Sowing spiritual seeds in a Himalayan bliss
IT’S dusk, and a crowd gathers at the Ganges. People clap to the rhythms of hindu music, hands in the air, while others set bamboo cups of marigold flowers drifting down the river. A monk lifts up a bronze lamp, its flame dancing in front of my eyes. he dips his finger in the ash and presses it between my eyebrows. I take the lamp and raise a fiery toast to the river.
This is rishikesh, a spiritual city at the foothills of the himalayas. every evening, residents gather for this Ganga Aarti ceremony to give their thanks to the holy Ganges. The city’s eastern banks are lined with ashrams where visitors live an alcohol-free, sex-free existence in the name of spiritual awakening. It was in these foothills that, 5,000 years ago, a group of rishis (wise old men) gathered.
From their musings came the philosophy Ayurveda. The word is Sanskrit for ‘the knowledge of life’ and boils down to this: take care of your body and mind.
Passing on this knowledge is Ananda, a spa on a ridge above rishikesh, housed in the old Maharaja’s palace. ‘We don’t break from tradition here,’ chuckles Dr Naresh, as I arrive for my consultation at the beginning of my Ayurvedic programme.
Dr Naresh wastes no time on small talk and immediately launches questions about my bowel movements, anxiety, drinking habits and daily routine. Afterwards he announces, ‘You are pitta’.
Pitta is a balance of fire and water. Which means I can be intelligent, perceptive and discriminating. But fiery, spicy foods and alcohol can disturb the equilibrium, making me angry, aggressive or dominating (this isn’t news to me).
I wear my pitta badge with honour, proudly declaring it to the chef when he appears to describe my meal plan.
Meals, it turns out, are a highlight. every herb and spice is chosen for its ability to balance my digestive system.
I sink into a blissful routine of waking at sunrise for hatha yoga, moseying between the spa for treatments, the gardens for meditation or pranayama (breathing) sessions or drinking in the sunlight by the pool, before drifting off to bed by 9pm.
The name Ananda means ‘extreme happiness’. I sleep more soundly than ever, especially the night after my shirodhara treatment; half an hour of thick, warm oil being drizzled across my forehead.
Why come to Ananda? ‘Think of a farmer,’ I am told. ‘First, he cultivates the soil. he makes sure the seed is ready to grow. Only then does he plant it. And as it grows, he takes care of it.’
Ananda won’t fix you in a week. But it will sow the seed.