The Scent of Kukudukaya: From Mom’s Wooden Stool to Kumarakom’s Spa Table
From the Wooden Peeta to the Massage Table
By Shashi Bellamkonda | December 29, 2025
The oil hit my skin warm and heavy, smelling of earth and roots, and for a second, the luxury of the Kumarakom Lake Resort dissolved. I wasn't in a high-end spa in Kerala anymore. I was back on a Sunday morning in my childhood home, sitting on a wooden peeta (stool), squirming under the grip of my mother’s hands.
I have never had a professional massage before today. But as the therapist began the rhythmic strokes, the memories flooded back—visceral and demanding. We called it thalantuku poskunudu. It wasn't a spa treatment; it was a weekly ritual of hygiene and affection, executed with the terrifying efficiency that only an Indian mother possesses.
The Sunday Ritual
Growing up, Sundays were not for sleeping in. They were for the oil bath. My brother and I would take our places on those low wooden stools, resigned to our fate. Mom didn’t use essential oils branded with words like "Tranquility" or "Bliss." She used kukudukaya (soapnut) oil, thick and pungent.
Her massage was less about relaxation and more about structural integrity. She rubbed the oil into our scalps with a vigor that suggested she was trying to rearrange our thoughts. It was rough, it was messy, and it was absolute love. After the oil came the scrub—not a micro-bead exfoliant, but shenaga pindi (gram flour), mixed into a paste to wash the grease away. It left you scrubbing your skin for hours, but feeling cleaner than you ever had in your life.
Professional Hands, Ancient Roots
Today’s experience at the resort was, of course, different. It was professional. It was incredibly calming. And, let’s be honest, it was expensive.
But as I lay there, I noticed the continuity. The Ayurvedic tradition here dictates that massages are performed by therapists of the same sex—a practice that mirrors the modesty and boundaries of our culture. It reminded me of our ancestral village, where the lines between service and care were often blurred. Sometimes, the village barber doubled as the masseuse. A shave wasn't just a shave; it ended with a head and shoulder massage that cracked your neck and reset your posture for the week.
The Price of Preservation
There is a secret to the oil and flour method—a specific ratio, a specific pressure—that has been passed down through generations. But let’s face the uncomfortable truth: that knowledge is disappearing from our families. We are too busy, too modern, or perhaps just too far from home to make shenaga pindi paste on a Sunday morning.
This is where my feelings about the "expensive" spa treatment shifted. Yes, paying a premium for something that used to be a household chore feels ironic. But places like Kumarakom Lake Resort are doing important work. They are institutionalizing a memory. They are ensuring that the science of the oil and the flour doesn't vanish entirely when the last grandmother forgets the recipe.
My mother’s massage was free, paid for in love and the occasional complaint from me. The resort’s massage was paid for in rupees. But lying there, smelling the faint, familiar scent of herbal oil, I realized I was happy to pay. I wasn't just paying for relaxation. I was paying to remember.
Carrying It On
If you visit Kerala, don't dismiss the Ayurvedic spa as just another tourist trap. Ask about the oils. Ask about the ingredients. Close your eyes, and if you’re lucky, you might just feel the ghost of a wooden stool beneath you and remember a time when care was the only currency that mattered.
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