Once our intestines have returned to a civilized state, we break ranks and sneak up to Katya’s balcony, giggling like schoolgirls. “We are degenerate,” says Katya. “I feel like I’m five years old,” Nisrin says, rolling her eyes. “I’m a rebellious teenager. Plant that. I’m not going to yoga tomorrow!”
Observing the ups and downs of emotions without distraction becomes the main form of entertainment. Almost everyone cries or throws a tantrum at some point. An in-house psychotherapist may be a valuable addition.
Even the treatments are confrontational. I was given a langoti (a hybrid of a loincloth and a G-string), which I put on and came out from behind the curtain. Her chest is bare and she is hyper-aware of her soft layers. My team of therapists, Devi, Reshma and Sruthi, recite prayers while I sit in the chair. Devi applied an herbal paste that smelled like insect repellent to my forehead to soothe my sinus infection, and I climbed onto the wooden Ayurvedic massage table known as a droni. Massage-like pijichiru, a seductive pleasure at a spa, here becomes an unpleasant gymnastics. Slip into one of his five positions: sitting, back, front, and side while every inch of your skin is coated with oil. Breasts, buttocks, nostrils, ears, eyelids, almost everything is off limits.
