It’s Day Four of my week at the ashram. White-clad guests carry boxes down the stairs. The library which had been up in E2 suddenly reappears in the room near the lobby. E2 is emptied. Karma yoga time brings more shuffling and movement. Garden work is abandoned. Bits of bed are lugged upstairs. Mats, lamps, pictures, mirrors, statues follow. In an aura of reverence, E2 is converted into a super suite.

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The Ayurvedic doctor is arriving. The renowned Ayurvedic doctor from the East who knows everything there is to know about diet and constitutions. He has at least three PhDs in the subject. He has found time in his busy schedule to visit us, at Neuville-aux- Bois in a lost corner of the Loiret in northern France, between the seminars he’s giving in Hawaii and Germany. He will lead the cooking workshop. And he will be available for private consultations. Seventy Euros and cheap at the price, considering his worldwide fame.

I’ve heard and read a bit about Ayurveda in the last few days. Constitutional types: Vatta, Pitta and Kapha. According to all the questionnaires, and to my Ayurvedic co-ashramers, I’m a clear Vatta. Constitutionally small, jumpy, flighty, a poor sleeper, dry skin, brittle nails, not a thirsty type, indecisive and a sceptic: all the signs are there. Definitely not a sluggish, content, lustrous-haired Kapha, nor a brave, pink-nailed, profusely sweating Pitta. It almost makes sense.

Yes, I am sceptical about the Doc. All the faffing around in anticipation seems over the top to me. And when his car rolls up the drive, my cynicism is confirmed. “He has a big stomach,” I say. “Not a good sign for a diet specialist and a doctor.” The others look at me in disgust: “You’re judging him at first sight”, says Amba. No, I’m not; it’s a fact that he’s fat, and it’s a fact that it’s not a good way to be when you're promoting a particular diet in an ashram.

I decide that to prove I’m not being unfair, I will go for a consultation, with as open a mind as I can manage, and see what he has to say.

He arrives ten minutes late for a forty-minute consultation, and hands me some forms to fill in. He scoots off, leaving me to write my name, address, phone number, e-mail address and breakfast ingredients into little boxes.

He comes back with twenty minutes left, and takes the forms.

“Okay. Show me tongue. Tongue is good. Show me nails. I take your pulse. Kapha-Pitta”, he says, taking out a big wad of papers marked “Kapha”, and scribbling on them. “Your diet is this,” he says.

“Hang on, I don’t believe I’m a Kapha-Pitta,” I say. “Are you sure?”
“
Okay. Let me feel the palms of your hands. You are just Pitta.”

“Plain Pitta? But I’m sure I am Vatta. Pure Vatta.”

“Show me skin. Skin is two-tone. Even three-tone. Very bad.”

I look at my arms. I rather like my impressionistic, pointillé skin. I have always prided myself on having both positive, dark freckles, and inside-out, negative, pigment-free ones.

The Doc continues: “Look at my skin. Only one tone. Yes, you are right, you are Vatta. But you were born Pitta. This is because of circumstances. We can correct with diet.”

He takes out a wad of papers marked “Vatta” and starts putting ticks and crosses on the pictures of food on each page.

“You are not sick. But you must not eat bread. You must not eat citrus fruits. You must not eat aubergines or mushrooms. Mushrooms grow close to the ground. Very bad for Vatta. You can eat broccoli. No lettuce. You can eat grapes. No beef. Eat lamb. Lamb is good. Beef is bad. Mad cow disease. Hormones.”

“Just a minute, I live in Uruguay, where cows eat grass, not hormones...”

“I tell you, no cows, and no fish. Fish are from farm. Not natural. Let me see your eyes. Yellow. Very yellow. Yellow eyes.”

Yellow? Brown, maybe. Greenish, some people say. Hazel is what I would call them. Myopic, for sure. But yellow?

“Three-tone skin. Fungus infection. Very bad. You must buy this product. Blend of five herbs. Very good for fungus. You will feel better in two months. Made in my factory in my country. I export world-wide. Only sixty Euros.”

“No, thank you. And my skin is sun-damaged. That’s why it has freckles. They hadn’t invented SPF when I was a child.”

He grabs the seventy Euro fee which I have ready on the table in front of me. “You must follow diet strictly. And you must buy my product. Here is my catalogue. You are healthy. Only skin and eyes bad. Fungus. Candida albicans.”

I storm out. Candida albicans, my ****. I’m a woman. Women know when they have candida. And it doesn’t have much to do with a freckly skin.