Couch Potato

LONG after I stagger away from the sense-lulling, spine-tingling session in the chair, ghost fingers are at work on my back, running up and ...

LONG after I stagger away from the sense-lulling, spine-tingling session in the chair, ghost fingers are at work on my back, running up and down, kneading the flesh just here8230; ooo, teasing the shoulder blades, pummelling the lower back. Fifteen minutes in India8217;s most expensive single seat, and I8217;ve already got more than my money8217;s worth.

Which is a joke, of course, since I8217;m hardly in the league of the industrialists and legal luminaries who are experiencing the iSymphonic in the privacy of their gyms and boudoirs. At a cool Rs 2.69 lakh, it8217;s a tad more expensive than the personal masseur but, hey, this consumes just as much electricity as a 100-watt bulb.

So I drink up my green tea, flex the tired shoulder muscles and prepare to slip into bliss. 8216;8216;Joey8217;s chair with juice,8217;8217; is my last coherent thought at the sight of the faux black leather, and then the chair takes over.

The back goes down, down, till I8217;m half reclining, but all awkward angles are cushioned by the so-cosy upholstery; the LCD screen-cum-remote is fixed at a convenient angle; the headphones are clamped comfortably around my head. Oh the poor sods back in the office, crouched around their flickering computer screens, they should see me now!

The music is in easy-listening mode, and as the sax wails through Hello, the chair8217;s rollers start to determine the acupressure points on the back. The LCD screen blinks, tracing the path of the chair8217;s sensors and spits out the verdict: Tense back muscles. Thanks.

		MY MASSEUR

			8226; The iSymphonic chair is manufactured in Japan and imported from Singapore by Osim India 8226; The top-end chair costs Rs 2.69 lakh; a diet version is available for Rs 85,000 8226; The iSymphonic can be programmed to suit specific needs; other models come with pre-set routines 8226; And you don8217;t have to suffer 8217;80s pop; just play any CD you want

The muzak switches to the whine of Endless Love why oh why and the chair gets into massage mode. The backrest starts kneading the shoulder muscles and works its way down the spine; simultaneously, the 10 air bags that make up the leg rest kick into action, squeezing and relaxing the calf muscles in a manner I last experienced as a few-months-old with Johnson8217;s Baby Oil. I8217;m in passive paradise, letting each unfamiliar push and pressure coax out ancient aches and pains, undo months of unergonomic chairs and uncomfortably angled screens.

Why don8217;t they stuff movie theatres with these, I suddenly wonder aloud. Imagine the wide-screen experience, watching the swooping bats in Van Helsing or the rising waters in The Day After Tomorrow or, eeks, Shefali Jariwala8217;s gyrations, while the chair beneath you shakes, rattles and rolls. Are you listening, Mr Bijli?

8216;8216;Are you listening, Ms Mukherjee?8217;8217; I come to abruptly, resisting the lap of gravity to sit up and pretend I8217;ve been here all the time. There8217;s a face near mine, the knowing grin a giveaway that he8217;s been on the wrong side of bliss all too often. He wants to feed me the facts and figures, the chair8217;s weight 100 kg, the colour range in the upholstery black, brown, ivory, the success in overseas markets even in China, with its massage-parlour-in-every-corner, the air-drops to Mumbai 8216;8216;a very famous lawyer8217;8217;, and the Time magazine8217;s crown of Invention of the Year 2001. But at the moment, I really couldn8217;t care less.

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Me, I want to go back to Lapland. The Chair understands me.