Once our bowels return to a civilized state, we break rank and sneak up to Katia’s balcony, giggling like schoolgirls. “We’re regressing,” says Katia. “I feel about five years old.” Nisrine rolls her eyes: “I’m at the rebellious teenage stage. Sod it; I’m not going to yoga tomorrow!”
Without distractions, watching emotions rise and fall becomes the main form of entertainment. Nearly everyone cries or has a tantrum at some point. An in-house psychotherapist might be a valuable addition.
Even the treatments are confrontational. I’m handed a langoti (a loin cloth-G-string hybrid) to put on and emerge from behind the curtain, bare-breasted, hyper-conscious of my softer layers. My team of therapists, Devi, Reshma and Sruthi, chant prayers while I sit on a stool. Devi spreads herbal paste reeking of mothballs over my forehead to relieve my sinuses, and I clamber onto the wooden Ayurvedic massage table, known as a droni. A massage-like pizhichil, which is a mesmerizing delight at spas, becomes uncomfortable gymnastics here. You slither into one of five positions—sitting up, lying on your back, your front,and each side—while every inch of skin is slathered in oil. Breasts, buttocks, nostrils, ears, eyelids: almost nothing is off limits.
