India is widely acknowledged as a country of contradictions, something I recently experienced first hand. On a doctor-ordered, no-milk diet, I found myself awash in dairy one steamy afternoon, as two giggling young women resplendent in saris poured rose-tinted milk over my near naked body.

The paradox struck again when I was pummeled with hot poultices and submitted to an oil enema while in pursuit of peace of mind, body and spirit.

Welcome to hardcore ayurveda. Not satisfied with an anti-aging day treatment at a Beverly Hills spa, I journeyed from California to Kerala, birthplace of one of the world’s oldest medical systems, to immerse myself in the real deal for a month. To fully reap the benefits of ayurveda takes time—not all of it enjoyable—with detox effects that can range from fatigue to irritability. Even so, increasing numbers of health tourists, frustrated by Western medicine’s failure to ease chronic ailments and pain, are flocking east for the wisdom of this 3,500-year-old tradition.

My travel companions—my friend Kamala, her husband Joel and her Indian-born mom—had previously sojourned to this healing mecca. On past visits Kamala’s debilitating migraines had vanished, and her mom had completely recovered from a kidney disorder that had baffled Western doctors. This time I was the ayurvedic rookie, willing to try anything to relieve painful sinuses, LA-style brain smog and excruciating pain in my fingers, a hazard of the writing profession. To hear my friends talk of ayurveda’s rejuvenating powers, I’d return with the lungs of an Olympian! The calm of Buddha! The hands of a five-year-old piano prodigy! My brown eyes might even turn brilliant blue.

We arrived in the town of Varkala in early January, peak season, with a range of complaints from cramps to cataracts. Most tourists stay in the varying-priced resorts that dot the cliffs of the Arabian Sea; however, we’d booked a spacious apartment with two bedrooms, two western-style bathrooms, kitchen and balcony overlooking papaya and coconut trees for $600 a month (www.savasanahome.com).

The next morning we hit the North Cliff beach to meet several practitioners. At Absolute Ayurveda we consulted with Dr. Soumya Sagar, an attractive woman with a serious demeanor who communicated in a mix of English and Malayalam, the native language of Kerala, translation courtesy of Kamala’s mom. Dr. Soumya explained that she and her husband Dr. Sreejith ran another, less glamorous but much more affordable clinic on the other side of Varkala, only a motorized rickshaw—the Indian taxi—drive away. We were sold.

Dr. Soumya took my pulse and had me stick out my tongue, noting ridges along the edges, evidence of not absorbing nutrients.“Are you often hungry?” she asked.

I’m always hungry.

“Hunger is a sign of bad health,” she chided. When she inquired as to my typical breakfast, I proudly reported it was Greek yogurt with pineapple and berries. Doctor Soumya looked grave as she told me that dairy eaten with fruit causes fermentation and can lead to autoimmune conditions, such as my arthritic fingers. Her diagnosis: digestive disaster.

Anyone who knows a bit about ayurveda is aware there are three governing elements, or doshas—vata, pitta and kapha, in greater or lesser proportions depending on your pulse and body type. I was diagnosed as vata—lean, dry skin and hair, cold hands and feet, with classic vata ailments of anxiety and arthritis.

Find your Ayurvedic body type

The doctor prescribed panchakarma, a therapy of diet and therapeutic massage, for all three of us, and for me, healing modalities—although they seemed more like healing attacks—on both ends: nasal treatments and enemas.

But first, she placed me on a strict detox diet: no dairy, coffee, alcohol, meat, sugar, beans, eggs, potatoes or spices, and no yoga, swimming or sun. Aside from black grapes and sweet oranges “for energy” and plain grilled fish, I was to dine solely on dosa (not to be confused with dosha), idly and idappum, all variations of water and rice flour. Murderously boring—especially whensurrounded by so many exotic cooking smells—but easy to digest.

Each morning diminutive women rubbed me with oil from pots that looked designed to contain genies, and peppered me with questions: How old was I? Married? Why did I wear only one anklet (two are customary), and how many rupees did it cost? Afterward they sent me to a rudimentary bathroom—not that I cared about black ants after having found a hairy spider the size of my hand in our apartment—and gave me a bucket of warm water to rinse myself, a far cry from the de rigueur scrubbing by attendants at upscale resorts.

But upscale therapists don’t make house calls. Our doctors stopped by regularly with medicated ghee and herbs to treat Kamala’s mom’s nascent cataract. And when they sought modern technology to rule out skeletal issues in Kamala’s back, the doctors themselves drove her to a hospital for an X-ray. The cost? Two hundred rupees, about $4.

By week’s end I still craved caffeine, but I’d stopped fantasizing about retaliatory tortures for Dr. Soumya after her seven nasyam treatments of sesame oil nose drops made my head-splitting sinus pressure utterly disappear. The doctor also took me off prescription Adderall, admonishing that I think too much and should try meditating, and gave me packets of capsules bearing the decidedly un-ayurvedic name Stress.com. Online I looked up the main ingredient, ashwagandha, and learned it is a plant in the tomato family believed to improve memory, reduce depression, stabilize blood sugar, enhance sexual potency and boost the immune system with “the vigor of a stallion”—perhaps the reason its name in Sanskrit means “smell of a horse.”

Ayurvedic Oil Pulling removes toxins

After reading this I felt healthier and allowed myself a coffee. Well, two. The next day Dr. Soumya glanced at my wan complexion, then shook her head. “Why seek treatment you don’t follow?” Did she have spies on the beach? Yet she was right. My digestive system was now so clean that when I dumped in something harmful, say, a café latte, immediately my finger stiffness returned.

My final treatment was sirodhara, rhythmic dripping of oil on the forehead, rumored to cause hallucinations. Later, wading in the Arabian Sea, I saw a man with his tiny daughter discover a mama dog nestled in the cliffs, the little girl laughing as its puppies pulled her dress. I couldn’t stop crying but it was tears of joy at the wonder of life. I watched a white heron above the cliffs and believed I was soaring. I could breathe clearly and fold the tips of my fingers to touch my palms for the first time in ages.  My brown eyes still hadn’t turned blue, but surrounded by beautiful brown eyes, I didn’t care.

Ayurveda is not about self-denial but self-worth. During our farewell meal, Doctor Soumya prescribed a return to a normal, albeit healthy diet, adding that if I really ached for ice cream, it would be okay once in a blue moon. Otherwise, she explained, the stress from avoidance could release cortisol and toxins. Indeed, at dinner, Dr. Sreejith, ostensibly a vegetarian, ordered chicken.

That evening as I walked home, I turned the corner to see the silhouette of a gigantic mound. I gasped—a huge elephant munched foliage mere yards away. Beneath a street light in a narrow alley I watched this peaceful creature. Instead of the gentle chanting of om that I’d anticipated before arriving in India, the night air was throbbing with music at dance-club decibels blasting from nearby temple loud speakers. While previously I might have felt annoyed, now I felt transformed—healed—and celebrated yet another maddening contradiction of this intoxicating land.

Photos courtesy Kamala Lopez

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