A Man, A Mask, A Massage

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  Varanasi, India
Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Lying on my stomach, under shorts half pulled down my buttocks, a man wearing an apron and surgical mask was rubbing oil into my back. It seemed like the opening to a bad porno movie, or an Eli Roth film. The worst thing? I was paying for it. I was sure my mother had raised me better than this.

In India, everywhere you go there are signs advertising the benefits of Ayurvedic medicine; from massages to shampoo to vitamins to toothpaste. Ayurvedic is an ancient Indian word that roughly translates into "hurting foreigners."

It was Christmas Day. Danayi and I were in Varanasi, holy city of the Ganges, and decided to treat ourselves to massages. Constantly on the trip so far, we had seen signs advertising these magical ayurvedic massages. The hotel we had Christmas lunch at advertised a very reasonably priced massage from a qualified "expert". We looked at each other, shrugged, and booked it.

A few hours later, our masseuse arrived. He was a little man and seemed very shy and polite. It struck us both a little odd that he had a briefcase. Little did I know the evil sadistic monster that lurked behind this banal facade. He led us down stairs to a little cell. It was just big enough for a single bed and nothing else. There were no windows, and a single metal door with a sliding latch built for a padlock. He opened his briefcase, took out a leather sheet and spread it over the bed. He backed out, reached down, and put on a full length apron and a surgical mask. Then he turned to us and asked who was first.

Being a firm believer in chivalry, I insisted Danayi take the first turn. Giving me a look like Jesus must have given Judas, she let herself be led into the little room. The little man followed her, and the door was closed with a quiet clang and the sliding shut of a deadbolt.

About an hour later, Danayi emerged, strangely subdued. When asked about the massage, she said it was very good - enjoy it. Distrusting, I allowed the smiling little man to usher me into the little room. He told me to take off my clothes and he would return in a minute. I stripped to my under shorts, and waited like a nervous virgin bride on her wedding night. A couple of minutes later he walked back in.

"Oh, you still have your shorts on? You don't want to remove them?"

"Ahh, no, that's ok, thanks. I'm ok."

"Ok, ok. No problem."

Hmmmm.

Find the top of the cleft of your buttocks. Now move your finger about two and half inches lower than you are comfortable with in public (I realize for some of you, this is a sliding scale). You should feel a little nub of bone that marks the bottom of your spine, below your pelvis. Now push hard and try to drive your spine through your skull. For fun, ask a stranger to do it for you but tell him to surprise you as to when he will do it. Contemplate, this, the most painful sensation you have ever experienced. Do you feel cleansed? Relaxed? Energized? Welcome to ayurvedic massage.

The petite stature of the little man hid hands of steel. Fingers that could tear rents in cast iron pummeled, pulled, pinched, pushed, prodded, and pulverized my body. He murmured softly, "Relax. Relax."

Relax? Sure, and while we're talking, could you stop pressing the indescribably painful pressure point about half an inch from my penis? Maybe we could watch the surreptitious testicle swipes as well. Yeah, I think that would go a long way in helping me relax.

Another murmur, like a lover's whisper; "Painful? Painful?"

"Yes, it's fucking painful!! I'm about to vomit in pain, but if you think I'll give you the satisfaction of knowing it, you sadistic little munchkin, you can bite me! No, wait! That's probably what you were planning next!"

Actually, I said "No." Albeit though gritted teeth and in a hoarse voice like a pre-teen girl after a boy band concert.

Concerning massage options, I was told there were a few choices; oil, a "little" oil, and no oil. I opted for a little oil. This was comparable to saying a deep fried Mars bar has a "few" calories. He reached down and grabbed a green bottle of what I could only assume was special "ayurvedic" vegetable oil. He then began to pour it all over me. If anyone had tried to hug me, I would have squirted out of their arms like the proverbial greased pig.

An image flashed in my head of sitting in a courtroom. A judge leaning over me says "It's all right son, you're safe here. Tell us what happened." Shrinking down in the chair I say in a small voice, "He made me take off my clothes and lay on the bed. Then he put on a surgical mask and began to hurt me." It was like a scene from Law and Order: Special Victims Unit during sweeps week.

After an hour of treatment, the little man told me we were finished. He left the room so I could dress. The effort of pulling my clothes on was almost enough to make me weep. Or was that my shame?

He took off his apron, put away his surgical mask, stopped his oil bottle, and folded his leather sheet into the little brief case. Danayi with, I'm sure, an imagined mischievous and malicious glint in her eyes, asked me how the massage was. I stammered words I can not remember. Then we paid the little man who thanked us and disappeared into the night. No doubt there were other paying victims he had to attend to.

The next day Danayi and I walked around Varanasi like a pair of arthritic senor citizens leaning on each other for support and quietly whimpering in pain. But we were healthy, we were relaxed, we were energized, we were cleansed. We were Ayurvedic.

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