Two weeks at Kalari Rasayana ended with homework: six pages of yoga from my teacher and eight pages of advice from my doctor. In the final part of her Kerala Diaries, Robyn Foyster tries to live by them, practising Ayurveda at home in Sydney.
Part three: What I brought home
Two days before I left Kalari Rasayana, Dr Belraj handed me my homework.
Eight pages of brown paper, my full name across the top in blue ink, his signature at the bottom. My yoga teacher, Kishore Kumar, gave me six more.
I expected a diet sheet and a few stretches. What I got was a way of living, and a question I’ve been answering every day since I got home: how much of Ayurveda survives Sydney?
My diagnosis, on paper
In the margin of page one, Dr Belraj summed me up, after reading my pulse and watching my mannerisms and the way I deal with things. Prakruti, the constitution I was born with: Kapha-Pitta. Vikruti, the imbalance I’d arrived with: Kapha. No arguments from me. Big eyes, big build: I’m definitely Kapha. When I read up on what a Kapha person is like, it was just like me.
In Ayurveda, Kapha is earth and water. In balance, it’s steady and strong. Out of balance, it’s heavy and sluggish, and the cure is on the plate. Dr Belraj numbered the six tastes in the order I should favour them. Bitter, astringent and pungent make up three-quarters of my food; sweet, sour and salty share the last quarter.
In practice, that means far more greens, lentils, ginger and turmeric, and far less bread, rice, cheese and sugar. Chocolate appears under treats, in the wrong column.
The rules nobody tells you
The page I keep rereading is headed Incompatible Foods. Ayurveda holds that some foods, eaten together, upset digestion. Dr Belraj’s margin note boiled it down: mainly, don’t mix sweet and sour.
Brunch will never look the same. Eggs don’t go with meat, so no bacon and eggs. Yoghurt doesn’t go with mango, so no mango lassi. No cheese omelettes, no fish with raita, and never milk with fish, prawns or lemon. Honey must never be heated, so no honey stirred into hot tea.
A day of Ayurveda at home
The daily routine, or dinacharya, reads like advice from a wise grandmother. Rise an hour or so before the sun. Exercise until a light sweat appears on your forehead, and no further. Warm water on the body, cool water on the head.
Eat your main meal at midday, when the digestive fire is strongest, and a light dinner by 7 or 8pm. The good news is naps are good, in summer at least; in winter, Dr Belraj wrote, “naps feed Kapha”.
How you eat matters as much as what. Sit down, serve yourself and switch off the TV. Fill half your stomach with food and a quarter with liquid, and leave the rest empty. Chew properly, because, as my good doctor puts it, the stomach has no teeth. And if you’re angry or low, breathe out the stress before you eat.
There’s even a list of 13 natural urges you should never hold back, from yawning and sneezing to tears. I’ve suppressed most of them in a boardroom at some point.
My favourite instruction comes last. Before sleep, replay your whole day, morning to night, and assess how it was spent. After more than four decades of counting deadlines, recounting the day itself was not always such a good idea.
The yoga I brought home
I never made the 6am class. Instead, Kishore taught me one on one, later in the morning. He was once a tech engineer, and you can tell how much he loves teaching yoga. I found his classes inspirational, and he believes more of us should practise gentler yoga. I’m with him. His six pages show what he means: 32 movements and breaths, each with a line drawing, a breathing pattern and a set number of repetitions. None of it is about flexibility. Every movement is small, slow and tied to the breath.
The breathing is where the real work happens. Kapalbhati is a run of short, sharp exhales through the nose; the 15th-century Hatha Yoga Pradipika credits it with clearing Kapha, which makes it practically my prescription. Alternate nostril breathing is slow and calming. Bhramari, the humming bee breath, is the one Kishore had me perfect: ears closed with your fingers, humming on the out-breath. It feels faintly ridiculous until the vibration fills your head and there’s no room left to worry. It definitely calmed my vagus nerve. And still does.
Then there’s trataka, which travels best of all. Place a candle at eye level, an arm’s length away, and hold your gaze on the flame until your eyes water. Close them and watch its glow in the dark. The handout says to do it just before bed.
To start at home, 15 minutes is enough: shoulder and neck rotations, cat stretch, palm tree and waist twists, then the three breaths. Kapalbhati isn’t for everyone, so skip it if you’re pregnant or have high blood pressure, a heart condition or recent abdominal surgery, and check with your doctor if in doubt.
Ayurveda at home: what survived Sydney
More than I expected. I left Kalari Rasayana just over 4kg lighter, and the weight has stayed off since I got home. The bigger change is how I eat.
I’m more mindful about food now. I’m eating a more vegan diet, and I stop before I’m full, just as Dr Belraj had told me to. Kishore’s yoga has found its way into my life: it was easy to do, so it quickly became a routine. I practise at home and out on my walks, never in a gym. I think about my time there often, and it helps.
Not everything has survived. I wasn’t nicknamed Coffee Bean at uni for nothing, so yes, I’m back on coffee, though less of it. I drink far more herbal tea than I used to, though. I also add ginger to hot water. But drinking hot water all the time didn’t last: I found that one tough. But I’ve given up gassy water, which always left my tummy unsettled. More than ever, I desperately want to hang on to the rest, because it has made me feel so good.
Now I’m so much more knowledgeable about Ayurveda’s philosophy, I really believe it’s the best way to live, especially if you are keen to enjoy a healthy and happy long life. It has made me curious about ancient rituals, and about what modern medicine might gain from taking a deeper look at them. At Kalari Rasayana, culture and tradition go hand in hand. There’s something soothing about that, and something bonding.
And I’m carrying on one Kalari Rasayana tradition: I still wear my white cotton uniform. I wore it for yoga in the Maldives and Sri Lanka, and I wear it at home during the day. It’s one less decision to make.
Life has too much choice. It’s bamboozling. I’ve decided simple is good, particularly for someone like me, so I’m untangling myself from everything that makes life feel complex or overwhelming. I say yes to far too much, so I’m practising no. No, I’m too busy. No, I’m already doing something that day. And instead of another Zoom: fancy a walk-and-talk meeting?
Kalari Rasayana asked me to leave my world behind for two weeks. Fourteen pages of brown paper are how I’ve brought a little of its world back into mine. As if by magic, I can think about my time there, and it has a calming effect.
Read the series: Part one: Leaving My World Behind at an Ayurvedic Hospital · Part two: My Window Into a World of Calm at an Ayurvedic Hospital
More Information About Kalari Rasayana
Address: Kalari Rasayana Ayurveda Hospital, South Paravur, Kollam 691301, Kerala, India
Tel: +91 94464 65111
Reservations: minimum stay 14 nights
Email: admissions@cghearthayurveda.com
Website: cghearthayurveda.com
Robyn Foyster stayed at Kalari Rasayana as a guest of CGH Earth. Women Love Travel retains full editorial independence. Images: Robyn Foyster
This story describes traditional Ayurvedic guidance, not medical advice. Talk to your GP before making big changes to your diet or exercise.
