A Day at an Ayurvedic Hospital in Kerala: Kalari Rasayana

At Kalari Rasayana, every hour is prescribed, from five mornings of ghee at 8am to the silence at dinner. In part two of her Kerala Diaries, Robyn Foyster (seen above) settles into the rhythm of an Ayurvedic hospital in India.

Part two: Kalari Rasayana

Dinner at Kalari Rasayana is served at 6.30pm, and it is eaten in total silence.

Every evening, as I sat down, a train chugged past on the far side of the lake, carrying commuters home. I watched it from a long distance and wondered how many people were on board after a long, busy day, and were they packed in like sardines? By contrast, I had the lake, the palms and all the space in the world.

On my side of the water, nobody was going anywhere.

There’s no chatter in the dining room. The house rules ask for silence, and the team politely remind you if you start to talk, so that every sense can go to mealtime and being in the moment. This is conscious eating. No phone, no conversation, nothing to do but notice: a brown and white Brahminy kite flying past, the train far away, and the plate in front of me, brimming with goodness. One night it was barley and vegetable soup, dhal, steamed pumpkin and ragi roti, a flatbread made from finger millet. Delicious.

It’s about as far from my working life in Sydney as it’s possible to get.

Two patients in white cotton walk a palm-lined path beside Lake Paravur at Kalari Rasayana, the palms reflected in a still canal in the foreground — Patients in white walk the lakeside path, on the shores of Lake Paravur

Woken by prayer

Mornings begin with enchanting sounds from across the water. Most days I woke to prayers drifting across the grounds, a hypnotic sound that set the tone for everything that followed.

Prayers are sung a lot here. Yoga classes begin and end with Sanskrit verses from the Upanishads, and I sang them with my yoga teacher, Kishore Kumar. I didn’t always get the words right, but I tried to stay in harmony with him, and singing like that was joyful. Not knowing the language didn’t matter. The closing prayer asks to be led from the unreal to the real, from darkness to light, from death to immortality. Then it ends: Om shanti shanti shanti. Peace, peace, peace.

Before the massage therapies begin each morning, the therapists, men and women, stand together in a line. Blessings are given and prayers are sung, ending with Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu: may all beings everywhere be happy. Only then does the day’s work, building back people’s health the Ayurvedic way, begin.

Life on brown paper

Everything else is written down for you. Each day comes with a printed plan on brown paper, my photo in the corner and my room number under my name. It tells you when to eat, what to drink and which treatment comes next.

Some mornings, breakfast was papaya or guava with a cup of Pitha tea. For five mornings running, it was two words: “No breakfast.” Instead, I drank a small dose of warm medicated ghee. The treatment is called snehapanam: sneha means oily, panam means drinking. It’s fine while the dose is small, but the amount increases each day. By day five, I’d reached saturation point and came off it. Nobody goes past seven days. Some patients stop at three or four or less, and some are not prescribed ghee at all.

It all starts on day one, with a questionnaire of 46 traits, from your teeth and your walk to what you dream about. Dream of waterfalls, lakes and swans and you’re likely Kapha, the steady, earthy dosha. Dream of fire and fights and you lean Pitta. My favourite answer, under eyes: “big attractive like filled with milk”. That described my dosha, Kapha.

Dr Belraj saw me twice a day and adjusted my plan. There’s no negotiating. You can’t ask the kitchen for something different, because the doctor prescribes your meals. Coffee, tea, alcohol and meat are banned outright. And you don’t leave until you’re discharged.

In their hands

My two therapists were Archana and Saranya. Archana, 29, has worked here for ten years, since she was 19. Saranya, 25, has been here for two.

Many treatments take two therapists working in sync, one on each side of you. On some days, I even had three therapists performing the specific treatments. In Kalari Uzhichil, kalari means martial arts, as in Kalari Rasayana. The strokes followed the marmas, the body’s vital points, down my spine from neck to base, before I was sent into the steam: a wooden box like a cupboard, with only my head sticking out. There’s something lovely about this old-school way of doing things. Dr Belraj even took my blood pressure with an old-fashioned cuff.

In Shirodhara, warm oil was poured in a slow, steady stream across my forehead. It was very relaxing but quite intense: all my concentration narrowed to the spot where the oil met my head. It’s what everyone thinks Ayurveda is, but it’s so much more. In Njavarakizhi, warm bundles of rice cooked in milk and herbs were pressed over my body. It felt warm on my skin but was meant to cool me from within.

Purgation day at an Ayurvedic hospital

The first ten days build towards one: Thursday 24 September, virechana, the supervised purgation I promised you last week. All the ghee, oil and steam had been preparing me for it.

I’ll admit I was a little anxious. I asked a friend who had been through it what it was like. Not as bad as you think, she told me.

The day plan was the shortest yet. No breakfast, and plain hot water instead of the herbal kind. At 8.20am I went to the consultation room, where Dr Belraj handed me the purgation medicine to drink on the spot, then sent me for a 20-minute walk around the garden.

The rules that followed were precise. No water for the first hour, then a glass of hot water every 30 minutes. Note the time of every trip to the bathroom, and drink a cup of water after each one. Stay in and around your room, and don’t fall asleep until it’s over. The Ayurvedic hospital’s notes say the effects can begin within two to three hours, and that some people feel nauseous or crampy along the way.

I followed his instructions to the letter. So much of the programme hinges on this day, and it’s when you lose the most weight. My friend was right, though: it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, and it’s only a half day. I did get cramps, and Dr Belraj gave me a hot water bottle. I stayed hydrated throughout.

By afternoon, Dr Belraj came to my room to check on me. Food returns slowly: rice soup and gruel first, served in your room at a time the doctor sets, so the gut can settle. After that, the food gets better. I was pleased to be done with the ghee, and I liked knowing the whole process was helping my body clear out toxins.

The small rituals of an Ayurvedic hospital

The afternoons have their own rhythm. A juice or tender coconut water at 4.10pm. Yoga at 5pm. And at 5.30pm, fish feeding, which, I’m delighted to report, is listed on the yoga timetable.

Some evenings, there were live musical performances from local artists. One night we gathered on the pool deck and, as we ate our meal, watched Sopaana Sangeetham, the devotional music of Kerala’s temples, named for the sacred steps leading to a temple’s inner sanctum and carried by drumming. Another night, in the Yoga Lounge, a woman played the veena, a long-necked lute that looks a little like a guitar, through five devotional pieces for Ganesha, Krishna and Rama. I loved it. Both nights were wonderfully atmospheric.

The other side of the lake

By my last morning, I had bonded with Archana and Saranya. They knew how much I loved the facial, so Dr Belraj was happy for them to indulge me with a little more of it. Then we all hugged, and I told them I’d be back.

The staff gathered for a group photo, which I found so touching. I was sad to say goodbye to my fellow guests, too. We’re all on a WhatsApp group now, and it’s very supportive.

Before I left, I wrote in Kalari Rasayana’s log book. Leafing through it, I was mesmerised by reading about everyone else’s experiences, all as rich as mine.

Claudia, from Switzerland, wrote that she was able “to really leave the world behind for a while”, and called the Ayurvedic hospital “a logistical masterpiece: harmonious, well-organised and entirely free of stress or rush”. She would, she added, “have loved to take the chef home”.

Eva and Richard, from Czechia, admitted the first few days were hard, switching from their “hurry and stressful life to the proper Ayurveda spirit”. An Italian couple, back for a second stay, found “a rare space where body, mind and soul breathe together”. Rajeswari declared the food “delicious, even without chillies!” – high praise, she noted, from a Telugu – and said the whole place “runs like a beautifully conducted orchestra”. Another guest summed it up in four words: “An oasis of healing.”

One guest had even written a poem. It opens with my train:

A train chugs past on a bridge far away
A fisherman throws his nets for another day

It ends: “Kalari Rasayana, you now have a piece of my soul.”

Back in Sydney, I’m on the other side of the lake again, one of the commuters. But I still wear my white cotton uniform every now and then when I’m home, and I know now what the view looks like from the quiet side of the water.

Next week: what I brought home: Kishore’s six pages of yoga, Dr Belraj’s eight pages of advice to take home, and which ones have survived Sydney.

Read part one: The Kerala Diaries: Leaving My World Behind At An Ayurvedic Hospital