Mist from the high mountains rolled across our garden, touching it with mystery.
Living in our Victorian cottage in the Himalayas can be quite magical according to our friends. Possibly. Sometimes, however, the serenity is frazzled by the stresses and strains of our chosen way of life. Then we have to escape to another reality to ground ourselves.
We fled to Kerala, cocooned ourselves in Kalari Kovilakom, located in an old, tiled, palace in Palghat District. Wooded hills, with cotton shreds of clouds, rose as a backdrop.
A high bougainvillea-dripping wall encircled the palace; carved pillars supported tiled roofs with multiple gables; central courts, open to the sky, drew in cool air from the herb gardens, alive with butterflies; a lone cormorant, and kingfishers like glittering chips of the rainbow, dove for fish in the stone-stepped tanks; and there was the fresh scent of lemon-grass oil on the glistening Chettinad tile floors.
This is heritage, refreshed and restored to mint condition, just as it had been when the matriarchs of the Vengunad family of Kollengode had built it in the late 19th century.
When the gates, set in a high wall, shut behind us we were cut off from the world for the next fortnight. We had stepped into another, more traditional, way of life. We shed our leather shoes and work-day clothes. We wore straw sandals; a tailor delivered seven sets of made-to-measure, colourful, kurta-pyjamas.
The ringing of a temple bell would announce our meals and, at breakfast, we would meet our fellow guests in the dining gallery.
We each had a personal menu approved by the doctors but designed by Chef Narayan and his assistant. The dishes are strictly organic and vegetarian, with virtually no spices or fats, and cooked in traditional stoneware, iron and other utensils that are free of even trace toxins. Though, initially, we found the meals rather frugal, by the second day, we began to refuse second helpings. Yes, we did lose three kilos quite painlessly.
The immediate impact of all this of this was an urge to sleep very early. It was almost as if the mental muscles had suddenly found themselves relieved of a great weight and were now demanding rest to recoup their strength. At home we sleep between 23:30 and midnight; here, for the first two days, we fell into a deep sleep by 8 o'clock. This had happened to all the other guests, too.
We began to understand what the therapies were doing to us.First they drew the deposited toxins of stress into our stomachs. On the seventh day, or thereabouts, all other therapies were stopped and the toxins were purged from our digestive tract.
Only then did the restorative therapies begin: replacing the essential substances that had been suppressed by the invading toxins. Complementing the Ayurvedic treatment were the yoga sessions. They maintained the flexibility of the body so that fresh toxins could not accumulate in our organs. And the meditation techniques strengthened the mind to attain equanimity. A calm mind is not stressed.
Every morning we woke at dawn to the sound of an aarti from a neighbouring temple. A little later we strode along paths skirted by herbal beds and across dew-starred lawns, to the Meditation and Yoga Centre. All buildings in the campus are in the traditional Kerala style, rich with hand-crafted wood, light and airy. The yoga sessions are tailored to suit the individual: spectators and other guests are excluded. Meditation is done in groups.
The first Ayurvedic massages were given in the forenoon, the second in the afternoon, after an examination by qualified Ayurvedic physicians. The men and women therapists are also qualified and the oils and equipment conform to the specifications laid down thousands of years ago. At first, we did not feel that we would appreciate having our bodies massaged in warm herbal oil for an hour or more, but it is so soothing and the therapists work with such superb coordination that we tended to fall asleep on the heavy massage tables.
We also had Sirovasthi, wearing 'hats' without a crown, filled with warm oil. It enhances the memory. We lay in baths of medicinal woods, our skins absorbing the essential oils of a myriad scented flowers. We were padded with warm herbs, drank hot medicated ghee, sweated in a steam chamber. The days merged into a week, flipped into a fortnight. It ended too fast. With barely controlled emotions, we bid goodbye to all our new-found friends and stepped out into the world.
How did we feel then? How does a caterpillar, sluggish and bloated, feel when it emerges from its cocoon and spreads its bright, butterfly wings in the sun? Light, free, unencumbered. Our problems haven't vanished but they've become so insignificant that we wonder why they had seemed so irksome.
That was before we immersed ourselves in the revitalising Kalari Kovilakom
experience.