The Ayurvedic massage...
Since I am missing physical touch and my hamstrings and hips moan from yoga and air travel, I decide to hit the Indian massage parlour. By luck, an appointment is available- 500 rupees for 1.5 hours = $15 CDN? Sold!
Its a business house a few blocks from Anu's Bamboo Hut restaurant. Open and breezy with flowing curtains on the arched doorways. The doors are carved wood and the floors are white marble, like everywhere in India. I ask to use the loo and do the squat and hover method with my pants rolled over my knees. My pashmina and purse are strung around my neck as there is no hook nor counter and the floor is wet with who knows what! I am in bare feet. Yuck!
They call for my massage. "Lady to lady, or man to man." The male receptionist says. In the room, two young Indian girls who look 16 politely ask me to disrobe. They stand a foot away from me, staring as I hesitantly undress. "Everything?" I ask. "Yes Madam." As I get down to nothingness, one lady wraps a cheesecloth loincloth G-string around my waist and crotch. So Tarzan! They stare at my white skin and bare breasts with wide eyes, unashamed of staring. They whisper to each other in their language throughout the session. They sit me on a stool and begin the head massage. The other girl stands in front of me watching. They are tiny, maybe four foot ten. I sit in my loincloth which doesn't cover much and wonder what they think of the Canadian girl with the Asian tattoo and the lasered bikini line. I sit proudly, unconcerned by their judgments, amused, as I know I will never see them again.
I am asked to get on the wooden lacquered antique carved table. I am kneeling on all fours, in my loincloth, trying to maneuver with my butt on display, as I crawl on my hands and knees. "No Madam- on back," they direct. I flip over and they drizzle me with hot oil, like a Christmas turkey being basted. They begin their work in tandem fashion, with a 'mirror image' massage.
With light fingertip pressure, they massage my knees and I giggle as it tickles, and squirm with laughter. The bast part is when they swirled their fingers in a rough motion in clockwise circles around my belly button. Then up the arms and cracking my fingers. I love the foot massage, but remember them on the dirty bathroom floor and having it spread over my body!
They flip me over and put dirty sponges under my pressure points, against the hardness of the table. My hipbones and ankles still dig into the wood. The oil smells of coffee, coconut and mint, almost as though someone was baking. I ask the ingredients and they just say, "Medicated oil."
The one girl's fingers keep finding their way up between my legs in uncomfortable folds. I call it the 'credit card swipe' because they are running their hands up and down my body, head to toe, rapidly. I try to release myself from the moment and not make it anything more, dwelling on her wandering fingers. I think how gross it is how they rubbed my feet, dirty from the bathroom and the outdoors, and then my body and face. Asian music plays in the background, as I flip over again, trying to manage the oily, soggy G-string now dangling uselessly between my legs.
Next, is the sit up steam box. The room now smells of cooking vegetables, perhaps squash or another muddy garden aroma. I sit on a metal stool, on a dirty dishtowel, in my strip of saturated muslin. The door shuts guillotine style with a hole around my neck. Another grayed and oily tea towel is wrapped around my neck to hold in the steam. I don't even entertain the idea of whether they have been washed between multiple clients. This is India I smile to myself.
Ten minutes of hot steam wafts around my body. I try to chat with the girls. "Your English is pretty good...where did you learn? School?" I inquire, impressed.
"Yes Madam." They have soft voices and flirtatious brown eyes. They glance up daintily, batting their lashes. It is their demeanor, nothing more. I ask how old they are, they look so young. They say twenty-one. I talk about Canada; the snow, the clean air, the low population. I ask if they are married. No, they say. They talk about the importance of dowry, in gold. I ask about nose piercings, which all the women have in India (piercings are done at the hospital). "If you like it , you do it. If you don't like, you don't do." I ask about bindis. "You do if you like?" I ask and they giggle.
Time is up and I am dripping with sweat. I step out and get toweled off like a queen but with dirty towels. My hair is wrapped in an oily bun from the Indian head massage. One girl tried to take it out, but I say no. I don't want oil all over my clothes. She adds more oil and a brown powder to my part. (This is traditional here for ladies to put a coloured powder down their part.)
I am dressed and done and pay. Am I missing some 500 rupees? Not worth the fuss. I chat with the Ayurvedic Doctor and they give me murky warm tea to cleanse my system further. I drink and he wants to give me another. I'm feeling groggy, have I been drugged? I decline the 2nd as I start to get suspicious (OK paranoid!)
The Doctor talks to me about treatment packages to support the yoga. I don't feel it necessary. I leave and expect to collapse on the street, delirious from the sedative I delusionally suspect they put in my tea.
I get home safe and secure without passing out. I shower the oil from my body and hair and wonder what is next on my adventure list? I think body waxing. (See August 6 'KAIZEN' blog of mine) It has grown a week and needs to be ripped from its follicles. I feel prettier now that I have been molested by two 21 year old Indian chicks. I'm nice and clean with my hair in a braid like an Indian woman. I keep reminding myself: "I'm in India!!!"
A few weeks later, Rachel and I run into the Ayurvedic Doctor on the street. He asks why I have not been back for more rub downs.
"Did you not receive satisfaction?" He queries in his staccato Indian accent.
I look at him like he grew two heads. "Satisfaction???" What kind of satisfaction are we talking about? Was there more to the story? What did I miss? I am not that desperate!
Rachel still laughs at the ambiguity, repeating in perfect Indian accent..."Did you not receive satisfaction?"
For more ayurvedic info:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ayurveda
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