A masseur’s gentle pull and push opens up the secret lesions of our life that only the body is privy to

He continued kneading my back lightly till he stopped at my waist. Like every uncomfortable journey or a listless date that seem longer than they are, only because they fail to distract, the massage had started to feel exhausting. His fingers rested against every bulge over my dress, those I carefully hide or camouflage. I was convinced he was examining them. My toes were curled; fingers grasped one another: embarrassed, my body was taking refuge in itself for assurance.

These protrusions, which become more pronounced every time I sit, were proofs of my unchecked greed, unrestrained indulgence and crushing loneliness. They were manifestations of every brownie I’ve had on nights I felt an inexplicable yearning I just did not know of any other way to satiate. Some, I’m certain, merely held the foam of the many coffees I ordered on afternoons I wanted something to touch only to be reassured that I could. His sudden access deeply embarrassed me. But I was more anguished at how crudely revealing it felt. So much of how my body looks now has been whittled by my wants and afflictions, my excesses and deprivations. My needs and restraints left their marks, carved their decipherable initials to assert their, often unobtrusive, ingress.

Entirely focussed on his task, the masseur gently lifted my left hand, pressing every finger, pulling and pushing them with dexterity. This constant interplay that resembled letting go and holding back, and the strange pleasure it proffered, made me smile. It seemed such an unusual but apt physical analogy of the intrinsic way I deal with most of my relationships. It felt stimulating. His grasp loosened a little, and, then, as if to check (and to my utter shame), he held each finger longer than he had earlier, with marked attentiveness. He noticed the red patches around my nails. My eyes, still shut, could feel his gaze. His finger, like a mute constable, was inspecting the site of mutilation.

I tear off my skin when I’m tense or trying to recollect something I had remembered till very recently. Of late, these sudden bouts of forgetfulness trouble me with increasing frequency. During these painful moments of recollection, my finger remains perpetually in the mouth, wet, soggy, sometimes bleeding. The word comes back a little later but the soreness in my finger remains as evidence of the struggle. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, and, on the days when the pain is too much and I’m disappointed for being such an abject failure, I console myself by thinking this is a part of me — untarnished and deeply buried — that I have retained while I struggle to recognise the person I see in the mirror. The pain has strangely become symptomatic of my constant wrestling to remain who I was while who I am has been in a constant flux.

He stopped at my right thumb. Its condition was worse. He must have realised by now how farcical my composure was, how frightened I really was. I started forming defences in my head. “I cut my finger”, “Oh, it is on the right thumb, too? Yes, cut both of them together. They don’t hurt, thank you for asking.”

He continued what he was doing silently, except this time taking care not to hurt me. The moment felt strangely intimate. His physical proximity to my now-exposed lesions mirrored how closely he was tiptoeing near the inner recesses of my personal shame. It seemed like he had taken out the little wounds I carry in my pocket, laid them out and without asking how or when I started assembling them, admired me for braving those. Isn’t that the purpose of collecting hurt, anyway? To have someone acknowledge that you were afflicted in the first place? Why else do we look at the mirror after a violent fit of crying if not to fleetingly admire the redness of the eyes, the unmistakable puffiness; if not to approve of the little boxes we pack our grief in before presenting them to the world?

I could feel his fingers slacken. The massage was over. I opened my eyes haltingly, almost anticipating the blinding light of realisation to hit me. My cheeks were glistening with all the oil, there were some strands of hair on my dress. The girl next to me had gone and another woman was sitting at her place, getting her eyebrows shaped. I looked up. He was watching TV, contorting his upper body to get a better view, his hands on my shoulders, still.

“Was the pressure all right, ma’am?” he inquired while fetching the remote. The current channel bored him. “Yes, thank you,” I said. The colour of my cheeks matched that of my dress. White.