The term Ayurveda means 'Science of life'. Ayush meaning Life, as comprised of body, sense organs, mind and soul; Veda meaning knowledge or science.
The 'Ayush Ayurveda Hospital' in the nearby town of Ottapalam is a 2-story guest-house type building, nestled in quiet suburb with guest and treatment rooms. I arrived an a Sunday morning and downstairs people waited along the hall of the busy practice with several doctors attending. To the side of the reception desk, a shrine to Ganesha (also known as the remover of sickness), and opposite a pharmacy. Upstairs patients and treatment rooms.
All the rooms create a rectangle around the open spaced center with a small walled stone garden at the bottom with live fish and a water fountain. Untended, the water still, since no electricity runs the fountain, it still manages to exude a certain calm.
Across from my room is a little utility roof with a single plastic chair. Except for hanging laundry it looks to be unused by any of the other 'inmates' who seem content to sit in their rooms, on the main terrace or entertaining family. I think this is going to be my hangout. The doctor's head pops in the doorway: "you can take sun baths here" he says with a smile and disappears.
During the interview Dr. Nair (accompanied by his wife, Dr. Indira) declares me as having a Vatta Kapha constitution and outlines in general terms what I was to expect. The tall and serious looking doctor lists a couple of days of massage, followed by a "lubrication stage" during which I am to consume increasing amounts of medical Ghee (clarified butter), then a few more days of heat and sweating followed by a purgation stage and finally enemas. He stops from time to time and asks if I understand the procedures, stressing that it is not an easy process. Any levity on my part is ignored as he describes the kind of people he encountered who wanted three days of pouring oil on their heads thinking that this is Panchkarma. "This is not a Spa" he stresses and I suspect that he refers to the patient's attitudes rather than to the amenities offered at the facility.
I assure him I am serious and only express hope that I will not quit the procedure before its completion.
Back in the room I thankfully wolf down the jam & toast with Chai that waited for me, having preferred not to eat 'train food" in the morning, then promptly crashed to sleep.
A mere hour later I was called to my first treatment, a massage. Two young and wiry boys , each with a pen in their shirt pockets, escorted me to a room with a massage bed moulded from black hard plastic with a surrounding basin for collecting the copious amounts of oil that will be used for the treatments.
They work together in unison, and their four hands feel like 2 giant paws pressing my limbs against the hard bed with long a forceful movements. The painful massage immediately brings to my mind the doctor's words: "this is not a Spa". After a shower and towel off (I am instructed not to wet my head) I feel relaxed and settle finally for some sleep only to be woken by another knock on the door. A petite Indian girls walks in with a tray of Thali and simply states: "food".
During a second meeting with the doctor he confesses his reluctance to receive foreign patients due to his past experiences. Since there are only 6 patient rooms (of which the other 5 are occupied) I realize his concern that I would take up space and waste time better used on others who need the treatments (and maybe appreciate the care and dedication required to cater to only a few patients at a time).
During my stay I am asked to eat and drink only what is served at the hospital.
The food requires special mention. Food in Ayurveda is considered the primary source for health and the primary cause for disease and the quality is superior to most places I've been. The Thali plate includes white rice, a sweet Dahl paste, a spicy potato mix, a sour soup, diced steamed cabbage in mild curry and a pungent vegetable mix. The Thali vegetables change every day. Everything tastes amazing to me and the care with which the food is prepared is evident.
I try to get to sleep (again) when a another knock on the door (I'm starting to feel like in a real hospital): "Tea time".
The TV makes me feel like I'm in Delhi. I turn it off and finally sleep some get.
In the evening I go to the main terrace on the secong floor. A long balcony-bench of black marble tiles surrounds the terrace. Wood ornate carvings, the clean brown floor and the trees all around lend to a zen-like atmosphere, obviously planned for an environment conducive to healing.
Patients leave their door open or partly closed and as I pass by one, an elderly gentleman stands in front of his desk reading aloud from vedic scriptures. I hope I will have the same dedication to healing as him.
Walking barefoot I smoke my last cigarette of the day in the darkness of the side-roof (not daring to smoke in the room) and can hear from far away muffled voices over a loudspeakers. Must be a political rally somewhere.
Looking back at the circumstances that brought me here in an almost effortless glide: the last minute ticket, the last seat in the car, the faster-than-scheduled arrival and the fact that I occupied the last available room, not to mention the seriousness of the facility, I have no desire to quell a rising tide of gratitude washing over me.
The 'Ayush Ayurveda Hospital' in the nearby town of Ottapalam is a 2-story guest-house type building, nestled in quiet suburb with guest and treatment rooms. I arrived an a Sunday morning and downstairs people waited along the hall of the busy practice with several doctors attending. To the side of the reception desk, a shrine to Ganesha (also known as the remover of sickness), and opposite a pharmacy. Upstairs patients and treatment rooms.
All the rooms create a rectangle around the open spaced center with a small walled stone garden at the bottom with live fish and a water fountain. Untended, the water still, since no electricity runs the fountain, it still manages to exude a certain calm.
Across from my room is a little utility roof with a single plastic chair. Except for hanging laundry it looks to be unused by any of the other 'inmates' who seem content to sit in their rooms, on the main terrace or entertaining family. I think this is going to be my hangout. The doctor's head pops in the doorway: "you can take sun baths here" he says with a smile and disappears.
During the interview Dr. Nair (accompanied by his wife, Dr. Indira) declares me as having a Vatta Kapha constitution and outlines in general terms what I was to expect. The tall and serious looking doctor lists a couple of days of massage, followed by a "lubrication stage" during which I am to consume increasing amounts of medical Ghee (clarified butter), then a few more days of heat and sweating followed by a purgation stage and finally enemas. He stops from time to time and asks if I understand the procedures, stressing that it is not an easy process. Any levity on my part is ignored as he describes the kind of people he encountered who wanted three days of pouring oil on their heads thinking that this is Panchkarma. "This is not a Spa" he stresses and I suspect that he refers to the patient's attitudes rather than to the amenities offered at the facility.
I assure him I am serious and only express hope that I will not quit the procedure before its completion.
Back in the room I thankfully wolf down the jam & toast with Chai that waited for me, having preferred not to eat 'train food" in the morning, then promptly crashed to sleep.
A mere hour later I was called to my first treatment, a massage. Two young and wiry boys , each with a pen in their shirt pockets, escorted me to a room with a massage bed moulded from black hard plastic with a surrounding basin for collecting the copious amounts of oil that will be used for the treatments.
They work together in unison, and their four hands feel like 2 giant paws pressing my limbs against the hard bed with long a forceful movements. The painful massage immediately brings to my mind the doctor's words: "this is not a Spa". After a shower and towel off (I am instructed not to wet my head) I feel relaxed and settle finally for some sleep only to be woken by another knock on the door. A petite Indian girls walks in with a tray of Thali and simply states: "food".
During a second meeting with the doctor he confesses his reluctance to receive foreign patients due to his past experiences. Since there are only 6 patient rooms (of which the other 5 are occupied) I realize his concern that I would take up space and waste time better used on others who need the treatments (and maybe appreciate the care and dedication required to cater to only a few patients at a time).
During my stay I am asked to eat and drink only what is served at the hospital.
The food requires special mention. Food in Ayurveda is considered the primary source for health and the primary cause for disease and the quality is superior to most places I've been. The Thali plate includes white rice, a sweet Dahl paste, a spicy potato mix, a sour soup, diced steamed cabbage in mild curry and a pungent vegetable mix. The Thali vegetables change every day. Everything tastes amazing to me and the care with which the food is prepared is evident.
I try to get to sleep (again) when a another knock on the door (I'm starting to feel like in a real hospital): "Tea time".
The TV makes me feel like I'm in Delhi. I turn it off and finally sleep some get.
In the evening I go to the main terrace on the secong floor. A long balcony-bench of black marble tiles surrounds the terrace. Wood ornate carvings, the clean brown floor and the trees all around lend to a zen-like atmosphere, obviously planned for an environment conducive to healing.
Patients leave their door open or partly closed and as I pass by one, an elderly gentleman stands in front of his desk reading aloud from vedic scriptures. I hope I will have the same dedication to healing as him.
Walking barefoot I smoke my last cigarette of the day in the darkness of the side-roof (not daring to smoke in the room) and can hear from far away muffled voices over a loudspeakers. Must be a political rally somewhere.
Looking back at the circumstances that brought me here in an almost effortless glide: the last minute ticket, the last seat in the car, the faster-than-scheduled arrival and the fact that I occupied the last available room, not to mention the seriousness of the facility, I have no desire to quell a rising tide of gratitude washing over me.
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