Massage in a Bottle

Friday night was entertaining with Rahul Da Cunha’s Me, Kash and Cruise. I and I, were stuck in a shitty traffic jam, and 20 minutes of the play, vanished before our eyes as we sat abusing bad drivers in our need for speed. After running through the labyrinth of NCPA and reviving from the shock of overpriced play tickets, we were hushed in. These days art has a value that costs more than lunch. About three friends with a 20 year-old friendship, Yamini Namjoshi, Amit Mistry and Neil Bhoopalam essayed their roles with ease. The stark contrast in middle-class Delhiite, Cruise and SoBo Kash severely reminded me of two people I had a crush on. Rajit Kapur is the ace charmer and performer, and his entry always steals your breath away. The President Is Coming, Kunaal Roy Kapur’s effort was not as bad as I thought it’d be. Played out with the usual stereotypes, it meandered through the layers of a sitcom, but I was impressed with the flair of dialogue and comic timing. Even with a splitting headache, I managed two hours with more than just a laugh.

Come Saturday, it was time for a massage trial at a fancy spa at the Grand Hyatt. My friend B is always amazed with the concept of spa reviewing and often asks nebulous questions like, “Is this journalism?” I think he’s plain jealous. People dumbfounded by the concept. Yes, it is random strangers touching your body, but also for a reason. And for those you believe you can relax with your clothes on, oh boy, you got a long way to go. I know of individuals who complain of the masseur/masseuse venturing too much into forbidden territory and how the poor victim felt all “icky” and exploited. Well, even if your massage-r is not straight, shut up and enjoy it. Dimly lit by candles, soothing music, aromatic oils, it is rather fun, bordering on exotic.

Neelima, my masseuse scurries after me to help me change into soft, luminous robes. After I parade in my birthday suit (this part often makes me feel very filmy. I can always imagine a shot of the robes dropping to the floor, exposing some shapely lissom legs), she starts to work on my back. At points, her kneading got way out of control with the pressure. This frail woman was a power packed house. After 45 minutes of vinotherapy bliss, I stepped out to be blinded by the light outside, and into the steam where I happily baked like a buttery chocolate chip cookie. The shower was a realm of great distress. These days, they have severely technology-altered, showering mechanisms. I feel like a sixty year old trying to grapple with the supremacy of the knowledge beyond. There was a two foot contraption with various knobs and buttons, and yes, I could feel the privilege of hot water slipping away from me. Bring me some water, Melissa Etherbridge sang.
Suddenly a gushing of ice cold water stuns. It’s that feeling when someone throws you into the pool without warning. Yeah, I was drowning, thrown off my rafter in the depths of the Teesta, it was that bloody cold.

I notice that in India, conservativeness does creep in. A masseuse will always look away whilst you disrobe. Abroad, you are handed a g-string, here it’s wafer-like grandma undies. In a hamam, everyone strips and gregariously lounges around. Well, here, the lights were on, and you are supposed to “sit with a towel madam”. Drip, drip, drip went the ceiling. If you don’t like people touching you/face/breast/back etc, there’s seldom a chance you will ever imbibe the noble wisdom of the great massage. Expose your butt cheek to the world.