No Such Thing as an Uneventful Massage

I fell into a relaxing routine while in Alleppey.  I woke up late and ate a delicious breakfast curry, made by the woman who owns the house, and then grabbed a rickshaw to head to my 10:30 Ayurveda massage. 

Sushila, my masseuse greeted me with a smile and led me through an array of loud construction to a hut out back.  I took off my shoes and walked into the room. 

When you sign up for a massage, you are never quite sure what you are in for until you’re lying naked on a table, a vulnerable proposition to say the least.

In Chicago, I was gifted a birthday massage by a generous friend.  The masseuse was a gentle giant with soft hands and an equally soft voice.  He seemed almost timid about the whole process so much so that I wondered if it was his first massage. 

At one point he stood at my head massaging my shoulders so hard that he had to catch me in his arms as I fell off the table.   Both of us ended up in a giggle fest that lasted the rest of the 30 minutes.  He left so I could dress and returned with a glass of water, apologizing profusely but still laughing.

“This was probably your worst massage ever!”  He said with embarrassment. 

In Italy I visited a spa somewhere between Pisa and Florence.  It was off the beaten trail and nearly empty minus staff, maybe for a reason.  I chose both a massage and a scented oil (lavender) and followed my masseuse to the room. 

For this massage, I was given a pair of disposable underwear that were made of the same material as the hair nets the cafeteria ladies wore at Leader Heights Elementary School. 

My masseuse turned on Enya and got working.  Afterwards, she left the room to give me a few moments of relaxation, during which time the Enya CD started to skip. 

I wondered as I lay there, do I get up and turn of the CD or is this a test of my ability to truly meditate no matter what the distraction?  The woman would inevitably return as I’m standing there in my poofy, cafeteria hair net underwear fumbling with the CD player.

With this in mind, I hesitated before entering the hut the first time, wondering what I would find.  

It was a small room with thatched walls, the centerpiece of which was a huge slab of oiled wood in the shape of a person, sloping down in the center with raised sides. 

Using hand gestures and broken English, she told me to undress.  Then she made me a loincloth by taking a long piece of white cloth, ripping the sides down nearly the entire length of the cloth, making strings that would tie around my waist.  She tucked the long centerpiece between my legs and hooked it around the strings at my back.  Brilliant.

Sushila pulled out a dirty plastic stool and beckoned me to sit down for a soothing head massage.  Every now and then she let out an airy belch, which only added to my own relaxation.

In a few minutes she patted the side of the wooden person, asking me to lie down.  It was cold, dirty and a little slippery.  It smelled like wood and medicinal oils.

It was a wonderfully uneventful massage until she stuck her thumb in my armpit.  I flinched and tried to prevent smiling, which made me burst into laughter.  She smiled, but continued and soon we were both giggling. 

To indicate she was finished, she drummed my bum with a pa-rum-pum-pum pat and put a towel on the door to the bathroom, clearly indicating it was time to shower.

Traveler’s note:

I found the cost of staying at an Ayurveda hospital far too high for my tight budget, so I opted to bunk at Arunima Homestay, which advertised in-house Ayurveda massages. 

When I arrived, I found out they no longer provide in-house massages, they now book them for guests at a place across town called Snehadara Guest House. 

Though Sushila was a fabulous masseuse, Snehadara was not only a bit gruddy but also undergoing construction immediately outside the massage hut.  It was loud and distracting.  Also, taking a 10-minute rickshaw ride across town ruins ones post-massage zen!

I cancelled my last massage and would look for a different option next time.

Four years later: My return to Kerala

My time in India was as formative as everyone said it would be.

In August 2007, I returned to Chicago and spent two years working at The Cara Program, a workforce development agency that achieves the high goals that it sets. Cara was an amazing place to come home to, where I felt a small but significant sense of control over one of the greatest faults of the United States: its homeless and unemployed population.

I realized, having worked with people overcoming homelessness, that I would rather be helping them express their incredible life stories than writing their resumes and coordinating mock interviews for them. So I went to journalism school, much to the chagrin of my bank account.

After j-school I moved to the West Bank, a place where Walls are being built. Where families discuss their livelihood over delicious mahklouba meals. Where kids are playing, students are studying and teachers are teaching but everyone is thinking about the occupation.

In three days I will return to Kerala for the first time in four years. It feels like a daunting vacation, returning to a place where a walk down one street revealed mansions, paddy fields and dalit huts. Where cows rule the road and dogs are dirt. Where Hindu temples belt out melodious prayers and rickshaws wheel perilously around tight curves in the road.

Please join me as I return to Kerala, this time as a tourist, hoping to see old friends, eat the comfort food I've craved and tell some stories.