The Living Language of the Pulse - Nadi Pariksha
Each pulse is a living story. My job is simply to listen — with my fingers, with my heart, and with the stillness my teachers passed down to me.
Every time I sit down to read a person’s pulse, I am filled with awe — and this feeling never fades. How is it that a few fingers resting lightly on the wrist can reveal so much? The body speaks through its rhythms, whispering stories of health and imbalance, strength and fragility, joy and grief, desires longed for and traumas long carried. It is nothing short of a miracle — a quiet, steady miracle happening under our very skin.
I learned the art of pulse reading from my teacher, Alakananda Ma, who learned from Dr. Vasant Lad, who in turn learned from his own Guru. I still remember the story of how Ma began her journey. In the 80s, while living in India, she approached Dr. Lad and asked to learn the pulse. His answer was simple: “Go meditate for a year, then come back, and I will teach you.”
If you know Ma — a passionate Pitta with boundless determination — you can imagine how seriously she took this. For a year, she meditated for hours each day, honing the stillness and presence required for such a subtle art. When she returned, Dr. Lad deemed her ready, and she’s been practicing ever since. To have your pulse read by someone with decades of experience is like placing your hand on a river and feeling not just the water’s flow, but its source, its journey, and the rainclouds that have yet to fall.
I studied at Alakananda Ma’s Alandi Ayurveda Gurukula for four years. Learning pulse was at the heart of the program, but before we could even touch a wrist, we had to learn to still the mind. Meditation wasn’t a side practice — it was the foundation. For two years, we practiced methods like Mahamudra and Metta meditation daily, for at least 45 minutes (and often more). These practices built the quiet, steady focus needed to perceive the subtle language of the body.
Only then did we spend two years learning pulse — first as students, then as both students and mentors to newer students. In the clinic, we read pulse after pulse, comparing our findings with each other and ultimately with Ma’s own reading. It was humbling, and deeply refining.
Pulse reading challenges those who live too much in their heads. Overthinking can cloud the signal, turning a living conversation into static. Through meditation, we learn to listen differently — not with the mind’s constant analysis, but with a receptive, intuitive awareness. Sometimes the pulse offers its truth instantly. Other times, it is guarded, like a shy animal that needs patience before it will emerge. With trust and time, it reveals more.
For me, pulse reading is a conversation without words — a moment when the body tells its truth. Whether you come to Ayurveda with a specific concern or simply to understand yourself more deeply, your pulse holds a map. My role is to help you read it, and together, follow it toward balance.
When we read the pulse in Ayurveda, we feel for 108 distinct pulse points. From them, we can learn:
A person’s constitution — their elemental blueprint.
Current imbalances.
The subtle qualities of Vata, Pitta, and Kapha.
The state of all bodily tissues (dhatus).
The vitality of prana (life force).
Signs of burnout, susceptibility to autoimmune disease, and resilience.
The state of the organs and the mind.
Even subtle Vedic connections to deities and directions.
When I combine what I learn from listening to the pulse with careful observation and thoughtful questioning, a full picture of the person emerges. This becomes the foundation for an Ayurvedic treatment plan — from herbs to diet, lifestyle, and subtle therapies. And as we meet again in person, I can track their progress, feeling the shifts in their inner rivers and currents.
Each pulse is a living story. My job is simply to listen — with my fingers, with my heart, and with the stillness my teachers passed down to me.