The most soul-stirring of epiphanies come to you when you are getting a massage. In fact, this very epiphany came to me while deep in the throes of a deep-tissue session thereby elevating its status to a meta-epiphany! No wonder, I find myself at spas more often than Bollywood celebs find themselves under the cosmetic knife, all for the sake of lucidity… and un-knotted muscles, that too.
But lying face down as some jeune-homme kneads your back like sour dough — or should I say slime, as that seems to be all the millennial rage nowadays — takes a lot of commitment. First of all, it is a stranger that you allow to not just touch but also see you in a rather fragile, raw state. All your imperfections exposed, laid out, literally, for them to take in, no, not literally.
Amidst all this turmoil in an alien setting, one is expected to feel relaxed, a tall order if you ask me. But repeated exposure has given an exterior shell to such, one that stays unresponsively immune to the prolonged presence of a foreign hand resting on our body and yet responds readily to the wave-like motion of the Balinese massage being executed by the same limb on the surface of our skin. To remain impervious and yet be empathetic; massage is surely a metaphor for how we should live out our lives. Another epiphany! God, will they at least slow down?!
However, if there is one field that needs standardisation then it is this department. Spa treatments are so diverse, and not in a good way, that someone needs to get some sense of coherence and uniformity to this table. In my recent spa-seances, these are the three top grouches that I have been miffed by.
1. Noise: The last thing one needs while enduring this soothing racket on one’s nerves and simultaneously trying to check out of one’s own body is the masseuse wheeling around a squeaky chair as s/he gets to work. Other intruding forms of noises could include an unserviced AC vent, thin doors into the spa lobby further complemented by chatty staff sauntering about, or, God forbid, the sounds of excess flab around the mid-section of some rich entitled type being slapped in the room.
2. Technique: Just like food bloggers “know a lot about food” simply by having eaten out many times, I, by similar projection, should be considered to know enough about massages, second in knowledge of the spine to only a neurosurgeon. Unfortunately, this doesn’t help when receiving a massage from someone who is the medical equivalent of a trainee doctor. I have not given my body to science (yet) and consequently do not wish to be made a learning slate of; to be poked or prodded by someone who is learning the ABC of stimulus, mostly by practising it first-hand on my tender flesh is not my idea of a relaxing session of S&M. Why, if I just wanted to feel used, I would simply pay all my taxes and sincerely believe in the promises the government makes me every year.
3. Names: We know you are trying to justify that five-digit price for basically someone stomping over us, hence the need for fancy names. I agree, I would much sooner shell out for something marked Salvatore Ferragamo than if his first name was simply, Tommy. Luxury needs to be irrational but the spa world takes it a bit too far. Some of the massage names sound yummier than a three scoop sundae (albeit a lot less fattening). (Maybe the medical world should learn from them, marketing open heart surgery as the ‘Eat More Kebabs’ health revitalisation plan.) Trouble is when I am trying to choose between ‘blissful rejuvenation therapy’ and the ‘utter relaxation seance’ I frankly don’t know which one I want more, or worse yet, need. I can even see through the web of words that sommeliers weave (those crafty up-sellers!) and yet remain flummoxed when the good spa manager, all smelling of jasmines and eucalyptus, asks me how I wish to be kneaded. Casting a vote in India comes with more clarity.
If the juvenile immature in you is wondering how come there was this whole article on massages and no joke about “Happy Endings” remember this: it’s a sad massage that comes with one of those. If that wiped the smile off your smug face then welcome to ‘your place’ for I just put you in there.
This column is for anyone who gives an existential toss.
