Hindustan Times ST (Mumbai) - Brunch
Are you feeling relaxed?
Seeking bliss in the slippery world of massages
Self-doubt is an odd thing. It’s triggered by the most seemingly innocuous suggestion. Like that generic question posed by masseuses/masseurs: “Are you feeling relaxed?” By some law of irony, that’s the exact moment when any sense of relaxation leaves your entire being, as you anxiously analyse your failure to feel as calm as the situation demands. Of all the first-world problems, massage-related anxiety ranks pretty high up. So let’s conduct a thorough enquiry accompanied by the gentle lighting of a scented candle and tinkling of twee windchimes.
A cashew-al affair
My last tryst with a massage table has left me a bit contemplative. It’s tough to surrender yourself to fully-dressed strangers when you’re somewhat less modestly clad yourself. Then there’s the lying on your belly, with your face peeping out of a helpful gap in the mattress, gazing at the toenails of your massage therapist. In this case, she had painted each of her nails a different colour, imbuing the occasion with a whimsical quality. The Goan lady had the self-assured manner of a veteran midwife, so the last thing I expected her to say was: “Now I’m going to pour some feni over you.” I did what any hapless soul lying face down on a massage table would do. Laugh nervously.
The next thing I knew, the cashew spirit that’s launched a million smelly jokes was being vigorously poured down my unprepared back. “But I thought you were kidding…” I feebly protested. “I never joke about my work,” replied the masseuse. What followed was a highly original feni-soaked hour. The two of us – kneader and kneady – were locked in a short-lived yet deeply intense relationship of staggeringly unequal proportions, and no boundaries to really speak of. Ouch.
The Unbearable Calmness of Being
Then there are those luxurious massages with the perfectly “plinketty-plunketty music” – to borrow a phrase from that iconic massage therapist, Phoebe Buffay, from Friends. The hushed voices and the incense. The organic robes and soft slippers. The outdoor shower and the bowl of fruit. Somewhere along the way, hot towels launch surprise attacks on the battlefield of your body. At the end of this siege of militant calmness you emerge somewhat disoriented, but mostly relaxed. Mostly.
It’s not always this immersive, I’ll admit. The foot spa has introduced a perfectly lovely little interlude of pleasure between prosaic workday engagements. But here, too, I’m encumbered by doubt: am I actually enjoying the massage or does it only really feel good when he stops pressing my foot like it’s a button in a broken vending machine? It’s always too much or too little, this whole “pressure” business. Halfway into a massage, I just find it easier to let the therapist do whatever it is that they think I’m liking. At some point or the other, we’re all Chandler suffering Monica’s “worst massage”. What’s the correct way to say: I feel so very privileged that I’m allowed to have a massage, but you’re killing me with your enthusiasm and I hate you for it!
LUCKILY, THERE IS SUCH A THING AS A GENUINELY RELAXING MASSAGE. WHERE THE THERAPIST RESPONDS TO YOUR EVERY WISH, WITHOUT YOU HAVING TO ARTICULATE IT
Massage for humanity
For all my misgivings about the slippery world of massages,
I’m a big fan. I aspire to be a testee for experts looking to upskill – not so much a crash test dummy for trainees. To smugly respond when someone asks “What do you do for a living?” – “I’m a massage researcher, ground reporting on cutting edge new trends.” It would be an altruistic service provided for humanity, constantly floundering in its search for the perfect balance between strength and sensitivity while lying disrobed in a dark room. (I just had a sudden flash of a Hong Kong establishment that assured me theirs was not the kind of massage parlour I was looking for. I clearly missed the smiley face code in the neon sign outside.)
Luckily, there is such a thing as a genuinely relaxing massage. Where the therapist responds to your every wish, without you having to articulate it; just like a perceptive bartender. (Warning: This is an unhealthy expectation in any other kind of relationship, personal or professional, especially the one with your hairdresser.) Massage protocol prescribes silence, the language of telepathic communication. If you’re lucky, fiddly thoughts won’t mess with soothing sensations. A couple of sips of that sickeningly healthy herbal tea and you’re ready to face real life again.
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