Four-handed massages should be a thing. Why is this the first time I’m doing this? This should be a thing.
This is the only thought that enters my mind after the first minutes of lying naked on a wooden table, covered in herb-saturated Ayurvedic oil, feeling the rhythmic, synchronized chest to toe hand sweeps of four diminutive hands. Up down. Up down. Up around shoulders and down. Up down arms up to shoulders and down.
Each takes one arm and compresses the herbal medicine into my skin, finding sore muscles and bones weary from sitting on long airplane flights. Arms up in the air, their thumbs simultaneously find the sore point in the meat of my hands. They carefully dissect the in-betweens, at the base of fingers and palms. Muscles exhale from knots into mush. Fine bones return to their proper alignments. My Kerala massage practitioners look no older than twenty but Kumarakom’s in-house Ayurvedic doctors have taught their staff to mean business. They recommend this treatment for no less than three consecutive days to properly detox the body. Maximum wellness requires a full week of this kind of Ayurvedic application. I wonder if we could extend our stay.
My treatment ends with *Shirodhara*. I’ve been looking forward to this since we booked our trip. Warmed medicated sesame seed oil is poured on your forehead in a continuous stream for up to an hour. A pendulum contraption sways back and forth across my forehead. The doctor tells me this is a treatment to improve mental clarity, creativity, intuition and can heal migraines and other head ailments. The women place covers over my eyes and I feel a warm lush solution undulate from temple to temple. Within seconds, I’m asleep.
The next morning we head to the poolside cabana for morning sunrise yoga, which is not Santa Monica-style vinyasa but more a wake-up call for every cell in our weary bodies. First jumping calisthenics, vigorous hand and foot shaking, some new breathing exercises to wake up our brains (auspicious for our eyes too, we are told) go before sun salutations and a mediation.
“Make your good smiling face,” our teacher Sandil reminds us.
Later that morning, our driver takes us 45 minutes to Allelleppy, a fishing town on the more southerly part of the lake. Our agenda is a houseboat trip but first, our driver tells us, we need a stop. We are coming up on Diwali, the celebratory Christmas-like celebration and our driver recommends I get a sari and my husband find a churta. Plus, it’s Kerala Day, a commemoration of Kerala’s official statehood. It’s also Thursday, which is Ganesh’s day. Or we could celebrate on Monday, Lakshmi’s day. We are learning that in India, every day has a reason to celebrate. We should wear gold. He gives us an indication that, frankly, any dress would be better than our travel-friendly quick-dry Western wear.
We stop at a sari souvenir shop and witness the men weaving silk, looms clattering noisily as we pass into the showroom. It’s likely that our driver will get a little bonus if we buy something. I know the score. At the same time, I see four Indian women purchasing silks for a sari which leads me to think, this can’t be just an expensive souvenir shop but there is probably one price for me and another for the locals.
I choose a package of hot pink and turquoise silk to take home, the colors much too vibrant to be considered chic in my homeworld. My shopgirl tells me I can get a sari made in a day if I like but I have visions of pencil skirts and crop tops made by downtown Los Angeles tailors in the fashion district. Cross fingers my silks won’t land in pile of well-intentioned but never to be worn again travel purchases, like my too small bikinis from Brazil. Hot pink won’t be embarrassing to wear, will it?
Shaylin takes us to our ultimate stop, the launch of our afternoon houseboat journey on Lake Venamabad.
About fifteen years ago, one of the local entrepreneurs realized that their local cargo boats, long wide barges covered in round thatched woven mats would give tourists a new way to experience the backwaters.
“This is our boat?” I ask, incredulous that our afternoon houseboat experience means we have rented a boat with two bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms, a small living room and dining room, a chef and two boatmen to guide us.
“Yes,” Sandeesh, our chef says, “Of course. You can relax how you like.” On the table is a bowl of fruit. He sets down a plate of roasted cashews next to it. “What time would you like lunch?”
The boat launches and he directs us to the front, indicating that’s the best place to start our journey. Harry and I settle into cushions at the bow of the boat directly behind the driver to watch the languorous unfolding of life along the lake. We float past simple homes with goats, men washing laundry in the lake, women hanging laundry, rice paddies, fisherman, bird life and other houseboats. Lots of other houseboats.
In a place where tourism is the main economy, it’s not hard to feel that in the search for authenticity, your presence may generate the experience, not the other way around. This is not true of the houseboats. The families who live on the edge of the backwaters seem to endure the presence of our intrusive eyes. Tourist dollars outweigh the annoyance of living on display. Heads turn when our camera seeks an object to capture but they also get on with the work, the gossip, the next moment of their day.
Harry and I lounge until lunch is served. Kerala’s favorite fish, meen, spiced grilled prawns, curry and breads. More lounging ensues. Harry has brought a book to read but intellectual pursuits are meaningless when there are birds to watch and a sun to worship. When the fried bananas and Kerala masala tea arrive, typically an after-school snack, we stop being polite and submit like lazy kids letting all of our needs and demands be attended to our boat’s staff. We stay like that until the boat floats to our hotel’s dock. We stumble off the water’s edge back into our resort, smiling.
Cecilia Najar 
I’m smiling as I read every word. Beautiful. Keep enjoying. xo
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India Immersion process amplified!
Well done!
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