So I have been holding out on where we went last weekend... Read on...
http://www.livemint.com/2008/04/25000400/A-touch-of-royal.html
Even before any probing, pressing, caressing, the new spa -- Kaya Kalp -- at the ITC Mughal in Agra invokes sensory overload
S. Mitra Kalita
New Delhi
About 99,000 sq. ft of massage and treatment rooms, workout and yoga space, gardens and fountains. Lavender wafting through the air. Stark red pomegranate motifs on floors and walls, a nod to Emperor Babur’s favourite fruit.
Spa junction: Bathe together in the couple suite. (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)
Spa junction: Bathe together in the couple suite. (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)
But being overwhelmed is not relaxing and so, the real test of the just-opened Kaya Kalp–The Royal Spa will actually be in transporting the stressed-out set to places far, far away from big and busy. Based on my recent experience, it will succeed precisely because of the attention to the little: water fragranced with cucumber and orange slices, the delicate cymbals chimed at the end of an ayurvedic treatment, decorative marble candle holders reminiscent of the behemoth ode to love nearby.
Offerings range from salon standards—haircuts, manicures, pedicures and facials—to elaborate packages known as “journeys” that can last up to three hours. The spa claims it is Asia’s largest, as well as the first in India, to offer the Turkish bath known as a hammam.
And so, I began my journey.
I lay on a marble slab, stripped of clothing, dignity and tension all at once. The steam around me blinded, suffocated, hypnotized but dozens of candles danced through the haze, their light bouncing off tiny mirrors and creating rainbows around the room. Just when fainting felt imminent, hard sprays of cold water awakened and invigorated. In life, two distinct stages force human beings to be bathed at the hands of another: childhood and old age. Thus, the hammam, a meeting of a sauna, bath and massage in one, might startle those of us in the active, independent purgatory of middle age. But it is well worth getting over such inhibitions because being cleansed, lathered, rubbed in this manner felt like the very embodiment of what a spa should be.
“Remember a spa is about water,” reminds Christine Hays, the operations head who has spent the last eight months overseeing the conversion of ITC Mughal’s gardens into this decadent space. She recounts how the spa designers sent pieces of electrical equipment for modern-day treatments and she simply stored them away, explaining: “Everything has to be so natural and hands on.”
For the unique, transcendental experience, the hammam (Rs4,400 for 100 minutes) should be tried. But, if you’re looking for a strong rub with your knots and stress in someone’s firm hands, this might not be the best option. The 30-minute tension reliever (Rs1,500) is a more affordable blend of the pointed nature of Thai massage with the longer strokes of, say, a Swedish.
The entrance to Kaya Kalp (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)
The entrance to Kaya Kalp (Photograph courtesy ITC Mughal)
Notably, here, I finally learnt to embrace ayurvedic massage. In massages past, I have often just wanted to get up from the oily table and yell at the well-intentioned women in sync to stop sliding and teasing, to start applying pressure already. For those who value the healing and natural elements of ayurveda, ITC’s spa offers three rituals. I tried the hot herbal poultice massage (60 minutes for Rs3,500), which relies on a ball of herbs dipped in hot oil— “You could eat it,” Hays assures—to move across the body. The pressure of the ball on the joints across my legs and arms was especially welcome. And the soft wad perfectly juggles gliding yet applying pressure; there is none of that panic-inducing feeling that someone’s fingers might fracture your spine.
Kaya Kalp also offers a chakra balancing gem stone massage (60 minutes for Rs3,000) that seemed to incorporate similar elements as the herbal ball, but with the use of stones; this is also the massage given to couples during the Taj Mahal romance journey, which, for Rs15,000, gets the two of you three hours of rubbing, bathing, feeding and loving (the masseurs give you a 5-minute knock as a warning before entering so you can go wild in the tub strewn with rose petals).
Roses and red are striking themes throughout; some massages begin with dipping feet into a bowl of water with petals. The observatory garden outback is still being worked on, and when it cools down, outdoor massages will be added. The pool, which is only for users above the age of 15, follows the sharp lines and maze-like arrangement of the garden. At night, the candles, shooting fountains and sprays of mist overhead inspire literal and metaphoric reflection.
“The Mughals were known for opulence,” explains Anil Chadha, general manager at the ITC Mughal. “They were very aspirational.” That puts them pretty much on par with the target customer here.
Like the backs it kneads, Kaya Kalp has a few kinks to work out. For a place that has promised such a Mughal experience, background music veered into the new age or elevator ambience at times. The couches and interior décor feels heavy, expected of the Mughals, but not necessarily cozy. The addition of some rituals, such as tea or healthy snacks while you wait, might help loosen the atmosphere up.
While prices are affordable by five-star spa standards, a few packages blending the works—say, manicure, pedicure, facial and massage—would likely do well, especially for the stressed who are time pressed. Unquestionably though, ITC Mughal’s spa has admirably fashioned itself into a destination in a city where most are lured by another awe-inspiring structure. So, while visitors are off seeing the fruits of one man’s devotion, stay behind, for Kaya Kalp is a divine place to pay homage to what should be your greatest love of all: you.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, April 25, 2008
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Mission Kashmir
Toward the end of a week in Kashmir, as we wound our way downhill from a hike, we paused behind hundreds and hundreds of sheep crossing a bridge to get home. Then, from the other side, a half-dozen soldiers began squeezing past as they, too, tried to reach makeshift homes up in the hills. Picture dark, mustachioed men with rifles sidestepping countless fluffy balls of bleating and defecating mammals. Gives you just a taste of the enchanting, embattled feeling of this place.
Sheep crossing the bridge in the village of Drung near Gulmarg. The Army men had to wait until all of them got across, though you can barely see one attempting to come over from the other side.
A victory for the soldier who made it across the bridge, braving the sheep.
The brochures call it "Paradise on Earth." My social studies books termed it a "disputed territory." In mid-May, itching for a cheap, quick and different kind of holiday, we booked five days in Kashmir. We also wanted coolness factor—both in temperature and in the stories we could impart upon return. The first was attained successfully, degrees ranging in the twenties most days. The latter, well, you be the judge… My husband, younger brother, daughter and I arrived on a Monday afternoon to Butt's Clermont Houseboats in Srinagar. We knew little of the legendary proprietor, Gulam Butt, and were wondering just where we were going when the driver passed the dozens of houseboats anchored to the bottom of the polluted yet picturesque Dal Lake—and kept going. We slowed down near a dome we would later discover houses a single hair of the Prophet Muhammed, and turned into a driveway to an awaiting Mr.
Butt. That's what he called himself as he pumped our hands heartily, saying "Hello ji, welcome welcome welcome" in a style that was part-game show host, part-uncleji, part-authentic, hospitable Kashmiri.
The legendary Mr. Butt welcomes us to Srinagar and his houseboats.
After leading us through a mini-museum of pictures and letters of US ambassadors and a few Beatles, Mr. Butt led us to our houseboat, creaky wood planks for a floor, elaborate carvings as ceiling. The long three-bedroom dwelling boasted Kashmiri carpets, furniture and window treatments, Victorian-style place settings (don't miss the April Cornell cloth napkins), and bedrooms reminiscent of rustic Americana.
Naya on the hand carved porch of our floating dwelling.
Mr. Butt made himself right at home, sinking into his embroidered couch and taking pleasure in our positive reaction. He made a big show of leafing through all the good press he's received. National Geographic. Michael Palin's book on the Himalayas. And then out came two tattered and worn guestbooks that he encouraged us to leaf through (we did and were surprised to see some of our friends' names). He called out for Sultan, the young man who would tend to our every whim. In a flash, a tray appeared—and Mr. Butt disappeared. We dipped almond cookies and cake into our first cups of qahwa, the signature Kashiri tea made milkless but full of flavour from cardamom, cinnamon and almonds. After the cook scrambled to make 2 ½ year-old Naya a lunch of rice-sabji, we washed up and headed onto the lake for a boat ride on a shikara.
The view from the living room of our houseboat.
I wish I could tell you I spent my time gazing into my husband's eyes, but our captain had much nicer ones. He was a computer science student at Gandhi Memorial College and dreamed of coming to Delhi. His father – who would be our guide for the coming days – did not give him money so the son rowed tourists like us to make some. "Ask him," my brother kept saying. "What?" I whispered. "Does he root for India or Pakistan in cricket?" "No, I am not going to ask that!" I fiercely whispered back. "You are such an American nerd." As we rowed back, a collective yell and cry came from the other end of the lake. From one shikara to another, the news eventually came to us: Two villagers had just been swept away by a drain—and drowned. Nearby, a fisherman heard the evening call to prayer from a facing mosque and began going through the motions on his boat, which rocked not at all as he did.
The handsome sexy boatman in the back.
Two fisherman stop for a chat.
An island on Dal Lake.
The mosque in the background holds a hair of the Prophet Mohammed.
On Tuesday, we were awoken by the similar sounds of a morning prayer.
I just listened, while Nitin got up to welcome the sun off our boat's
deck. A few hours later, we gobbled down a breakfast of porridge and
pancakes, omelets and toast, fresh mango and more qahwa. We jumped
into the car by 8:15 am (any later and we'd be tailing the Army
convoy) to make the two-hour journey to Sonamarg, a meadow of gold in
the Sindh Valley.
We arrived early enough for our pick of ponies and sober-looking
handlers. I likened the steep climb toward Thajiwas glacier, over
rushing streams and paths of jagged stone on horseback, to being on a
motorcycle through the mountains of Phuket, Thailand. Scary,
thrilling, experiential—and really the only way to travel.
Sonamarg, I knew as I looked down and around and up, would forever
rank one of my most favorite places on earth.
At the glacier, we sled down a hill and threw snowballs, my brother
and me not having had such a fight in at least a decade. We passed
some of the most breathtaking views of valleys, trees, meadows and
snow peaks I have experienced in India, let alone the world.
"Switzerland," our guide Lassa said.
No need for comparison, I thought silently, it's beautiful enough on
its own.
Saddling up for the ride to the glacier.
The Sonamarg landscape is purdy sweet.
The pass in the background will get you to Ladakh eventually.
Naya and Mitra take a wet shortcut coming back down from Sonamarg.
On Wednesday, we attempted to take in as much of Srinagar as possible.
We stopped at two Mughal gardens and drove through the old city. I
talked to Lassa a bit more about Kashmir, its history and future. He
had plenty of information and factoids on the former, no answers on
the latter.
Naya and Mitra in one of Srinagar's many Mughal gardens.
Flowers up against the wall.
A friendly Kashmiri gardener.
After a lunch of endless barbecue chicken skewers, we headed for
Gulmarg. Its beauty was different from the greener landscape of
Sonamarg. Emporer Jehangir's favourite haunt felt woodsier,
sportier—more popular among city dwellers. For that reason, I grew
annoyed.
We were put up at the Hotel Hilltop, which can best be described as in
transition. As we ate a mediocre lunch and heard Hinglish from nearby
tables, we decided to skip traditional Gulmarg. No golf or gondolas
for us.
Escape, again, came on a horse. Since dusk was falling, most tourists
were emerging from the mountains, not heading into them. And so we
found serenity over running brooks, across a grassy patch known as
Strawberry Valley, and once again sledding down snow banks. We crossed
from one hill to another via a snow bridge, my New Balance sneakers
not living up to their name as I slid all the way.
A detail of the Maharaja's palace in Gulmarg.
The next day, we toured the Maharaja's Palace and BabaReshi, a mosque
and shrine to a Muslim saint. Our fear of tourists landed us in
Drung, a just-opened quiet village in the valley where we hiked up
to ancient temple ruins. This was where the sheep and Army had their
showdown.
On our last night, after purchasing shawls and saris, I stopped at the public call office to phone home when I saw a hotel worker slumped and sobbing. He heaved, punched, paced. "His baby has just died," another man whispered. "She was just 2 ½." Led away by the hotel manager, the grieving father apparently hailed from an area with a 7pm curfew. He wouldn't be able to join his wife until sunrise. "That makes it so much worse," said the man narrating to me. I nodded my head and wiped my eyes. To me, Kashmir really didn't offer escape as much as perspective, not rest as much as reflection. Amid a land and people so conflicted, I was grateful for the sweeping generosity of its beauty to momentarily take us away, offer reverie. The hills, the snow, the streams, the valley, the humanity and humility did feel like paradise—if only fora little while.
Outside Jamia Masjid in Srinagar. On the hill is the Hari Parbat Fort, built in 1808 when Kashmir was under Afghan rule, It was closed after separatists launched an insurgency against New Delhi in 1989. Authorities had feared the strategically located building overlooking Srinagar could be misused by the rebels.
An archway in the marketplace of Jamia Masjid in Srinagar.
An example of the architecture in the old section of Srinagar. Like many things here, this beautiful dwelling is poised with a tension teetering on the edge of collapse.
Sheep crossing the bridge in the village of Drung near Gulmarg. The Army men had to wait until all of them got across, though you can barely see one attempting to come over from the other side.
A victory for the soldier who made it across the bridge, braving the sheep.The brochures call it "Paradise on Earth." My social studies books termed it a "disputed territory." In mid-May, itching for a cheap, quick and different kind of holiday, we booked five days in Kashmir. We also wanted coolness factor—both in temperature and in the stories we could impart upon return. The first was attained successfully, degrees ranging in the twenties most days. The latter, well, you be the judge… My husband, younger brother, daughter and I arrived on a Monday afternoon to Butt's Clermont Houseboats in Srinagar. We knew little of the legendary proprietor, Gulam Butt, and were wondering just where we were going when the driver passed the dozens of houseboats anchored to the bottom of the polluted yet picturesque Dal Lake—and kept going. We slowed down near a dome we would later discover houses a single hair of the Prophet Muhammed, and turned into a driveway to an awaiting Mr.
Butt. That's what he called himself as he pumped our hands heartily, saying "Hello ji, welcome welcome welcome" in a style that was part-game show host, part-uncleji, part-authentic, hospitable Kashmiri.
The legendary Mr. Butt welcomes us to Srinagar and his houseboats.After leading us through a mini-museum of pictures and letters of US ambassadors and a few Beatles, Mr. Butt led us to our houseboat, creaky wood planks for a floor, elaborate carvings as ceiling. The long three-bedroom dwelling boasted Kashmiri carpets, furniture and window treatments, Victorian-style place settings (don't miss the April Cornell cloth napkins), and bedrooms reminiscent of rustic Americana.
Naya on the hand carved porch of our floating dwelling.Mr. Butt made himself right at home, sinking into his embroidered couch and taking pleasure in our positive reaction. He made a big show of leafing through all the good press he's received. National Geographic. Michael Palin's book on the Himalayas. And then out came two tattered and worn guestbooks that he encouraged us to leaf through (we did and were surprised to see some of our friends' names). He called out for Sultan, the young man who would tend to our every whim. In a flash, a tray appeared—and Mr. Butt disappeared. We dipped almond cookies and cake into our first cups of qahwa, the signature Kashiri tea made milkless but full of flavour from cardamom, cinnamon and almonds. After the cook scrambled to make 2 ½ year-old Naya a lunch of rice-sabji, we washed up and headed onto the lake for a boat ride on a shikara.
The view from the living room of our houseboat.I wish I could tell you I spent my time gazing into my husband's eyes, but our captain had much nicer ones. He was a computer science student at Gandhi Memorial College and dreamed of coming to Delhi. His father – who would be our guide for the coming days – did not give him money so the son rowed tourists like us to make some. "Ask him," my brother kept saying. "What?" I whispered. "Does he root for India or Pakistan in cricket?" "No, I am not going to ask that!" I fiercely whispered back. "You are such an American nerd." As we rowed back, a collective yell and cry came from the other end of the lake. From one shikara to another, the news eventually came to us: Two villagers had just been swept away by a drain—and drowned. Nearby, a fisherman heard the evening call to prayer from a facing mosque and began going through the motions on his boat, which rocked not at all as he did.
The handsome sexy boatman in the back.
Two fisherman stop for a chat.
An island on Dal Lake.
The mosque in the background holds a hair of the Prophet Mohammed.On Tuesday, we were awoken by the similar sounds of a morning prayer.
I just listened, while Nitin got up to welcome the sun off our boat's
deck. A few hours later, we gobbled down a breakfast of porridge and
pancakes, omelets and toast, fresh mango and more qahwa. We jumped
into the car by 8:15 am (any later and we'd be tailing the Army
convoy) to make the two-hour journey to Sonamarg, a meadow of gold in
the Sindh Valley.
We arrived early enough for our pick of ponies and sober-looking
handlers. I likened the steep climb toward Thajiwas glacier, over
rushing streams and paths of jagged stone on horseback, to being on a
motorcycle through the mountains of Phuket, Thailand. Scary,
thrilling, experiential—and really the only way to travel.
Sonamarg, I knew as I looked down and around and up, would forever
rank one of my most favorite places on earth.
At the glacier, we sled down a hill and threw snowballs, my brother
and me not having had such a fight in at least a decade. We passed
some of the most breathtaking views of valleys, trees, meadows and
snow peaks I have experienced in India, let alone the world.
"Switzerland," our guide Lassa said.
No need for comparison, I thought silently, it's beautiful enough on
its own.
Saddling up for the ride to the glacier.
The Sonamarg landscape is purdy sweet.
The pass in the background will get you to Ladakh eventually.
Naya and Mitra take a wet shortcut coming back down from Sonamarg.On Wednesday, we attempted to take in as much of Srinagar as possible.
We stopped at two Mughal gardens and drove through the old city. I
talked to Lassa a bit more about Kashmir, its history and future. He
had plenty of information and factoids on the former, no answers on
the latter.
Naya and Mitra in one of Srinagar's many Mughal gardens.
Flowers up against the wall.
A friendly Kashmiri gardener.After a lunch of endless barbecue chicken skewers, we headed for
Gulmarg. Its beauty was different from the greener landscape of
Sonamarg. Emporer Jehangir's favourite haunt felt woodsier,
sportier—more popular among city dwellers. For that reason, I grew
annoyed.
We were put up at the Hotel Hilltop, which can best be described as in
transition. As we ate a mediocre lunch and heard Hinglish from nearby
tables, we decided to skip traditional Gulmarg. No golf or gondolas
for us.
Escape, again, came on a horse. Since dusk was falling, most tourists
were emerging from the mountains, not heading into them. And so we
found serenity over running brooks, across a grassy patch known as
Strawberry Valley, and once again sledding down snow banks. We crossed
from one hill to another via a snow bridge, my New Balance sneakers
not living up to their name as I slid all the way.
A detail of the Maharaja's palace in Gulmarg.The next day, we toured the Maharaja's Palace and BabaReshi, a mosque
and shrine to a Muslim saint. Our fear of tourists landed us in
Drung, a just-opened quiet village in the valley where we hiked up
to ancient temple ruins. This was where the sheep and Army had their
showdown.
On our last night, after purchasing shawls and saris, I stopped at the public call office to phone home when I saw a hotel worker slumped and sobbing. He heaved, punched, paced. "His baby has just died," another man whispered. "She was just 2 ½." Led away by the hotel manager, the grieving father apparently hailed from an area with a 7pm curfew. He wouldn't be able to join his wife until sunrise. "That makes it so much worse," said the man narrating to me. I nodded my head and wiped my eyes. To me, Kashmir really didn't offer escape as much as perspective, not rest as much as reflection. Amid a land and people so conflicted, I was grateful for the sweeping generosity of its beauty to momentarily take us away, offer reverie. The hills, the snow, the streams, the valley, the humanity and humility did feel like paradise—if only fora little while.
Outside Jamia Masjid in Srinagar. On the hill is the Hari Parbat Fort, built in 1808 when Kashmir was under Afghan rule, It was closed after separatists launched an insurgency against New Delhi in 1989. Authorities had feared the strategically located building overlooking Srinagar could be misused by the rebels.
An archway in the marketplace of Jamia Masjid in Srinagar.
An example of the architecture in the old section of Srinagar. Like many things here, this beautiful dwelling is poised with a tension teetering on the edge of collapse.
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