Needing The Kneading

I will confess up front, I am a massage addict. The addiction is here to stay and I am not complaining. It all started with a trip long ago to Thailand, when I discovered that experiencing a Thai massage was as much a part of the Bangkok tour as visiting Buddha temples of various sizes and shapes. Once I surrendered myself to the massage, there was no looking back. With the aches and pains of aging, having a massage has now become as necessary as taking calcium tablets. Believe me when I say I am an addict, as I have tried every kind that there is-Balinese, Swedish, Ayurvedic, and even sports, in which the masseuse searched in vain in my rather large frame, for muscles to relieve tension and found none.

So I looked for a similar experience in my hometown, in India, far far away from Thailand. To my surprise there were at least half a dozen offering many versions of the traditional Thai massage with other creams and oils thrown in for an aromatic twist. I walked into one, eagerly wishing to relive my past relief from the aches, even if only for a few days. I was led to a quiet room with a rather content looking Buddha who was keeping a watch. There was piped music with a bamboo flute and chirping birds hoping to transport me to the Japanese bamboo forests of Arashiyama. There was a bed in the centre into which I was asked to lie down after the required costume change. In came a girl, hardly a year older than my fifteen- year old daughter. Just when I thought she was going to offer me green tea laced with honey, she climbed on to the bed, and gently placed her hand on my calf and put her entire weight on it. Ouch ouch or Ayyo ayyo ! After the aches were squeezed out of the system, came the bill and I ‘ouched’ again. Just kidding. It was worth every Rupee with the GST piled on.

That was not too long ago. I then decided to give Ayurvedic massage a sincere try, in keeping with the theme of Made in India. I found one close to my workplace and booked an ‘after work abhyangam’. I was led to a room with a rather large table which resembled ones I had seen in the anatomy dissection hall. I climbed on to it with much trepidation and encountered not just one but two ladies with aprons. There was strong aroma of oil being heated. The ladies gathered near my head end with me sprawled on the table, and proceeded to pray. Was it a prayer that I should survive the massage? I had ventured too deep into this to back out. Sighing, I closed my eyes. And the abhyangam massage began. They worked like practiced dancers. It was a duet, matching their strokes, pushing, pulling, kneading, rolling and more. Only words uttered were ‘Is pressure ok?’ I grunted and waited for the road roller experience to push the pains out. There were times I was sure that with so much persuasion, the fat cells would melt and disappear and I would get up to find my trousers were baggy. Alas! That remains a dream.

I haven’t given up hope yet! I am sure that the excess will surrender one of these days to the coaxing and pleading and be replaced magically by muscles. Until then I close my eyes, mumbling that I am a massage addict who needs the kneading.