If anyone had told me I would be in absolute bliss, lying naked except for a bikini version of a sumo wrestler’s undies, on a hard wooden table having buttermilk dripped onto my third eye for 45 minutes, well, I’d have thought you’d lost your mind. But that’s exactly where I am on day four of my Ayurvedic Yoga retreat in Kochi, South India.

Now, I may not have done my research very thoroughly as I was thinking of a retreat more yoga and less woo woo, but it turns out to be a happy balance. There are literally hundreds of Ayurvedic retreat centres in the state of Kerala alone. This ancient Indian style of medicine dates back over 3,000 years, and is based on the concept of dosha balance, that is maintaining harmony among the three fundamental energies: Vata (air and space), Pitta (fire and water), and Kapha (earth and water). So when in balance we experiences good health, while imbalances, not surprisingly, can lead to physical and/or mental ailments, requiring dietary, lifestyle, and herbal interventions to restore equilibrium. This isn’t to the exclusion of modern medicine and techniques when required. So not so woo woo, just the rest of the world takes a while to catch on. So what happens?

Each day starts at 7:00am, unless of course you are not me, and go for a 6:00am walk. A therapist arrives at my room with a laden tray and carries out a cleansing ritual. She says a prayer, takes my temperature and BP, then I lie down and she gently washes my eyes, places dabs of oil on my nostrils and gives them a good massage while instructing me to breathe, then a brief face massage before she hands me a glass of indeterminate liquid and sends me to the ensuite to gargle. I then drink a foul smelling ‘medicine’ and head off to yoga. 

There are three yoga sessions a day. Not a morning person, but suitably cleansed, I haul myself to 7:30 class. Maya, our trans yoga instructor, has the loudest masculine voice, so instructions sound like orders.  I baulk when she says “breathe in the fresh air from the Arabian Sea”: I have walked down to the nearby Mahatma Ghandi beach, and I’m sure the piles of trash and pollution are not what he sat down for. After a short breathing exercise we move on to multiple Suryanamaskara (sun salutes) followed by serious strength poses held for long periods. Even this early it’s hot and humid, so it’s hard work. The second session later in the morning is all breathing work, and the afternoon session is meditation – which I suck at. It’s as if as soon as I try and quiet my mind, a flash mob invades and starts dancing around, vying for attention.

Every day brings a new, and often unimaginable, delight. Six days and two treatments a day: one hour in the morning and a half hour in the afternoon, interspersed with three yoga sessions, meals, and plenty of relaxation. It’s 30+ degrees C every day, and humid, so not much activity outdoors. There’s a pool, with water almost too warm in this heat, and as untreated water here is not safe to imbibe, each time I swim I try to avoid galloping diarrhoea by not letting any water into my mouth.  My backstroke is improving. 

My first treatment is a full massage and steam.  We start with the ubiquitous karakia which is in Hindi, so I only get to join in at the end with the singsong om shanti, shanti, shanti, and the taking of blood pressure. This happens before every treatment. The table is wooden, so not the most comfortable, and I’m lying naked but for the sumo nappy.  Two therapists, one either side, drizzle me with warm herbal infused sesame oil and begin synchronised sweeping strokes from feet, up to and across my abdomen and boobs, and down my arms. Any modesty disappears with my dignity. Once I am at peace with that, it is very relaxing, but I can’t help but feel I’m being basted ready for a spit roast. By the time they finish the table is awash with oil and I am fully prepared to engage in Turkey’s national sport of oil wrestling. But with no Turk for thousands of miles I move to the next room, where I make the acquaintance of a piece of furniture which is either an antique writing desk or a medieval torture device. It is, in fact, a small steam room.  So I sit with my head poking out the top being gently steamed – a pork dumpling ready for yum cha. Fortunately that is the only steaming of the week, as in the heat my blood pressure already rivals a SpaceX rocket’s average altitude before exploding. 

One day I think I have wandered into an S & M parlour by mistake.  In the treatment room there’s a frying pan heating four large parcels. These turn out to be poultices containing “specific rice cooked in a suitable milk decoction (sic)” Today’s treatment, Choorna pinda swedam full body, starts as usual, but after the oil slick, the massage moves into high gear. I’m slapped with the warm poultices on the way up the body, and then there’s smooth strokes on the way down that exfoliate and massage at the same time. Again my synchronised therapists are in perfect harmony, switching to a new, warm, set of poultices for each swoop. 

This is possibly the only time being beaten up feels relaxing. After, my skin is amazingly soft. Marie Antoinette was ahead of her time with the milk bath, but if she’d traded it for Takradhara, perhaps she wouldn’t have been such a bitch to the peasants. 

Takradhara, the buttermilk on the forehead job, is my favourite treatment. Despite making you smell like you’ve just come in from the milking shed, I can’t begin to convey how fabulous this treatment is. After a time your brain just liquifies and it’s like you move to another level of consciousness.

It should be mandatory for dictators and despots. Picture Putin lying there, shirtless (because, of course) as a steady stream of cool buttermilk flows onto his forehead. At first, he resists “I wrestle bears for stress relief.”  But the treatment cools his brain, and at the end of the session he reconsiders his life choices. The world watches in shock as he trades invasion for meditation. 

If you’re wondering about the food, don’t. The Ayurvedic doctor sets you menu to balance your doshas. As a Vata with Pitta (not the bread) she is obviously trying to tone down my hotness, so generally my food is on the bland side. At the end of six days I feel pretty good, even though the treatments took my therapists dangerously close to areas usually only visited by my gynaecologist and gastroenterologist.