Laying
there slick as an olive, I lost moments. Deep somewhere else as the warm oil
dripped pools to and fro on my forehead. Dreaming and living my dream of
ayurvedic therapy in a simple clinic that supports an orphanage. I have longed
for this: careful, methodical hands that push up and down my body reconnecting
my circuitry; a head rub; having my feet washed, oiled, massaged and dried; a
steam; pranayam (breathwork) with a handsome, young yogi.
I
was whisked here after a rudely early New Delhi arrival and a nap. I had asked
my accommodating host and longtime family friend Prabhash for a clinic
recommendation. The wife of his close childhood friend knew just the place and
escorted me, initially translating between me and the doctor. Her presence was
reassuring. Heading home, she was surprised this was my first visit to India.
“And you’re here?” she asked. Where else, I thought. She told me I
looked transformed and said not everyone is prescribed the head-oil treatment.
I
was more aware the next day, dropped by Prabhash and navigating on my own.
After a check-in with the physician, I follow Sandrit for a different version
of yesterday. I undress and slip on a pair of black disposable panties, very
much like the ones offered in the Turkish bath. I sit in the toweled chair,
receive a recharging head rub with oil and wait as she prepares the warm water,
pouring in salts and molasses-like oil. She places my feet in, notices I flinch
slightly, then fetches a cup of colder water. Much better as she traces every
muscle in my feet and shins, unleashing the trapped energy.
I
am led to the table in the cubby with wide-plank, foot-polished wood floors,
where she works every inch between toes and neck, front and back, before plugging
my eyes and ears with cotton, gingerly strapping on some sort of facial mask. I
hear the oil popping from behind and thirst for its touch, to be transported
again. I am. When I return, I think I smell lunch cooking, then realize it’s
me. I am bathed in so many wonderful oils that smell of tea, sesame and wild
rice. I want to lick my skin but refrain. I am not using my eyes to experience,
but my ears, nose and touch. I understand that Western medicine separately
treats what it can see in an x-ray, on a CAT scan or MRI. Ayurvedic is based on
touch: feeling one’s pulse to determine where circulation is not reaching, then
treating topically and externally with natural and ancient remedies.
Today,
Sandrit says “no shower,” and motions for me to dress. Our words are few, but
our bodies and hearts know one another. She treats my hair with powder and a
cap to prevent a cold, then releases me to pay ($35 US) for the day and a yoga
session with Krishnan, who engages in pranayam, breathwork. I’ve done
breathwork with other practitioners over the years, but Krishnan coaxes out my
real voice, teaching it to reverberate and heal with closed lips. It’s a
valuable lesson. I am released, ask about visiting the orphanage, call Prabhash
for a pickup and slid away, content.
…
My third visit is even more transformative as I lay on the
table lapping the oil dripping over my third eye and answer the deep call of
Spirit to come closer, to move inside, shedding the dark parts I conceal from
her. Today, I am attended by Sandrit
and a younger woman, working me in tandem. I can barely sit up I am so completely
elsewhere. I rouse, dress and return to Krishnan for more pranayam. He wonders
if I am OK. I am. VERY OK.
No comments:
Post a Comment