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A hallowed practice for the trendy tourist
By Shashi Tharoor
April 01, 2005

As lunch arrived I looked covetously at the steaming dishes placed before my sons. "I'd like some of what they're having," I said.

The waiter grinned a bit sheepishly. "Sorry, sir," he said. "The doctor has prescribed a different lunch for you."

"You mean my lunch requires a prescription?" I exclaimed. The waiter nodded, unabashed. Welcome, his smile seemed to say, to the world of ayurvedic tourism.

It's a world centered around the Indian state of Kerala, a lushly verdant sliver of land along the subcontinent's southwest coast. Kerala has long attracted tourists to its abundant natural beauty, its lagoons, its beaches and, above all, the startling, many-hued green of the countryside, with emerald paddy fields, banana groves, and coconut and areca trees swaying in the gentle breeze that whispers in from the sea. The state's marketing slogan is "God's Own Country." (This has led to a raft of Internet jokes suggesting that Kerala's the cheapest place to call Heaven from, since it's a local call.)

Kerala might well claim divine authorship for the riot of color on which it floats: the voluptuous green of the lush foliage, the rich red of the fecund earth, the brilliant blue of the life-giving waters, the shimmering gold of the beaches and riverbanks. But these days even a glimpse of paradise is not enough to lure jaded international tourists.

So Kerala has turned to the past to improve its present. It has resurrected the ancient life-science of ayurveda, which uses herbs and oils concocted millennia ago to promote health and longevity. The state is now dotted with about as many ayurvedic clinics as mango trees. No Kerala hotel worth its name fails to offer, at a minimum, an ayurvedic massage, with more esoteric treatments - a half-hour drip of oils onto your forehead, medicated oil infusions into your nostrils - available at most places.

Purists sneer at what they consider the rampant commercialization of a hallowed practice. "Ayurveda is a holistic science," one expert explained to me. "The oils, the herbs, the foods are all part of the treatment. It's not something you can dispense with a pill or an oil-rub in an airconditioned spa."

Maybe not, but I decided to find out for myself. This winter, with my family, I embarked on a two-week Kerala vacation that saw me trying out ayurvedic treatments at half a dozen different resorts, many run by the ecologically savvy CGH Earth group, which offers its guests tours of the compost-processing biogas plants at its hotels.

Some resorts definitely traded authenticity for a more cosmopolitan allure: You could sip a Singapore sling at the poolside before going in for a massage, blissfully unaware that alcohol is prohibited in ayurveda. But the majority have clung on to ayurveda's origins as Kerala's indigenous medical system, insisting on an on-site interview with a registered ayurvedic practitioner before arranging the appropriate treatments. And only one, the newly restored Kalari Kovilakom in Kollengode, went the whole way, offering its guests all ayurveda, all the time.

No sooner had I checked in than I was interviewed by the resident doctor, Dr. Sreelatha. Her searching questions about my medical history sought to establish which of the three basic ayurvedic "humors" my body ran to - vaata (air), pitta (bile) or kapha (phlegm). Then she determined the types of treatment I'd undergo and the precise combination of oils that would be mixed for my massages. Dr. Sreelatha prescribed the last thing I'd drink at night and the hot water, lemon and honey with which I'd be roused at 6 a.m. And, as I found out at my first lunch, she decided what I was allowed to eat.

"Ayurveda is not like Western medicine, which treats an individual symptom," she explained. "Your entire lifestyle has to be treated."

Under her care, and with wholesome organic vegetarian fare, I began to glow - and even to lose weight. But we were on holiday, and five days after checking in, it was time for me to move on to the beach.

She wouldn't accept my thanks. "You should have stayed at least a month," she said disapprovingly. "Five days of ayurveda isn't enough."

"I'll be back," I promised.

That, of course, is the point of ayurvedic tourism. Don't just get people to come in and breeze out: Get them to stay, and to return. In Dr. Sreelatha's words, treat their lifestyle. Even if it means denying them what they want for lunch.