The Calm in the Storm

India has a reputation for being chaotic and overcrowded, but when Lindsay Yaw travels to the home of Ayurveda, she discovers not only her dosha but the true serenity at the heart of Indian culture.

“I can see in your eyes that you’ve come to India to find something,” said the security officer at Bombay International Airport. He was nonchalant with his claim, and his intense black eyes bore to the depth of mine in an unsettling gesture of conviction. But still, I was not in the mood for enlightenment. It was 3 a.m., my jet-lagged body had been plastered to a plane seat for more than 30 hours, and I was sweating feverishly in the 104-degree humidity. I and my travel partner, Melissa McManus, were on our way to Somatheeram, an Ayurvedic resort in southern India, and we were desperate for the calm and the serenity that the resort so touted on its website. But in India nothing is as expected, and calm is relative.
 
When we had arrived in Mumbai two hours earlier, we wanted nothing more than to sleep in the nearby five-star Leela Hotel, with its crisp sheets and minibar, where we had a reservation. Instead I sat on the baggage carousel for two hours, head in hands, nursing the remnants of a migraine amid dozens of shouting military men. Meanwhile, Melissa was going through the painstakingly tedious procedure of filing for lost bags. Unlike in the States, where the process is efficient and digitized, in India dusty, 6-inch-thick ledgers are filled out in pencil and then set on top of stacks of others in a small room beside the baggage claim. It’s surprising anyone ever finds his or her bags.

I had been to India once before, when I was three. My parents had brought me and my three siblings on a monthlong trekking odyssey in Kashmir during a half-year sabbatical my dad took from architecture. So my recollection of the effect India had on its visitors was foggy and juvenile at best. As expected the bad had faded away and the beauty of its elaborate people is all that was branded on my memory. In the ensuing two weeks, I would learn that this place has a mysterious way of sneaking into your mind’s web and rattling the cages of your psyche.

After a three-hour flight south along the west coast of India, Melissa and I finally arrived at the village of Chowara, in the southwestern state of Kerala, where Somatheeram is located. With a team of 15 of the globe’s most accomplished Ayurvedic doctors, Somatheeram is home to the purest breed of Ayurvedic care in the world. Translated as the “science of life,” Ayurveda is a 5,000-year-old physiotherapeutic medicine that aims to balance in the body nature’s five elements: ether, air, fire, water, and earth. The resort’s 90 therapists are chosen from specific families with multiple generations of healing lineage. They undergo a rigorous yearlong training and then a three-year apprenticeship before ever touching a patient. At Somatheeram you are born a healer; you cannot learn it.

Lacking the sterile feeling of Western medicine, both Somatheeram and its sister property, Manaltheeram, are deemed bona fide Ayurvedic hospitals but maintain a rawness of the earth in a resort setting. The available resources for the treatment of cancers, bone fractures, stress, heart disease, and all physical and emotional ailments are learned, grown—as herbs and plants—and harvested in the surrounding forests.

Only a half hour from the frenzied city of Trivandrum, which more than a million people call home, Somatheeram and Manaltheeram are surrounded by banana farms and a jungle replete with jackfruit, betel nut palm, jamun, mango, and hollock trees. The sister resorts are five minutes apart by foot and teeter precariously on the edge of sandy cliffs overlooking the Arabian Sea. To the south a wide white beach crowded with fisherman each morning stretches uninterrupted for 10 kilometers—a perfect place for long morning runs and seaside walks. The manicured lawns on both properties are dotted with plantings of herbs used in Ayurvedic treatments, round teak huts for guests, and hammocks where you can delve into a good book and be lazy for days on end.

The resorts, and this region of Kerala in particular, are where the ailing come to embalm themselves for weeks and even months with 44 healing oils, 1,040 herbs, 80 natural medicinals, and therapeutic massage and treatments. It’s also a place where dichotomies are around every corner, where dozens of überluxe hotels dot the coast adjacent to hoards of dilapidated fisherman’s lean-tos, and where the chaos so intrinsic to India’s identity melts away into natural remedies, yoga, calm, and well-being.

When we arrived at Somatheeram during the monsoon in mid-July, looking to turn our stress-twinged bodies into temples of Ayurvedic purity and functionality, this duality of India was as crude and bare as I vaguely remembered from my childhood. The monsoon season is supposed to be the best time to receive treatments as bodies become metaphors for nature’s annual purging of rain and wind. These meteorological torrents also create raging seas and storms that uproot trees and tear off thatched roofs. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was by design that the most acute healing happened in the midst of extremes as if it forces you to find peace within it—and within yourself. Perhaps this is what I came here to find out.

Just minutes after our arrival, Melissa and I were ushered into an Ayurvedic consultation with four physicians who would determine our doshas—otherwise known as constitutions. There are three constitutions: vatta, pitta, and kapha. Vatta is associated with air and ether (space) and controls the nervous system and movements both internal and external to the body. Vattas are typically creative and excitable. Pitta is associated with fire and, to a lesser extent, water and controls chemical changes in the body. Pittas are focused, competitive, and passionate. Kapha is associated primarily with water but also with earth and controls growth processes and the body’s immunity. Kaphas are affectionate, slow-paced, and forgiving.

Our consultation took place in a dimly lit brick room, fans blowing line diagrams of herbs, marma points, chakra centers, the Ustrasana yoga pose, and the lymphatic system. Dr. Maduri, a plump 60-year-old woman with a wide smile and red bindi above her gold-rimmed glasses, asked dozens of questions about likes, dislikes, temperament, disposition, eating habits, superficial appearances, and physical and emotional problems. “Do you get angry with people easily?” Dr. Maduri asked. Her eyes did not leave mine, and I answered a shaky, “I don’t think so.”

After a short physical exam, the final step was taking our pulse. According to Ayurveda, there are three energy currents—pulses—that correspond with each dosha. Everyone has all three pulses, but typically one is stronger than the others. So with careful precision, Dr. Maduri placed one, two, then three fingers on my wrist and closed her eyes. She smiled, then opened her eyes and told me I was vatta with a pitta undercurrent. Melissa was the opposite. Kapha was nearly undetectable in both of us. For the following two weeks, our treatments would be aimed at balancing out these three doshas.

Stiff-legged and weary, I was shepherded to one of 35 treatment rooms, a simple square box of clay with a thatched roof. I was unimpressed with the barebones aesthetic until I saw the marbleized teak treatment table and the view. The west-facing wall rolled up to reveal a sweeping panorama of the Arabian Sea. On the opposite side of the room, the 9-foot table bore the patina of 20 years of coconut oil, making the rich, sculpted wood shine like silk. At one end was a drain hole for the used oil, and at the other a bronze vase filled with heated oil dangled by a string for a stress-relieving treatment called Shirodara.

One of my two female therapists, Osha, disrobed me and carefully sat me on a low stool in the middle of the room. She smiled, her large black eyes kind and soft, then touched my head with her fingertips and whispered a prayer in Hindi: “I have the power of God in my hands to heal all illnesses and diseases. I will use this energy to heal you.” Her heartfelt respect for the power of touch and healing sent a chill down my spine.

During my treatment, Osha and my other therapist poured warm coconut oil into their palms and simultaneously massaged my body in impressively complex choreography. During the first phase of the treatment, I sat on the stool; then I lay facedown on a thick mat in the center of the room. From there Osha hung on to a rope dangling from the ceiling and used the bottoms of her tough-skinned feet in long, brushing strokes. This “rejuvenation” massage is frequently used in Ayurveda to clear toxins and to balance the seven chakras—energy centers located from the base of the spine to the crown of the head—and 13 energy channels. If Osha could help me live in my heart instead of my head, the 30 hours of flights would all be worth it.

Finally, slick as a bar of wet soap, I was led to the long wooden table; slowly and methodically they poured warm oil back and forth across my forehead. Called Shirodara, this treatment is known to slow active minds and is particularly applicable to those with a predominance of vatta. Being a writer, my spasmodically dynamic mind is innate in my work, so I welcomed the help. And it worked. I was asleep in a millisecond.

Two days later, proficient in my morning medicinal ritual of Brahmi pills for migraines, a spoonful of brown syrup the consistency of molasses that is used for increased blood oxygenation, and a short glass of black asparagus and aloe vera juice for digestion, I ventured out with Melissa to explore the intricacies of Kerala. Our first stop was to be the Indian Coffee House, then we’d proceeded to the Chalat Bazaar to shop for gifts.

But first we had to get there.

Being driven anywhere in India is like playing slalom with your life. Add to that the fact that you’re in a tin can—called a rickshaw—with an ear-piercing horn and no windows, ripping through people, cows, buses, and trucks, and the likelihood of your survival drastically diminishes. But the term attention deficit disorder doesn’t exist here because, from the ripe age of newborn, Indians practice dodging chaos and finding peace within it. Our driver was clearly more versed in this practice than I, so I released my grip and determined to start believing in fate.

The Indian Coffee House was no stranger to craziness either. Inside the cylindrical five-story building, a steep walkway spiraled to the top floor. Along the perimeter baby blue benches were overcrowded with people, and head-sized cutout windows overlooked the busy streets. We arrived surprisingly unscathed minus dampness from the monsoonal deluge and got our fill of local saag and steaming chai. We watched as businessmen and civil army officers, ladies in sarongs, kids, and couples lunched from the laundry list of hot à la carte curries, chapatis, coffees, teas, and sweet breads served by a wait staff clad in genie outfits. As we ate it seemed the foods, spiced to heat the soul, somehow initiated a wave of calm in the midst of busyness.

Our next stop was the Chalat Bazaar, Trivandrum’s warehouse of authentic Indian goods. Rows of neatly folded blankets, scarves, and pillows in vivid colors were stacked next to explosions of bronze statuettes, still-life paintings, and cases of silver jewelry. Small snakes of incense smoke curled up from sandalwood sticks, wafting the dosha-balancing scent, and, again, the peace of India snuck in. Over and over again, it seemed that no matter how strong the sensory amplification may be, the Indian people knew how to find the harmony between serenity and utter pandemonium. Inevitably, they offered their way up to us.

With only 10 days to recharge our weary minds and bodies, Melissa and I were on a time crunch to see it all between treatment sessions, but we were reluctant to rush for fear of reversing the effects of the Ayurveda. After two days for travel recovery, each morning the four-months-pregnant Melissa would take a walk along the beach, and I would risk my life and run the roads winding through small villages deep in the jungle. During the day we ventured into the melee to eat fresh lobster and visit neighboring hotspots like Kovalam Beach and the spice market in Trivandrum. Everywhere we went we were met with unwavering curious eyes, acts of generosity, and genuine interest in why we came to India.

Each time we left the organized tranquility of Somatheeram and its opulent staff of healers, we were jettisoned into Trivandrum’s throngs of people and their seeming disorganization and chaotic patterns of life. And each time we left the resort’s gates and were faced with this bedlam, I expected to crash into a feeling of desperate indignation and contempt for the Indian way. Instead what I found was the reason why I traveled here. It’s India’s dirty little secret where, in the midst of chaos, the swiftest of acts, elegantly smooth gestures, and subtle commentary of its people can shift your world and your perception of it. I think this is peace, and going to India was the only way I would have found it.

How to Experience Chaos

Travel Logistics

American Airlines has direct flights from Chicago to Delhi (www.aa.com). Air India is less expensive and flies from Chicago through London to Mumbai (Bombay), but you’re not guaranteed common in-flight luxuries such as movies and decent food (www.airindia.com).

From Delhi or Mumbai, you can use either Jet Airways (www.jetairways.com) or Indian Airlines (www.indian-airlines.nic.in) to fly to Trivandrum. From there grab a half-hour taxi for $5 that takes you from the Trivandrum Airport to Somatheeram in Chowara.

Ayurvedic Resorts in India

Somatheeram Ayurvedic Beach Resort and Manaltheeram Ayurveda Beach Village. $850 to $2,418 for a seven-day package, depending on season and level of accommodations. www.somatheeram.com; www.manaltheeram.com

Kairali Ayurvedic Health Resort. $770 to $2,730 for eight- to 15-day packages. www.kairali.com

Ananda in the Himalayas. One-week Rejuvenation Package is $2,985 per person; includes consultations with an Ayurvedic doctor, one-on-one yoga, and all meals. www.anandaspa.com

Adventures

An hour north of Somatheeram, houseboats called kettuvallams take you through a network of nearly 600 miles of fresh and salted backwaters. The hand-carved teak boats are works of art, with bedrooms, living rooms, and kitchens for overnight stays; the boat comes with a cook for an authentic Indian experience. www.houseboatskerala.net

Hiking/Trekking

Two hours inland are the Western Ghats, a small mountain range reaching to almost 9,000 feet that runs parallel to the Arabian Sea. Starting from small hill stations like Munnar, there are miles of hiking and trekking trails that wind through tea and spice plantations that percolate a perfume of cardamom, cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, nutmeg, and vanilla. www.keralahotelsandtours.com

Cycling

Remnants of the British occupation of India (until 1947) remain—the best of which is the bicycle. Along the road from Trivandrum to Chowara are sheds full of old bikes with mustache handlebars and half-filled tires; bikes can be rented for errands or exercise. Or consider touring all of Kerala on a cycling-only vacation. www.cyclingholidayskerala.com

Dance

Kerala is home to the oldest recorded form of martial art, called Kalaripayattu. Using chattom (jumping), ottam (running), and marichil (somersaults) along with weapons such as daggers, swords, and spears, the acrobatic nature of the expression is calculated yet wildly improvisational and athletic. There is also a famous ritualistic dance called Kathakali, for which Kerala is known. Rooted in seventeenth-century Hindu mythology, this creative performance uses highly ornate costumes, headdresses, and face paint to illustrate local literature, music, and dance. During the high season (October through February), nightly shows attract tourists from resorts and Ayurvedic spas and offer an alternative to books for understanding local culture. www.keralatourism.org