Mamallapuram has almost as many Ayurvedic massage parlours as it has houses. Each has its touts which line the streets waiting to pounce on any tourist who, for even a second, might look as though he or she is lost. Big boards outside explain in misspelled English all the things Ayurvedic massage can help with – back pain, stress, weight loss, marriage problems. And they always feature a soft-focus picture of a blissful, stress-free man or woman, stretched out upon a table, being kneaded to wholeness by a smiling woman in a flowing sari.
Ayurveda, at 5,000 years old, is believed by some to be the most ancient method of medical treatment in practice. Though I doubt the woman offering me the string has ever taken the Hippocratic Oath, some medicines have been examined and patented in the West. Not that the average punter is bothered with the details of the five elements. Or the balance of air, phlegm and bile. Here in the South, training as a practitioner is less a higher calling, more a lucrative way of earning bucks off the biggest beneficiaries: tourists.
I think of the word ‘benefit’ as I climb, naked except for said piece of string, onto a slippery plastic green mattress. Behind the grimy screen, I imagine that Eva is going through the same thing, though her woman is younger, more timid, and I would guess, possesses softer hands. I think about this with envious malice as my stern-faced masseuse stares at me, hair pulled tightly back from her face like an Indian Brunhilda. ‘White girls eat too much cake’ I imagine her thinking, or at least something like that. From over the curtain, a click, and the trill and durge of ‘om,’ ‘om shanti om’ and something about Krishna.
Take it from me, there is nothing in the least bit erotic about this. Not even when she pours what seems like bucketfuls of hot oil over me and starts digging her chubby fingers into me like she’s making the dough for a steak and kidney pie. I think about Eva. There has not been so much as a squeak from her.
The two women speak in Tamil to each other. I wonder if they are comparing patients, tutting to each other. Look at those thighs, mine is probably saying to Eva’s. You can tell she needs to cut down on the chapattis. They’re probably laughing about my silly tan marks, too.
Suddenly the dynamic changes, and she’s hammering me with the rough sides of her hands. Now she’s pressing heavily against the back of my head and chanting something – what is she chanting? Will it hurt? – now telling me to turn over and I’m totally lost as all I can do is concentrate on is clamping my eyes shut. I recall somewhere in the dim recesses of my memory that this is supposed to last an hour. How long has it been? It must be half way through? I think of Eva, silent behind the screen, and imagine she is lost in some ecstatic meditative realm. Either that or she’s been clubbed and dragged away while I’ve had my eyes shut.
After a while of being rubbed, manipulated and prodded, I can sense my masseuse stepping back. I can feel steam in the air and suddenly the smell of warm fat reaches my blind nostrils. I realise that she is sponging the oil off me with a hot cloth. She doesn’t make much of a gesture towards finishing the job, however, and instead slaps me on the shoulder and says, ‘change clothes’ which means I can take the string off now.
I slide off the mattress, stunned and more than a little embarrassed. A small squelch from next door suggests that Eva is doing the same. I stand, shiny with grease and completely unclothed, in front of my stocky masseuse. We face each other for a moment, two women completely bewildered. I look into the eyes that have seen more of my skin than I probably have. Then, suddenly, she grabs my shoulders with two firm hands, and, grinning like a spinster aunt, gives me a big kiss on the cheek, before skipping out the door. Forget the oils and the om shantis, I think, smiling to myself: that’s all she really needed to do.
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