A Spa IN THE sky

A Spa IN THE sky

There’s a lot to be said for luxury living in the Himalayas. Nothing shakes up one’s Spartan leanings better than a wholesome meal while perched on a tree-top-touching deck overlooking the mountains after a calming foot reflexology session,

There was a puzzling sight outside the balcony of my room on the fifth floor. The outer Himalayas stood dark and brooding on my left. Far, far away, the valley of Rishikesh was smouldering faintly beside a bifurcating river Ganga. Not a rain cloud in sight, no breeze to ruffle the leaves of tall Sal trees, the temperature was 42 degrees Celsius. It would’ve been a typical hot Himalayan afternoon but for a happy peacock. Right below me, he was dancing, blissfully oblivious to the smoking hot weather. There was no thunder or rain prompting him to dance, yet there he was, shiny feathers spread in a wide semi-circle, swaying to an unheard tune. A peahen stood close by, looking elsewhere, unimpressed by the performance. This was my first afternoon at Ananda, a spa resort in Uttarakhand. It took me two days and several yoga sessions to solve the mystery of the dancing peacock, but first a quick foray into history and philosophy. Ananda is housed atop a mountain in Tehri, half-an-hour’s uphill drive from Rishikesh. Over a hundred years ago, the Maharaja of Tehri-Garhwal, Narendra Singh, decided that he needed a summer capital, and picked this location fenced by the Shivalik mountains. Here, the climate was pleasant unlike the brrr! cold of the higher Himalayas. On clear days, almost his entire kingdom beyond Rishikesh was visible. The descendants of the king continued to live here until recently, when the royal family leased out their palace and 100 acres of forest around it. This became the Ananda Spa resort in 2000. Today, those who can afford it come here seeking wellness, stillness and spiritual solace. I spotted many such seekers walking determinedly up and down the cobbled pathways running like veins across the sprawling acres. Days at Ananda begin with yoga. By evening, if you are industrious enough, you can take three group sessions of an hour each, plus a personal lesson or two. Twisting and turning is pleasurably done at Hawa Mahal, a marble platform surrounded by trees. My yoga teacher, a slim, small-built Sushant Pandey, guided a fearful me through Jal Neti — cleansing of the nasal passages with lukewarm salted water. He listened patiently to the harried British woman who could not fathom why cellphones ring when we stretch forward into a Parvatasana (the mountain pose). And when I complained that meditation seemed impossible, Pandey gave me a dose of Trataka, which involved gazing steadily into a candle flame. On my third evening, as I walked back to the room after a yoga session, I saw the peacock again. This time, along with me, a couple stood transfixed by his performance. Too much heat had once driven the brilliant Van Gogh insane. Was it sun-induced delirium that had this bird dancing, I wondered; until I saw the garden sprinklers. They were spraying water in concentric circles, tricking the daft bird into a rain dance. My wonderment on the first day seemed a tad foolish now. Then I remembered what the yoga teacher had said, albeit in a different context. “Witness the experience. Pleasure, pain, whatever feelings it invokes, accept it and let it pass.” From ayurveda to hedonism The Ananda experience begins with a consultation with in-house ayurveda doctors. They deduced that I was a ‘Vata-Pitta’ type. According to ayurveda, there are three body types or tri-dosha: vata, pitta and kapha, each of which have a different recommended diet. I was advised lots of grains, milk, vegetables and sweets, and to stay off hot spices and salty food. The restaurant had a daily changing menu for each ayurveda type. But there was also such a tempting array of delicacies from Pacific salmon to Garhwali mountain goat, that it took me just a day to shed any ayurveda-induced inhibitions. And chefs Saurabh Tyagi and Sumeet Garg were more than willing to indulge me. Tyagi has unusual interests for a chef. He sympathises with the Maoists in Chattisgarh, follows avant garde art, and understands Henri Matisse. “I visualise everything on a plate,” he says, explaining his interest in molecular gastronomy. “We Indians don’t eat with all our senses. Shouldn’t we be eating first with our eyes and nose?” he asks. I tried that when he served ‘the air of beetroot and orange with spearmint powder’ — a riot of red, orange and green, with distinct smells of each ingredient. It was just foam but seemed so fresh and real. By the fourth course — chilled cucumber soup with yoghurt ravioli — I was a convert. A day earlier, Garg had treated me to a Garhwali meal, whose piece de resistance was Geheth ka Shikhar — mountain goat cooked with geheth, a local grain. Food though isn’t the focus at Ananda, I was told. “We’re just providing support to the spa experience,” said the chefs. Suitably chastised, I subjected myself to the powdery herbaceous concoctions of Choornaswedana, popularly known as the bundle massage. It was my last evening here and the first good rain of the season had arrived. Keeping pace with the heavy drops of water pounding the window panes, two therapists tapped small poultices of heated herbs all over me. Muscles knotted no longer, blood seemed to flow more easily inside me as I walked out of the spa sighing happily. Right by the lane was the peacock, dancing again. And this time, his mate was circling him. She seemed to enjoy his rain dance as much as he did.