Takra Dhara

Takra dhara is a form of shirodhara, an Ayurvedic treatment method which involves continuous flow of medicated butter milk to the centre of forehead continuously for up to an hour a day. The process can last from 7 to 21 days.

It is a cure for vata predominant diseases, relieves tension and cures certain types of skin diseases.

Takra means butter milk, from my earlier post you have an idea of shirodhara, what they do here is boil milk and medicines and add little curd keep it over night, it is then churned and shirodhara is done with that buttermilk. It is very cooling and very effective in skin diseases, like psoriasis.

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Takra Dhara and Pizhichil

With my body oozing oil from the internal and external medications, the shrotas (channels) open to allow the outward flow of toxins. The doctors decide to attack the mind directly with Takra Dhara, a therapy commonly used for fatigue, insomnia, worry, and nervousness. Unfortunately my mind has not slowed down much yet. I have been assured they will bring me to "ground zero" and I am hoping it will be soon.

Daily I am asked if I am tired yet, and I always reply cheerfully, "No, I haven't been doing anything but sitting around". That's when they inform me that my behavior must change. No more going outside and walking around, no yoga, limited writing. Just 'take rest'.

The first experience with Takra Dhara and Pizhichil brings me to tears. The two treatments are performed simultaneously for an hour. A constant stream of cool medicated buttermilk is directed through a hole in a clay pot onto my forehead (Takra Dhara), while three women on either side of me squeeze warm medicated oil over my body (Pizhichil) - using 2.25 liters per session. The only reason the therapist moves a hand over the body is to keep it warm and to remove the oil. The oil is then collected in a bigger vessel, re-heated and squeezed again. Silence in the treatment room except for the sound of cloths being dipped and squeezed. I turn my attention inward struggling to stay present. Memories, lurking in the darkness, some of them toxic, are ready to come out.

Following the bath I walk back to my room, greeting fellow patients as I pass them in the breezeway. Ravi Shankar, being treated for chronic back pain, reads Dale Carnegie every day and hates his job as a bank manager. The retired journalist from Delhi, takes treatment but there mainly for his wife whose complaint is a swollen and painful foot. She was stepped on while alighting from a train a year ago and was treated unsuccessfully with western medicine. She came here as a last resort and is now recovering. The German woman who broke her spine three years ago, yet I would never guess as we stand here visiting.

I lie on my cot and listen to music and the noise from the street.
As the temple bells and drums grow louder I walk out and look down over the people at temple.

Even though my restlessness is ever-present between the routine activities, slowly the treatment is working. Like a cool breeze in the night air that brings you momentarily to stillness, on the 15th morning I wake up. I wake up to a hint of what the feeling of a life in balance might be like. It is the sensation of all of me being present at once, and the realization that I am no longer struggling.

Two weeks of temple bells, treatments and sitting meditation brings
the body to a halt. With agni barely simmering on the back burner, there is no need to eat much of the morning meal. When the doctors arrive with their routine questions, we joke and compare mantras. There is no desire, no little voice whispering demands and promises.

The treatments are free to do their work. I visualize toxins making their way from all points toward the alimentary canal, into the intestinal tract where vata accumulates. Not being schooled in herbal pharmacology I can't say precisely what the medications contain, and I stop asking.

My team of 8 therapists happily prepare a puja (offering) at the end of this phase. As I emerge from the bath I am greeted with a prayer at the lit altar. I glance down to see the pathi I was lying on ten minutes before, covered with red flower petals and white, black and red stripes of
powder where my neck had been, signifying the gunas. In the concave head rest is water. I am given a tray holding Kerala banana, fresh herbs, sandalwood paste, flower petals, and coconut water. I strew the flowers on the pathi and wash down the table that has absorbed much of my illness and now needs cleansing, by me. They split open another coconut dividing it among us. "How do you thank people who do this kind of thing?" I wonder.

I lie on my cot, eyes closed, stretched out on my side. My mind goes to my Black Labrador, Karma, stretched out exactly like I am, probably right at this moment, 'taking rest' as usual. I have become my dog.