TOUCH AND GO

A masseur she wanted to be. But Our Correspondent found herself on slippery terrain in a Delhi spa.

My victim was Smita Thakur. As she stood there in her green bath gown, waiting for us 8216;masseurs8217;, I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. She had sportingly allowed me8212;a hack who has drawn her lessons from the dough she occasionally kneads8212;to massage her back.

If not safe, Smita certainly was in soft hands8212;as I had taken care to dab some moisturiser on my palms. I was all set. Francis, the spa manager at Oasis Spa, The Grand, New Delhi, introduced me to the senior masseur, Diana. I was to be her assistant. We went past a door that read 8216;Ladies Spa8217;. As we entered, one of the attendants handed me a cream-coloured cotton sari with an orange border. 8220;You will have to change, maa8217;m,8221; she said. Well, why not? At least I could look like a masseur even if I couldn8217;t work like one.

In minutes, I was standing before Diana for a quick lesson in the masseur8217;s art. Smita was getting a basic Ayurvedic massage called the Marma Abhyanga. 8220;It is a general body massage. It involves the use of major and minor marma points.8221; Marma? Diana saw the confusion on my face and continued, 8220;Marmas are the points on our body where the five elements8212;flesh, veins, arteries, tendons and joints8212;meet. Pressure at these points makes a massage most effective.8221; Hmm. This sounded a little like the biology lessons in school that I never understood. But I did know how to nod wisely in the face of incomprehension.

So there I was, being led into the dimly-lit massage room, warm with the fragrance of oils. In the middle was the bed, flanked by tables on which were kept vials of oil and stacks of towels. A wooden idol of Lord Dhanvantri, the god of well being. My client and I sure needed his blessings. Smita, however, seemed quite willing to submit to my hands. All she wanted was that Ruhani8217;s camera not click her face. 8220;My back can be splashed in your pages, though,8221; she grinned.

Suddenly, the notes of a flute drifted into the room. The lights seemed to get dimmer. It was time for work. Diana started by showing me a few moves. She rubbed a mixture of oils into her hands and dabbed them on Smita8217;s back. Her hands seem to fly over Smita8217;s bare back, kneading the nape of the neck, the shoulders and the flanks in a slow rhythm. Smita already seemed to have been lulled into a light sleep. After a few minutes, Diana asked me to take over. As my hands gingerly pressed the bare back, I could feel Smita stiffen. As I pressed harder, she winced. I stopped and tried again. This time, I felt the knot of muscles on her back ease at my touch. In a few minutes, my palms were warm and my shoulders tired. This was not a spa experience I had ever reckoned I8217;d get.

And what about poor Smita? How was it, I asked at the end of the session. 8220;I am used to Diana8217;s hands. So even with my eyes shut, I could make out who was working when. But you didn8217;t do a bad job either,8221; she said.

So there. I walked out, smiling smugly and congratulating myself on the skill I8217;d picked up when Francis, meeting me at the door, said, 8220;I hope Smita didn8217;t mind. Anyways, we aren8217;t charging her for this.8221; No, I don8217;t think I can earn a living in a spa.

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Neha Sharma Bahl is a feature writer with Indian Express, Delhi