White Pajamas

I had been feeling called to go for a few months, yet every time I reached out to the hospital, they had no availability. Every few days, I sent them an email asking if anyone had canceled and, if a spot opened up, could they let me know? They kindly acknowledged my email each time and went on to remind me that people pay deposits months, even years in advance, and rarely cancel their bookings. Nevertheless, being used to successful negotiations in business and getting what I want, I continued to believe that somehow this would happen. And soon.

Then after a few weeks of waiting, the fateful email arrived. A spot had just opened up, due to an unexpected cancelation. I responded immediately, telling myself I’d figure out the logistics of traveling to India from where I was currently staying in Australia. I was sitting in an apartment hotel in Surry Hills, a suburb of Sydney, not too far from the central business district and tourist areas. I had arrived in Australia on a whim the previous week, flying across the world from Toronto during the Christmas holidays after my sister had jokingly challenged me to book a flight anywhere in the world within the week. I said I was craving some sun, and, as younger sisters often do, she thought of the farthest place on the planet I could go. Challenge accepted, I was on a plane a few hours later.

Upon arriving in Australia, my spirits lifted instantly. Everyone looked as if they were going to or coming from the gym or the beach. Everyone appeared to be in a good mood. The sun shone brightly. I wore shorts every day, while my sister back home in Canada was shoveling snow off her front porch and wearing layer upon layer to stay warm. While the Aussie culture and environment provided a temporary relief to my winter blues, something deeper was going on within me that would need to be addressed. That’s why I’d been researching Ayurvedic hospitals in India, where I could go for an extended detox treatment program that I had heard about. During my yoga teacher training, which I did five years previously in New York City, we had a weekend introduction to yoga’s “sister science,” Ayurveda. I was immediately fascinated by it.

The welcome makes me feel like royalty. As the car pulls up, the door opens even before the car stops moving. Staff are lined up at the hospital entrance to receive me, all wearing smiles and dressed in white.

First, they place a garland of fresh white flowers around my neck. The smell is sweet and delicious. Then they sprinkle rose water on my head. It also smells wonderful. The foreigners must love these hospitality niceties, I note to myself. Am I an Indian, or a foreigner? I am unsure.

Ushering me inside the reception building, they ask me to exchange my shoes for bamboo slippers. Outside footwear is not allowed in the hospital—the first rule I learn. The receptionist sits me down on a handsome but uncomfortable wicker chair. I would soon discover that this combination—nice mixed with discomfort—will become my experience for the entire stay. I sign a few waivers and liability forms. The questions pour out of me; no one answers directly, only with nods and smiles. I can’t help but remember my date who made fun of me for stepping into the Indian version of Nine Perfect Strangers—especially when they ask me for my passport, which they keep. Upon arriving at my room. neat and sparse, the receptionist tells me to change into my “uniform”: white pajamas made of cotton and linen. He tries to sell me on the material—insisting it’s very comfortable. Putting them on, I see they aren’t upselling me. Maybe I’ll take a few pairs home, I think.

Tired from a poor sleep the night before and my traveling, I fall asleep as soon as I lie down—for longer than I should have. I know this because I am woken by a doorbell. It is time for my first consultation with the doctor. Now I am groggy and nervous. I know from Martin’s description and my previous studies of Ayurveda that the doctors will diagnose me by looking at my face, the color of my eyes, the texture of my tongue, and the beat of my heart. Even in my half-asleep state, I know this is the worst possible moment for a doctor to diagnose me and decide my treatments for the next few weeks. But I have no choice but to flow with it.

At 04:30 a.m., I hear loud chimes that I’m sure wakes everyone. My white pajamas are wrinkled all over: I clearly tossed and turned a lot. Surprisingly, though, I feel ready to start the day. I spend some time in my own meditation, sitting quietly on my bed, followed by some journaling and writing. Maybe one morning I’ll wake up with wrinkleless white pajamas.

I stare at a fresh set of white pajamas in the corner, wrapped in tissue. Were they there yesterday, or delivered at night? Do I change into the new set now or later? I take a look in the mirror to see how disheveled I appear and decide to change after yoga, which would surely produce more wrinkles.

At 07:00 a.m., it is time for yoga. The sun is mid-rise as I walk quietly in my bamboo slippers to the yoga hall. Everyone wears their white pajamas. I try not to stare too closely to see if they are wrinkled like mine, or if they had changed into a fresh set this morning. From my quick glance around the room, it is a mix.

I’ve practiced yoga for years at home, but this class is completely different from the sometimes competitive and performative yoga I am used to. The teacher is a plump young Indian woman with chubby cheeks—not the thin and chiseled body type of the yoga instructors typical in New York City or LA. Another difference is that we do the practice on thin mattresses covered in bed sheets, not sticky rubber mats. The mattresses are far more comfortable. Also, there are no blocks, bolsters, or straps—which makes me nervous, until I’m assured that we don’t need them because the class is so simple and gentle. Suitable for all of us, from age sixty to twenty.

While waiting for my morning dose of ghee today, I meet an elderly Indian woman who speaks with a British accent. She’s been receiving panchakarma for twenty years now. When I ask her why she keeps coming back, she gives me a surprising answer: “I don’t know any different.”

She doesn’t know what the benefits are because she hasn’t experienced life without regular panchakarma detox. As she can tell I am not satisfied with her first response, she adds, “Coming here allows me to feel more connected within myself. I come feeling disjointed and in multiple pieces. I leave feeling like a single piece.”

Now that’

s an endorsement.

I want to keep talking with this woman, but my doctor walks into the waiting room, ready to see me.

We debrief on the status of my bowels, urine, digestion, and energy. I do not feel shy about sharing these details anymore.

“I’m ready to increase the intensity of the treatments. This feels too easy,” I say to the doctor.

“I’m healthy and young and have the mental and physical capacity to handle more.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my bravery.

Yesterday, I received 25 mL of ghee. Today, he gives me 60 mL. I think that was 10 mL more than he had originally planned, thanks to the confidence I showed in being able to handle more. As he gives me the beaker to drink, I joke, “So tomorrow, we do 100 mL.”

He laughs out loud and says, “You’re in a hurry,” then turns away without letting me respond. We’ll see if my negotiation attempt works tomorrow.

As I leave the treatment building to begin my prescribed walking rounds—I must complete ten rounds today, since there’s much more ghee to move—one of the staff stops me and asks to give me a tour of the campus. Perfect timing.

My journey with yoga started ten years ago. My girlfriend at the time was a long-time yogi, but I was not open to it at all. I would go to classes with her kicking and screaming, claiming I was only doing her a favor. As fate would have it, shortly after that relationship ended, I discovered my own passion for yoga and began a regular practice. I was living in Toronto and found a studio between my apartment and my office; I started taking class every other morning. I would travel often to New York and London and found yoga studios there as well. I began to go on yoga retreats, immersing myself into more intensive practice environments. My nightly reading began to include yoga philosophy, which is how I discovered that yoga is a set of principles of how to live. Physical postures are only one of the eight branches or “limbs” of yoga, which include yamas (a set of social ethics), niyamas (a set of personal practices), asana (postures), samadhi (harmony), dhyana (letting go), dharana (concentration), prathyahara (turning inward), and pranayama, which works with your energy and mind through the breath. Here at the hospital, there are the morning asana practices and forty-five-minute pranayama practices every afternoon at 5:00 p.m. They exercises are gentle, guided, and effortless for me. Afterwards I feel alive, centered, and balanced. Only a few days in, and I’m inspired to reincorporate daily and pranayama practices when I leave this place. I have lost touch with this discipline over the past few years as life got busier, and I am reminded now of why I love them so much: they help me feel grounded and calm, and taking the time each morning to do them feels like I’m setting myself up to succeed in every way.

I’m starting to feel the ghee.

This morning is the first time I do not feel well when I wake up. Sleep was disturbed. My appetite is significantly lower, my body more fatigued. My body is directing energy and blood flow to my stomach to digest the increasing amounts of ghee, and this reduces blood flow to the brain. The doctor kept asking me the past few days if I was having headaches, and now I know why.

Today I receive 120 mL of ghee. I take it like a champ, without so much as a grimace. But I make no attempt to negotiate for more.

I make my morning walking rounds extra slowly, as my whole aching body feels stiff, and think about how nice it is to not have to change clothes and look presentable while undergoing this process. White pajamas every day, all day—I’ve come to love them! I never had a school uniform growing up, never worked a job that had a dress code. I always imagined this to be a way of enforcing conformity, but all I feel in my white pajamas is a sense of freedom.

Also, I’m also now fine with my hair being oily and my skin a little smelly. We’re all walking a ton in the sun and sometimes not allowed to shower after massage oil treatments. I wonder how the world would be if we all accepted our bodies like this, in their natural states.

While walking, I also reflect that to be a good patient here at the hospital, I need to learn to be patient. The connection between the two meanings of the word “patient” had never hit me until this moment. I’ve been very fortunate and never actually been an inpatient at a hospital; the rare times I’ve been to a hospital have been either been as an outpatient for minor procedures or to visit someone else. And while I’m not sick or injured now, my health is dependent on the doctors and other staff here. I’m not in charge of my life right now; it’s in their hands, and trusting their decisions has created some friction in me. I’m not used to being vulnerable.

The effects of the ghee are strengthening now. Headaches. Muscle stiffness and soreness all over. Loss of appetite. Loose bowels. Sensitive stomach. Lack of mental focus and clarity. Nausea.

I think for sure that with all these changes, I would be done with the ghee treatments and ready for the real panchakarma. I am wrong. When I share my condition with my doctor in the morning consultation, his reply surprises me: “Okay, one more day of ghee and then we’re done.”

I sigh and give myself a little pep talk as I drag myself to the treatment room for the now all-too-familiar routine.

“How much today?” I ask with a note of annoyance in my voice.

“Only a bit more than yesterday, 140 mL,” the doctor responds, not looking my way to see my facial expression.

I do a quick mental calculation:

140 mL on day 6 + 120 mL on day 5 + 90 mL on day 4 + 60 mL on day 3 + 25 mL on day 2 + = 435 mL.

That’s nearly half a liter of medicated, clarified butter! And to think that after the first and second days, I was trying to negotiate for more. Now I am trying to negotiate for less. All of this is so new to me, including being unsuccessful in negotiations. I drink the ghee and prepare for the worst. But, surprisingly, today the symptoms are not as rough as the previous day. I feel fine—I mean, not normal by any means, but glad that we did another day of ghee to try and maximize the detoxification benefits. As I start to do my walking rounds, in my white pajamas as always, I bump into one of the staff members. She is friendly and in a talkative mood, and she unapologetically joins me for my walk. Despite feeling bloated and nauseated, I focus on being a listener in this conversation, for I fear that I speak, something other than words might come out of my mouth. I ask her where she’s from. It’s not Kerala, but another state in southern India. My sense of the geography of India is quite poor, mostly because both my parents are from Delhi, my extended family is in Delhi, and nearly all of my twenty or so visits to India have been only to Delhi. I’ve hardly set foot in the south.

Between 08:00 and 09:00 a.m. is peak social hour. After yoga and breakfast, everyone is desperate for some live connection, given the dining hall is a talk-free zone. Before our respective treatments start, the morning hour is the only time that everyone is free to walk and talk without the risk of feeling too oily, bloated, or tired to engage. As most of the other patients are from Europe, it also makes sense they are more social at this hour given the time difference; their loved ones at home are still sleeping, so they have no one else to talk to. The temperature is also pleasant and inviting enough for a walk before the sun gets too hot.

The short trip from my room to the dining hall for breakfast takes me more than thirty minutes because I stop to greet at least a half-dozen fellow patients, all dressed in white pajamas, all eager to chit-chat. I can see who’s showered and changed that morning, as their white pajamas are nicely pressed and wrinkle-free. And the rest of us, me included, wear white pajamas that are full of wrinkles from sleeping. But it’s a no-judgment zone, so everyone smiles all the same.

Today is my first day without ghee. Hoorah! Today is also my first time having breakfast since I arrived. It’s a bowl of steamed apples, a generous serving, and I wonder how I will feel eating this after all the ghee of the past five days. The breakfast is quite soothing. The apples are warm, easy to digest, and not too sweet.

After the morning consultation with the doctor, I have my first of two massages for the day—both four-handed massages. I do the math. Two people, massaging me simultaneously, on two separate occasions, for one hour each, is the equivalent of a four-hour massage. It’s heavenly, except for one issue: the purpose of the massages is no longer relaxation, like the first few I had upon arriving; now the aim is detoxification. This means that the pressure and force they use is very strong, as if trying to squeeze toxins directly out of my skin.

“I like your red sneakers,” I say as my opening line while on the walking path this morning. She pauses, looks at me, and returns a smile.

“Yes, they are quite bright, aren’t they?”

Both dressed in our white pajamas, there is not much else to complement each other on to open a conversation.

“I wore a similar pair like those for five years, every single day. They were a great conversation starter and people always noticed them,” I share.

“Yes, there’s something unique about bright red shoes. They are a statement, I guess.” As we exchange pleasantries and get to know each other, I learn that Judy is a fellow Canadian, from Vancouver, who arrived the day before. She has two sons, has worked in international development for thirty years, has six horses, runs a business of some sort, and appreciates art very much. She’s here for twenty-eight days and seems to having something of a life crisis. I am not sure what’s going on; however, I can sense her emotional energy is agitated and low.

We start talking about Kerala, and to distract her, I share more with her about its history, some of which I learned on my first time visiting years back.

Kerala is a state in the southern part of India, known as the “spiritual state.” Its lush green landscapes, waterways, and beaches make it a popular domestic and international tourist destination. One of Kerala’s distinguishing features is its extensive network of interconnected canals, rivers, lakes, and inlets. These backwaters are home to a variety of flora and fauna, and houseboat tours offer a unique way to experience it, which I did when I visited for the first time.

Today is purgation day. Ever since I learned that ghee, massage, and other practices aren’t the main event, I have been dreading purgation most of all the panchakarma treatments. My morning meditation has been helpful to calm my nerves and remind me that discomfort is part of the process here. Discomfort is to be expected, not to be feared or avoided.

I have been told that my prescribed purgation is induced diarrhea. Earlier today Patrick told me that he went to the toilet twenty times on purgation day. He seemed quite jolly about that because he had heard of others having to go thirty times. It’s all about perspective, I guess.

I had a colonoscopy a few years ago, and the preparation for that treatment felt like a purgation of sorts—my colon was definitely empty by the end. They didn’t find anything in the colonoscopy, thankfully; however, I noticed that the preparation actually had a lot of benefit after the fact. That was the last time I had induced diarrhea—and it was mild compared to what was ahead.

Today there are no steamed apples at breakfast and no water in the morning. I go to the treatment building at 8:00 a.m. and see the doctor. He wears a big smile on his face. I don’t. He explains that the purpose of purgation isn’t to clean the colon, as it had been in my colonoscopy procedure. Rather, the purpose of purgation in the context of panchakarma is to support the digestive tract in releasing all of the excess toxins that it’s been collecting as part of the ghee process. The medicine that induces diarrhea is a combination of herbs. I’m amazed by the sophistication of ancient medicine, and how much can be accomplished with herbs. He gives me a glimmer of hope, though. He says some people only have to release once, while others have to release up to thirty times. He asks me to keep count.

I am woken at 04:30 a.m. by the sound of loud chanting from a speaker system. It’s coming from outside the hospital grounds.

Kerala is known for its religious diversity, something I witnessed firsthand when I visited last time. The major religions practiced in Kerala are Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity; I remember visiting a building with my father with three floors. The ground floor was a Christian church, the middle floor a Hindu temple, the top floor a mosque. It was inspiring to see the acceptance and integration of different religions in one physical place. That building is an inspiration for how the world could live in greater harmony. Kerala is home to some of the oldest and most famous Hindu temples in India. Islam in Kerala also has a long history, dating back to the time of the Prophet Muhammad. The state has a significant Muslim population, and they celebrate festivals like Eid. Kerala’s coastal cities have historical significance in the spread of Islam in the region. Christianity in Kerala is believed to have been introduced in the first century AD. Kerala has a significant Christian population, and the state is known for its ancient churches, Syrian Christian community, and distinctive Christian traditions. Having now remembered that I’m in a place that celebrates, very loudly, all its religions, I crawl out of bed to begin my morning routine of meditation, journaling, walking, yoga, and breakfast. My own religion.

I receive a plate full of fresh papaya at breakfast today. The bright orange fruit is juicy and replenishing. I normally don’t eat too much fruit, as I notice it leads to blood sugar spikes... and then crashes. When I told the doctor this in our first meeting, he said, “Let’s see what happens.”

A new day, another new treatment. Today is the “forehead oil drip” treatment—a unique and unexpected experience.

The treatment starts as most do: stripping down, putting on a loin cloth, and getting oiled up from head to toe by two short Indian men. Then, once I am on my back, the therapists guide my head into a precise position under a metal bowl hanging from a delicate stand. It takes a solid few minutes of tiny adjustments to make sure my head is exactly where it needs to be.

Once again, the doctor comes back into the room... so, this is serious. He explains to me what is going to happen in very few words, raising more questions than answers in my mind. Today, I don’t prod for more explanation; I just close my eyes and trust the process. The doctor leaves, which is a relief, and the therapists place cotton balls on my eyes and a thin cloth headband above my eyebrows. The anticipation grows as I wait to feel something.

At first, it feels like a paintbrush saturated with hot oil is gliding back and forth across my forehead. Then I feel the oil start to stream back over my forehead into my hair. Then the oil steadily drips onto my forehead, and it glides to cover my entire forehead and slides into my hair. It’s like nothing else I’ve felt before.

I focus on my breath and relax into the treatment. I wonder how long I’ll be here. At first, the sensation all over my forehead makes it hard to think about anything else. I had prepared myself to fall into a meditative state; however, the newness of the experience prevents me from going there right away. Over time, my mind settles and the tranquil experience I expected arrives.

While waiting for my consultation today, a middle-aged Austrian woman in her white pajamas next to me strikes up a conversation. We debrief about our day, and I learn about a water treatment she had for inflammation management and alleviating stiffness in the joints. It sounds intense.

It consisted of her lying on her back, on the wooden massage table, while two therapists dripped medicated water over her body from brass bottles continuously—for nearly an hour. Her mind went all over the place during that hour. At times, it felt like she was swimming in the ocean. At other times, like she was in a womb.

She told me she experiences quite a bit of physical pain in her shoulders, lower back, and knees. When her sciatic nerve is aggravated, it sends pain through her lower back and down her leg; when it happens, she can’t lie still for more than an hour without needing to move. So, when she’s asleep at night, her body moves, although it’s subtle enough that it usually doesn’t wake her. At least, not to the point of consciousness. Hearing her experience, my heart swells with empathy and compassion for those who are living with chronic pain and discomfort. I admire her grace and calm despite her situation, as well as her courage to come to such a hospital to try and alleviate it.

Later in the day, I catch up with a new friend walking along the path in his white pajamas. He is an Indian man who has been living in London the past twenty years. He is a jolly fellow, striking up conversation with everyone throughout the stay, always smiling and laughing. When I ask him if he’ll be returning to the hospital some time, he responds, “I hope I don’t have to.”

After dinner last night, I felt inspired to re-read one of my favorite books of all time: Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse.

I first read Siddhartha ten years ago, as I was beginning to develop my meditation practice and open up to my own spirituality. I had already read a few books about Buddhism and the story of the Buddha, however Siddhartha is an alternative perspective with the same underlying message. Written more than a hundred years ago, originally in German, it is a well-known classic amongst spiritual seekers.

It’s a short read, so I whipped through half of it between dinner and bedtime. The writing is so descriptive that my dreams involved the characters. I felt I was there, two thousand years ago, observing the story and imagining the scenes. Although it’s been at least five years since I last re-read Siddhartha, my subconscious dreaming mind remembered the story and sequence of scenes in the whole book. It’s fascinating what the subconscious stores.

This morning in meditation, sitting quietly and peacefully cross-legged on my bed in my white pajamas, I hear a buzzing sound. A mosquito has joined me for meditation. My instinct is to swat it away or squash it. I’ve killed a dozen, maybe two dozen, mosquitos since arriving, and yet have as many bites on my limbs and neck. This morning, though, my instinct feels different. Instead of wanting to swat it away or kill it, I begin to connect with the mosquito and try to communicate with it in my mind. Instead of leading with fearful thoughts like “please don’t bite me” or “leave me alone,” or angry thoughts like “you’d better not bite me,” I try encouragement: “There’s something more interesting for you over there than over here.”

Today during the morning consultation, the doctor checks my weight. I have lost 6 pounds since arriving, an effect of these detox treatments. That is unexpected. I don’t need to lose weight, if anything I could use a few extra pounds. Most people have had their weight checked in the past day or two, and everyone is enthusiastic about their weight loss. My German friend, Patrick, who has taken a liking to me, shares that he lost 17 pounds the last time he was here and is on track for something similar. Another patient is delighted she has lost 11 pounds already. I believe some of the initial weight loss is due to the massages. They are stimulating and thorough, and after each one, I find that I urinate quite a bit, despite not having had much water beforehand. I also believe some of it is the food. The ingredients are fresh, everything is cooked within one hour of serving, and the quantity of food is strictly managed, preventing overeating and cravings.

I also believe the walking is key. With few other activities to occupy our time, people are easily covering five or six miles a day. I have not been as active walking here, as I’m not trying to lose weight; however, for those who are, it is clearly working. Perhaps, also, some of the weight-loss success is aided by the loosely fitted white pajamas. With fewer inhibitions, we can all relax a bit, which is allowing our bodies to let go of even more.

Today I realized that this whole experience is particularly meaningful for me, as I identify as Indian. Most of the others are European, who see being in India as a novelty. For me, it’s a way to connect with my own culture. I recognize the subtleties that non-Indians may not pick up on so easily, be it the namaste greetings, or the reason we wear slippers not “outside shoes,” or why the priest chants prayers and sounds the bell at specific times of the day. I better understand the religious symbols carved into the columns of some of the buildings and the interactions with the doctor and therapists, beyond the head nodding, and the chants at the start and end of each yoga and pranayama class, and the hand-washing ritual at the start and end of each meal. I can empathize with the staff members, able to determine with just one look what their class status is and if they are educated. I can see the hidden hierarchy.

By now, you may have noticed I’ve hardly mentioned details about the food at the hospital. This is intentional—mostly to tease my parents, as I know the first question they’ll ask me when I come home is about the food. My response will be, “You don’t go to a hospital like this for the food!” However, in this hospital, of course, food is part of the medicine.

Fifteen days in, I can now confirm that the hospital really does treat food as medicine—because it’s delicious. I understand how food is a core part of the healing process. The food is all cooked, nothing is raw, except the occasional fruit sampling. Everything is easy to digest, as the food is prepared to support the treatments. And we’re all feeling better after eating it.

Today I get chatty with one of the dining hall staff about Ayurvedic food. I ask him how old he is, guessing mid-twenties.

“Thirty-six years old, sir,” he replies with a downward glance.

“What? No way!” I remark, genuinely shocked.

He has been working with this Ayurvedic hospital for sixteen years. Which means he has been eating this food, cooked in this way, for all that time—as the staff eat the same food as the guests. That must be the secret to his youthfulness.

He shares with me part of the Kerala approach to food is to have big lunches and light dinners. Everything is about digestion in Ayurveda, and you’ll see that the locals eat very small dinners, always with only cooked food. That often means salads in the evening. This approach is also found throughout the culture. For example, weddings happen during the daytime, with lunch being the main meal. The dishes at the hospital are inspired by the local cuisine. Kerala has a distinctive cuisine that mirrors its multicultural history, abundant natural resources, and the tropical climate—it’s completely different from the rich, heavy North Indian cuisine I grew up with.

As my time here is coming to an end, I am starting to feel both sorrow and joy. Sorry to leave this space of healing, but joy to re-enter my world. What I appreciate most about this experience is being taken care of. When I journal about it this morning, it brings me to tears, yet again.

Although I’m a grown adult, I feel more like a child today. Someone else chooses what I wear each day: white pajamas. Someone else chooses what I eat for each meal, and a team of people cook, serve, and clean up after every meal. Someone else chooses which yoga postures and pranayama exercises I will do for the day. Someone else decides what medicine I will have. Someone else oils and massages my body. Someone else cleans my room.

I appreciate not having to make any decisions for myself. It’s one thing to take a break from making decisions for my businesses by simply taking a vacation by disconnecting from devices. But even on a regular vacation, I have to choose where to go, what activities to plan, which restaurants to eat at. Not here. It’s completely different to have such a limited number of decisions to make daily for my own existence. The last time I was so lacking in responsibility was when I was a child.

Similar to my parents, the people taking care of me here have a lot of love, compassion, empathy, and care. No question I ask the doctor about my body, or about Ayurveda, is too dumb or silly. Any request I have for the therapist, like today’s “let’s not oil my face,” is received generously. This is a hospital that also provides hospitality. The physical environment here at the hospital makes me feel like a child in a playground. I have not shared too much about it until now, as it was never my focus and should not be a reason why anyone chooses panchakarma at this specific hospital. However, the grounds are inspiring.

This morning as I put on my white pajamas for the last time, a smile spontaneously appears on my face. I did it.

My business brain takes an inventory of my first panchakarma:

108 walking rounds on the hospital campus 85 pages of writing in my journal 34 yoga and pranayama classes 32 Kerala lunches and dinners 29 degrees Celsius, average temperature 23 oil massages 21 fellow patients 17 doctor consultations 11 immune decoctions 6 new friends with whom I hope to stay in touch 6 books read 6 pounds of weight lost 5 ghee drinking treatments 5 nasal drip treatments with medicated oil 5 oil forehead dripping treatments 4 enemas 2 steam box experiences 2 pairs of bamboo slippers worn out 1 panchakarma cleanse and detox completed Oh, and 17 days of wearing nothing but white pajamas My white pajamas have evolved to become much more than a uniform. Putting on white pajamas and taking off my normal clothes was symbolic of putting aside my identity, even if temporarily. It is me giving myself permission to be whomever and however I need to be at this moment.

Putting on white pajamas represents commitment to taking someone else’s lead—to let someone else make decisions for me and take care of me. It has been a total surrender, a slow letting go of control and any desire to shape my experience. Putting on white pajamas means I am the same as everyone else here—no better, no worse. I belong here, as does everyone else. There is no space for comparison, we are all unique, even though we dress the same.

Putting on white pajamas was an invitation to become curious, to learn more about Ayurveda, panchakarma, Kerala, and the south of India. I was shown aspects of my own culture that I had never known before.

As I finish writing this manuscript, it’s been about one year since I left behind the warm, fragrant, and inspiring grounds of the Kerala hospital. My panchakarma experience left imprints on me, but as I’ve experienced after other retreats, the real work begins back home.

First, I was eager to share my experience with friends and family upon returning. I didn’t have a Nine Perfect Strangers story to tell them, but I regaled them with the stories of my daily oiling, the beatings during massage, the delicious food, the walking, and the generous people I met. Most of all, I became a walking advertisement for panchakarma. I’d never felt, or looked, better—not through some drastic physical alteration, but through expressing my light spirit through my eyes, my voice, my pores. Now, several relatives have since signed up for their own panchakarma, including my parents. They even gave an early draft of this manuscript to the doctors there. They all had as good a time as I did, and I even got to learn more about some of the treatments I didn’t receive myself.

As I reflected in my writings at the hospital, leaning back into a mode of being taken care of wasn’t easy for me. However, it did make it easy to live an Ayurvedic lifestyle there. At home, where I had to be an adult again and take care of myself, I did my best to hold onto the rituals and practices that suited my constitution.

I couldn’t wear white pajamas daily, of course, but I adopted a kind of uniform for myself and became more open to wearing relaxed clothes on the weekends. I swapped my “health food” salads and smoothies, and large-portions of western-style food eaten late in the evening for cooked foods and lighter, earlier dinners. I drank ginger tea all the time, and my kitchen was stocked with aromatic Indian spices. I found myself craving my forty-five-minute self-guided stretching sessions, instead of intense workouts in the mornings.