

ner, hoping to meet up with the few casual acquaintances I may come to meet

during my stay. Because I knew that oils would be applied to my head every

day, I had my head razor-shaved before coming, an experience that is both

humbling and refreshing, not that I had much hair to worry about; but we cling

to our accessories and accoutrements as though they will save us from the in-

dignities of old age, not to mention the fires of hell.

As for the trials and tribulations of money or the lack of it: I have no need of

money here. I do use the laundry services; a woman in a powder-blue sari

comes to my door every morning to pick it up and brings it back in the late af-

ternoon freshly washed and ironed. She will bill me later when I leave. The cof-

fee cart wakes me up in the morning and stops by for another coffee break late

in the afternoon, but again there is no need for money since everything is kept

on account. The cafeteria will bill me at the end of the week for all food that I

have consumed during the week. The sheets and pillow case are changed every

second day by chattering nurses who smile demurely and then hurry away out

of sight of the foreign devil. Female workers in maroon saris come daily with

12

their stick brooms, sweep and then mop clean the room for me. The doctors

seek an update on my progress morning and afternoon and a nurse comes early

every day to take my blood pressure. "Normal for an old man," she cheerily tells

me, "And what might that be," I ask her and she tells me, "120 over 80." "That's

the blood pressure of a young man, my dear, not an old man."

* * *

Thus, one week passed experiencing these unique therapies under the strict

guidance and supervision of the doctors and nurses who visited my room every

morning to take my blood pressure, ask about my condition and consult among

themselves regarding the progress of the treatment. At the end of the first week,

I had another formal meeting with the head physician who prescribed Sirovasthi

as the main treatment of the second week, to take place in mid-afternoon.

If you told me before coming to this Ayurveda nursing home that I would be

sitting naked in a solid wooden chair, once again bereft of my nether garments,

sitting in a straight-backed chair with strong squared-off arms with a gallon of

hot medicated oil atop my head with a masseur applying and massaging hot oils

all across my body, I would have thought you mad. Yet there I was doing pre-

cisely that one sunny afternoon, the start of a treatment called Sirovasthi that is

recommended for people with neck and shoulder pain. With no specific or seri-

ous ailments to complain about, except of course for impending old age that

strikes everyone eventually with the flame of its hot irons, I had told the senior

physician that I was suffering from stiffness of the neck. “Do you have pain,” he

mildly inquired? “Yes, I guess I do, when I turn my head. My neck extension is

very limited and feels very stiff indeed,” I bleated like a forlorn sheep.

Once again, several hours after lunch for the next seven days, a different

masseur with a thick black beard and a fierce look about him knocked on my

door, ready to escort me down to the basement for the Sirovasthi treatment.

Drawing on final reserves of patience and endurance, I am against stripped

down naked but for a cloth breech clout to cover the private parts and told to sit

down in a hard wooden chair with solid arm rests and a straight back. Then,

two attendants, including my black bearded masseur, proceed to prepare the

conical cap for the reception of the liter-full of warm, medicated oil that would

serve as the basis of this unique therapy. First, a length of sticky gauze is

wrapped tightly around my head just above the eyes to serve as a sealant for the

strange cap that will soon be wrapped around my head. It is essential that the

abundance of oils are contained and not allowed to drip down over the face and

into the eyes. Once the gauze sealant has been securely applied across the fore-

head, the two attendants wrap a lengthy piece of cardboard around the head, in

essence forming a kind of conical cap atop my crown that will serve as the con-

tainer for the warm medicated oils.

Once the cap is secure and after double checking that there are no leaks, the

doctor is summoned to apply the warm oil, about one full liter. The oil used for

Sirovasthi is a combination of gingelly oil, staff tree, castor oil, ghee, common

milk and medicated herbs like black gram, winter cherry, bala, and bacopa. “Are

you ready,” the doctor asks me with a look of concern. “As ready as I will ever

be,” I intone, feeling wary about what is soon to happen, while the doctor slowly

pours the full liter of medicated oil inside the conical cap. Think naked, hot, stiff,

sitting with my bony carcass on the hard-wood chair and told not to move a

muscle for the next hour with this awkward contraption crowning my head, and

you will begin to understand what I was experiencing at that moment. I couldn’t

move my head. The slightest nod or turn of the body would create a surging

movement of the oils, giving the feeling every time I moved that there was a

13

tidal wave running across the crown of my scalp. Thus, I sat without moving for

an hour every afternoon for seven days and sometimes even a little longer when

the masseur lost track of time. It seemed like an eternity. All you need is for

someone to tell you not to move and it becomes a scourge to sit still. If I made

the slightest movement, great swelling surges of the medicated oil sloshed

against the sides of the conical cap and threatened to spill over like hot larva

onto the body below.

Dr. Nasser comes down about halfway through the session and I see his

shadow cross over my feet. I cannot look up at him lest I set in motion the ocean

swirling around in my top hat, as I sit motionless dripping in hot oils. “The king

with his crown,” he elaborates attempting to be humorous. No doubt, I have

touched his funny bone; every time I see him on his rounds on this particular

trip to the nursing home, he seems bemused by some private joke that no one

else is privy to. I can only speculate; but I think he is amused to know that he

will be caricatured once again through words, in good faith, since he has now

read my work and knows that I will do no injustice to him or the treatments.

“King for a day,” he jokes again, not wishing to let go of the image. “All I need is a

scepter and kingdom,” I quip, breaking my rule of silence during the treatment

although I cannot move a muscle and inwardly grown at my weary muscles and

crowned head, as a flush of hot oils slowly seeps into my brain and head cavity.

“Some king,” I think as he disappeared chuckling into the shadows, leaving me

along once again with my own solitary thoughts.

I dreaded being left alone. Sitting there by myself, the mind plays tricks and

thinks of impossible things that would never happen in reality. In my mind’s

eye, I found myself slipping off the smooth wooden hard-backed chair, made

slicker by the slippery oils that dripped off my body. Worse, as I leaned to one

side, I imagined the chair tilting sideways and toppling me onto the floor on my

side, causing an untold disaster. For what would then happen with this outra-

geous conical cone filled with an ocean of oil sitting atop my crowning head.

Closing my eyes didn’t help. What if I began to nod off to sleep? What then

would happen to the oil sitting encased on my head?

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the bearded masseur returns with

an unaccustomed smile and mumbles the single word “finished, as though he

has suffered the ordeal with me and knows what’s involved in sitting there pa-

tiently without moving a muscle”. With meticulous care, he extracts the liquid

oil from the conical cap atop my head in stages, putting a cotton towel inside to

absorb as much oil as possible. Eventually, most of the oil has been dumped into

a pail at the foot of my chair and he unwinds the elaborate headgear that I have

been wearing for the last hour like a nobleman at court. The gauze strip of cloth

is finally removed and I feel liberated from the weight of the world. “Ok,” the

masseur says questioningly, giving the thumbs up sign. “I think so,” I reply, feel-

ing slightly in a daze, but relieved to have this ordeal finished at last, at least for

another day.

In the gathering twilight, the hushed hour between day and night when Na-

ture herself calls a half to the progress of the hours, the day’s color bleeds out of

the trees into the fading sky as night crawls across the land, heading westward

on soft paws. Beyond the safe confines of my small room and balcony, the forest

night rises like an ebony wall of darkness giving night its true texture. The sight

of the palm plantation and the extensive paddy fields are tucked into a secret

realm of darkness that characterizes the great ocean of the night. The air is

dense with monsoon moisture and filled with the sounds of night life, the croak-

ing of frogs as the rush of the monsoon rain has died down again to a quiet

murmur on the tin roof of the canteen below, the hushed wings of bats, and a

14

blaze of insects going about their business of circumambulating the night light

on the balcony like devoted pilgrims. Under other circumstances, when I am

back in my other world of work and family and personal concerns, I would be

restless and discontented with the narrow scope of the evening, with nothing

but darkness staring me in the face to while away the empty hours; but this is a

loneliness that I can endure because it goes by the name of solitude that replen-

ishes and refreshes the psyche and spirit with its reserves of tranquility and

calm endurance, like filling an empty cup with the drops of rainfall. Nature sings

its solitary song, like a flute in the wind or a harp in the rushes. It asks nothing

of us but patient and insightful observation and gives everything in return, pri-

mordial in its impact, universal in its application. Silence will reign, devouring

all sound in its path as darkness devours light, until the first bird sings again

with the emerging dawn and the chipmunks begin to chase each other across

the rooftops of the family cottages nearby.

The pleasant sunset ritual of bird chatter is silenced with the darkness only

to give room to the chirping of crickets and other nondescript night animals,

playing out their harsh melodies on the teeth of their wings, a multitude of tiny

voices in grand chorus with their friends. The countless stars in distant regions

of the night sky, uncorrupted by the light of major cities, shine down upon the

lush landscape with their inscrutable message of infinity and the hint of other

worlds, while the moon, when given a chance in the relentless monsoon season,

may give an occasional peek through the angry dark clouds and bathe its silvery

light upon the hushed landscape. Otherwise, darkness prevails during the night

vigil with its own self-contained intensity. From my balcony, its inky presence

hovers just beyond the edge of my feet. Everything reveals itself in shades of

blackness. The flowers and grasses of the paddy fields smell more fragrant in

the cool blackness of the night. The black presence of the bat flits through the

nearby trees and under the overhanging roofs of the family treatment cottages

nearby. In the distance, beyond the precinct walls of the nursing home com-

pound, I hear the call of barking dogs, crowing roosters (in the eerie darkness

before predawn of course), and the occasional hoot of a lonely owl whose mel-

ancholy sound sinks the weary sleepers deeper into a vast slumber to merge

eventually with the stuff of dreams. The palm trees take on a mystical quality at

night whose branches reach toward heaven in open yearning, their silvery

fronds shimmering and aglow in the wind and rain of moonlight.

* * *

We live in a time of skepticism and disbelief. Tell a person you can cure rheuma-

toid arthritis or the wasting disease called fibromyalgia through herbal oil mas-

sages and by drinking internal herbal medicines and they will no doubt think

you are mad. However, there is nothing maddening or incredible about debili-

tating pain that finds blessed relief in complete cure.

The final week has arrived and the effects of the cure are beginning to make

themselves known throughout the meridians of the body, the fresh rising from

bed upon awakening from “the little death” as the French call sleep (le petit

morte), the honest and instant crossover into the unconsciousness of sleep dur-

ing the night, the unaccustomed sense of youthful nimbleness, the sparkling

clarity of the voice, the suppleness of the neck and the lightness of the head. The

chief physician has prescribed an early morning full body oil massage and a late

afternoon treatment called Shiropichu. Medicated oil steeped in a cotton cloth is

applied to the head as I am instructed to sit there in silence for up to an hour of

concentrated stillness as the oils seep into the skull and work their magic. A

cloth cord is wrapped around the head to prevent any oil dripping down into

15

the face and eyes. This treatment, in addition to having a beneficial effect for

headache and insomnia, is actually known to improve memory. It is being ap-

plied in my case as a complement to the sirovasthi treatment of a week earlier to

offer further relief for the stiff and painful neck muscles.

On the first day of the third week, at 6:30 sharp, my regular masseur,

Sugatham, meets me at the door of my room to escort me to the massage room.

“Have you been in the new wing before,” he asked and I tell him, “No.” A brief

glance as we walk through the corridor reveals its solid construction and intel-

ligent design. Everything conforms to a natural order, from the spotlessly clean

floor tiles to the open-ended manner of the windows and doors that give every

respect to the elements of nature surrounding the building, with wide window

displays and opportunities everywhere for the wind to blow through the build-

ing with a central open space running through all four floors that allows free

flow to the air and wind. While the climate is tropical and the humidity high, one

very rarely feels the burden of the heat. In the early morning hour, it is mon-

soon dark and the rain is cascading down, drenching the earth with its much

needed moisture. I love this rain; my soul hankers for its mysterious charms. I

have deliberately chosen the monsoon season for my stay in the Ayurveda clin-

ic. After the ascetic monotony of the dry desert climate, I needed the blessed

emptiness of mind that comes from the sonorous anthems of the wind and the

tinkling of dripping trees. Darkened clouds on the horizon remind me of life

itself, its moods and dispensations. Indeed, we would be like orphaned children

without the erratic weather of the seasons that tells us its own stories and feeds

out emotions to us like prison rations with their inscrutable mystery.

Sugatham begins the massage as I sit on the edge of the massage board with

my legs dangling down the side without touching the floor. He tries to make

small talk with his limited English and always seems very happy to see me. He

looks exactly the same as he did four years ago, eight years ago, indeed twelve

years ago when I first met him as my first masseur here at the Ayurveda clinic.

As he sits crouched down on his heels massaging my feet and between my toes

(ouch!), leaving no part of the body neglected, he looks up at me with dreamy

eyes and I look down upon him from my perch with world-weary interest, sit-

ting naked but for a cover of the private parts and drenched in warm medicated

oils. “Remember. . . you,” he mumbles cryptically and ungrammatically. “Yes, of

course you do, Sugatham,” I say without thinking, to reassure him. “You were

my masseur last time and the time before that and before that, when I was as

young as you are now.” But he is of another mind as he shifts to the other foot

and kneads the flesh like sour dough. “No,” he gropes for words, “Not that. I

remember you here some time, in the heart.” And he smiles his simple open

smile. I remember Sugatham as well and tell him so in simple English, and this

makes him happy. But I think to myself, this is part of the source of the cure; it is

through his hands, his energy, his faithful attention, and sense of attachment

that adds up to the blessing and the cure of the masseur as he interacts with the

patient. I feel humbled by his frank sentiments and grateful for his devotion to

duty. They do this day in and day out, year in and year out, and still they pay

attention, they take notice, they care. You are an individual to them, a true per-

son; you are literally in their hands.

“Now lie flat on your back,” he advises, helping me to secure myself on the

oil-slippery wooden plank like an attendant son. With systematic diligence, he

begins the formal massage with the neck and shoulders, then quickly moves

down to concentrate on first one arm, then the other one. “You have pain here,”

he asks, as he massages the muscles leading into the elbow. “Yes, indeed,

Sugatham, I complained to the doctor about that,” I reply with a moan. He con-

16

tinues to apply deep tissue massage, together with a kind of pressure, to the

extent that the pain is nearly unbearable. At one point, he discovered a kind of

knot in the warm muscle that he began to knead again and again to try to loosen

its painful grip on the tense muscle. I steel myself under the onslaught, thinking

that perhaps he can work his way through this painful area and cross some kind

of threshold into bliss. Indeed, only seconds later, I feel a kind of pop in the

muscle of the arm under the pressure of his touch, and a squish, as though a

grape had been squeezed releasing its juices and pulp. He grunts with content-

ment and mumbles “you see,” while continuing to massage the area with press-

ing strokes; but the pain mercifully was gone, disappeared, puff as in a cloud of

smoke. He broadens the scope of the massage back to the full length of the up-

per arm from shoulder to elbow, but the offending, sharp pain had vanished,

dissipated it seems, with the knot untied and the evil toxins dispersed into the

bloodstream to be expelled through the normal channels of evacuation such as

sweating and defecation. He continues to apply this kind of rigor to massaging

the rest of the body, then and subsequently for a full seven days.

At the end of the body massage, Sugatham entreats me to rise, like Lazarus

from the dead. As though pulled out of the cloud of some netherworld to rise

back to earth, I look up at him through a filmy haze that has mysteriously cov-

ered my newly opened eyes which I had kept closed during the supine trance of

the oil massage. With an extended hand across my back, he helps me up since

on my own I feel as though I can hardly move, much less rise up from the wood-

en plank; The massage has left me feeling like a train wreck. I actually feel a

little punch drunk. “Pain here,” Sugatham asks sweetly, and again “Pain here.”

“Pain everywhere,” I meekly respond with a groan as he digs deeper into the

offending (and no doubt offended) muscle tissue as I sit on the side of the mas-

sage board. This is the final assault on the body, the final attempt to dispel those

evil toxins both physical and spiritual. With a broad brush stroke, he runs his

powerful hands down my arms, mid-torso, and legs, ending with the feet that

tingle and sting in a weird manner as the evils—whatever and wherever they

may be—leave the body once and for all. The massage has officially ended; but

Sugatham is not done. He grabs for the paper-thin cotton towels I have brought

with me that he will use to wipe off the residual oils still dripping from the body.

“And now for the towel massage,” I quip happily, “my favorite massage.” But not

to be outdone, he replies, “Towel therapy,” with a laugh and a sheepish grin.

Thereupon, he proceeds to methodically towel dry every nook and cranny of the

body, including the belly-button and the ultra sensitive tissue between the toes,

to wipe away any lingering oil.

Meanwhile, I have sent an e-mail message to a friend of mind, “the final

week of treatments go on. If you could see me, I am virtually sparkling like an

aged wine, taking the stairs two at a time, sleeping like a baby, waking up in the

morning and jumping out of bed at 6:00 a.m. to the tune of the wheels of the

coffee cart, never has the rumbling of wheels sounded so glorious. I feel like a

deer cavorting through the underbrush of a great forest. My cheeks are like

roses and my voice is as clear as a bell, always a measure of good health.” I fin-

ished a volume of Tolstoy's short stories and am halfway through Gogol’s

strange tales of misery and neglect, all wonderful stuff that fills me with the

spirit of an ancient lore. Also, I have polished off Robert Graves' Count Belisari-

us, a historical novel of the Byzantine era of the Emperor Justinian and his gen-

eral Belisarius, a truly wonderful read. I am presently reading Conan the Barbar-

ian by the American writer Robert E Howard. While Conan always strikes imag-

es of Arnold Schwarzenegger who made the film and one feels like cringing, the

book is surprisingly good, pulp fiction that it is. It is wondrously adventurous

17

with unbeatable heroes, villains, snakes, spiders, treasures and spirits from the

underworld. What an imagination the writer must have had. He lived in Texas

and died when he was 30 years old. How he was able to write those books I'll

never know.

I was advised in due time that on the last day of my stay at the Ayurveda

Clinic, my 21st day of treatment, in addition to my regular treatments, I would

be having the vasthi therapy that I soon learned was an herbal enema treatment

that detoxifies the body by expelling all the accumulated and unwanted metabo-

lites and free radicals from the cells of the body making it healthy and disease

free. It would amount to being the final statement of the three week treatments,

a kind of consummation if you will, an exclusive treatment that has the effect of

addressing the entire body and expelling any residue of evil that may still linger.

During my stay at the clinic, I had become friends with several male Keralites

who also lived in the UAE. We had come to form a Dubai table at the canteen

and would exchange comments about our treatments during the evening meal

of chapattis and vegetable kurma. Both of them had undergone the famed vasthi

treatment several times, once a week and had scary stories about this unique

intrusion into one’s treasured privacy. It became the butt-end of many hilarious

jokes that I willingly took part in since I had never had to undergo this treat-

ment in all the times I had been here. But now it was my turn and I asked my

new-found friends about all the sordid details of what actually happened and

how was the procedure administered. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t get them

serious and the more I listened to their outrageous tales, the more I dreaded

this final procedure to cap an otherwise glorious three-week stay at the clinic.

I am given strict instructions in the morning of the final day about what I

would be allowed to eat after having the vasthi treatment around 10:00 that

morning. Immediately after the treatment, I would be served congi in the room,

a bland rice soup. For lunch, I would have more congi, followed in the late after-

noon with a boiled banana, and topped off with an evening meal of plain rice

and curried vegetables. By 7:00 am the next morning, I would be on my way

back to the airport for my return flight to the UAE.

At 10:00 sharp, I was escorted back to the new wing and into a treatment

room I had never been in before on previous visits. There was the usual mas-

sage board where I was promptly laid out for one final full body massage from

heat to foot as perhaps a fitting prelude to the famous vasthi treatment. While

having the massage treatment, I had the occasion to glance around the room

and ponder what was about to happen. I took note of the huge tub awaiting

some kind of service. Was I to be unceremoniously placed in the tub for some

obscure reason? More ominously perhaps were the hoses and tubes overhang-

ing the bathtub from a faucet in the wall. Nearby there was a bathroom toilet, an

essential component no doubt for a treatment such as this. I submitted myself in

silence to the routine massage that I was well familiar with; but my mind was

not fully at rest. What strikes me about the Ayurveda treatments and those who

administer them is the essential tact and sensitivity that both the masseurs and

the doctors bring to their trade. It is obviously a sacred vocation that they take

very seriously. Every patient seems to be in their special care, even though this

is merely a job for them, something that they do every day of the year. They

seem to bring a devotion to duty to their work that is admirable, if not unique,

lending a sacred quality to all that they do that spills over into the mind and

heart of the patient.

The massage was now over and the inevitable was about to begin. My heart

was in my mouth, pumping to the beat of some distant war drum. The doctor

came in and greeted me as I was positioned appropriate to the procedure on the

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wooden plank. He told me to relax and that this would help the smooth func-

tioning of the treatment. He then proceeded to engage me in conversation, ask-

ing me where I came from, where I lived, what I did in life. Before I knew it, he

smiled and clapped his hands, saying, “That should just about do it,” Before I

had a chance to know fully what happened, the treatment was over. The infu-

sion—or should I write invasion—of medicinal water and fluids were entered

into the system, set to flush out as many evil toxins from the body as possible.

There were no hoses or special tubes. Only the discreet and swift application of

the procedure and it was a done deal. I was asked to rest flat on my back for a

few minutes, then invited into the toilet to relieve myself of unwanted impuri-

ties. One loses all sense of dignity and shape and falls into the embrace of the

sensitivity and common sense of the doctors and masseurs at your service. Once

complete, I felt a great sense of relief. The masseur courteously escorted me

back to my room where the rice soup congi was waiting for me.

Arrangements had been made for a taxi to pick me up at 7:00 a.m. for the

hour’s drive back down south on the main trunk road to the Cochin Airport.

When I awoke that morning, I felt as fresh as a daisy, happy to have successfully

completed the full term of the treatment and already feeling the clarity of mind

and sense of well being that the Ayurveda treatments promise the weary pa-

tient. As I head back out into the world in search of extraordinary, far-away

adventures that can thrill my body and inspire my soul, I feel ready to meet the

moment. The taxi driver is dressed in a white shirt and dark suit and has the

touch of the comedian in him. “So,” he says with a flair, “they have let you out on

parole, have they. Now you are entering the real Kerala, the land of the gods.” I

glance back once again for one last visual embrace of the place before I take my

leave. The crippled man who struggled with his walker from bed to toilet in the

room opposite mine was settled snugly on the wooden balcony overhanging the

front of the building, no doubt soothed somewhat by the therapeutic treatments

and the peaceful, secluded life he was leading, and nurtured perhaps by the

harmonious dreams that may play upon his mind as he sees my face in the rear

window of the taxi and our eyes meet one final time.

A delicious rain continues to fall and floats into the ear with a range of

sounds from a thunderous roar to a gentle whisper as it falls upon the leaves

and drips down to earth, leaving sparkling silver light on all the greenery it

touches. The rain runs off the earth in gurgling streams, inducing a drowsiness

in the limbs and a languorous feeling of sad melancholy as I leave the nursing

home one more time, not knowing if or when I may ever return. We pass under

the aging broken archway that still welcomes the sick and infirmed and bids

goodbye to the healthy and cured passing through as I re-enter the world. The

guard is asleep in the sentry-box as the rain comes down in torrents, drenching

the crows and jackdaws sitting forlornly in the tree branches waiting for sun-

shine to dry their wet feathers. High above in the sky, the clouds near the hori-

zon have suddenly lost their dark, angry aspect and broken apart into pillow

clouds, permitting expansive shafts of early morning sunlight to shine down to

the earth. As a natural complement to the aging wooden archway, a magnificent

rainbow, aglow with all the hues of the color spectrum, spans across the heav-

ens and then sweeps down into the depths of the palm tree forests that sweep

away its light suddenly with the broom of its swaying branches.

Mother Nature continues to hold sway across the earth and delivers her se-

crets to us in stages, as in the verses of a poem, as we make our way down the

narrow village road that will take us back to the airport. It may be a tearful sky

producing relentless rain, but I feel soothed by its ceaseless roar and invigorat-

ed by its pelting, as though awakening me from deep sleep. I am suddenly aware

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of nature’s benevolence all around me, in the rain, the trees, the darkened sky;

the capricious sun shoving the clouds aside like truant children. Every drop

echoes the whisper of some secret worth listening to. There is an unfamiliar and

infinite friendliness in the air, making me aware of the presence of something

kindred all around, even in this monsoon rain that is so wild and unforgiving. To

keep the deluge out, I sit in the back seat of this small taxi, thoroughly enjoying

its protection, feeling joy in my heart and well being in my body, not wishing to

be anyone else. The treatments that I have endured during my three week stay

now travel away with me as the treasured blessing of renewed health, beyond

the four walls of the little room where I stayed for three weeks last summer

inside the wonderful world of Ayurveda.

Sharjah, UAE

March 2013