Baring it all in India: An epic journey into the hands of the unknown

I enter the massage room, an austerely furnished, dimly lit rectangular space that, with its wooden floor and furniture, exudes an almost medieval aura. I notice a wooden massage bed - a wide, bare, burnished plank, really - devoid of padding or linen that massage lovers so commonly come to expect, and think to myself - this is going to be interesting.

My masseur, a tall, handsome, neatly groomed man around my age, motions me to undress over at the corner with a shake of his head that I have already become accustomed to across India. There stand a simple dresser and a full-length mirror facing a big wooden armchair, the latter two diagonally placed. I awkwardly strip down to my underwear, "...um, do I wear anything?" As if caught by surprise, Shaju fetches a thin, long strip of champagne-colored cloth from the dresser. Uh-oh, I wonder... yes, it is a loincloth - an obsolete piece of garment whose name is long forgotten and only retrieved from my memory of college Introduction to Anthropology 101. 

Thankfully, Shaju does most of the work for me, because I'd embarrass the hell out of myself figuring how to don a loincloth. Tying the strings behind my waist and with the fabric hanging on the front, Shaju asks me to remove the underwear and wiff - he firmly tugs the cloth back through my thighs and voila - I see in my reflection my first G-string. It is silky, and comfortably it feels nothing like a wedgy.

I wait anxiously for my next command. Rather than heading to the bed, Shaju props me down on the chair in front of the mirror and then strips off his shirt. Oh, I did not see that coming. I gaze curiously at the mirror as he sploshes palmful after palmful of oil onto my hair, followed by vigorous rubbing and pounding on the scalp. I am starting to like this as a warm up. Pretty much naked, I attempt so hard to keep a straight face as, in the mirror, I suddenly see the reincarnation of the fabled Nude King in an Invisible Robe - sitting in his throne, thankfully not parading in town.

Distress from my previous two days of noises, the chaos of Chennai streets and a tiring flight gradually melts away as a delightfully warm aroma of coconut oil envelopes me. Shaju taps my head with loosely interlaced hands, then with medium pressure he repeatedly glides both palms from crown to shoulder and forearm then back again. By now, my upper body is glistening with oil. I wonder if the whole treatment will be carried out seated. Just then, Shaju invites me over to the wooden bed, and this is where even more of the unknown awaits.

I gingerly climb onto the plank. It is a long, rimmed surface with two poles on one end, like a giant griddle. Saturated with oil, I take a few seconds to slip around. I lie there with nothing but a loincloth, and the only sounds heard are of the ceiling fan and the faint honks from the streets. I suddenly envision myself a slab of pork belly marinating on a massive chopping board.

One thing that ironically enhances this massage experience was the brochure's inadequate descriptions of its therapies, so I leave myself entirely up to the hands of the unknown - literally.

Shaju resumes the treatment with a facial massage, using an oil whose warm, nutty fragrance is familiar yet cannot be recalled. Not long after, he walks away, opens the door and calls out in Tamil. I lift my head and peer through my toes. What's going on? Another man shortly joins the room, and similarly takes off his shirt, revealing a hairy chest. Now both men stand on opposite sides of the bed. Curious, anxious, and not knowing what ensues, and still barely naked, I can't help but feel like a specimen on an examine table awaiting surgery by two half naked surgeons.

Shaju lifts a hand and drizzles handfuls of oil from my foot to hip and rubs, much like you would when marinating lamb shank. All that's missing is some cumin and pepper. All oiled up, the treatment escalates into a deeply comforting new sensation, characterized by series of synchronized moves requiring the teamwork of four hands. As one masseur rhythmically glides both palms from shin to navel, the other follows suit closely and in symmetry on the opposite side, creating heat and enhancing blood circulation. I peek from time to time at the masseurs - their faces are serious and deeply focused on their task.

There comes a time when the meat gets rubbed on the backside. Like a pork roast on the spit, I carefully rotate over face down (helplessly jiggling around in the massage oil). My chef unties my strings, exposing my tender backside and stripping me of my last guard. There is always an inevitable sense of vulnerability when stripped naked before strangers, especially when unknowing of what follows. All sense of uncertainty is however quickly forgotten when one is put in good hands. Much to my liking, the treatment incorporates acupressure points in key problem areas, leaving my body both invigorated and relaxed.

Time progresses and the moment I most dread arrives - the therapy is drawing to a close - but what a closure it is. With barely-touching-you fingertips, the second masseur gently "tickles" my skin from head to toe, sending a wildly tingling sensation throughout (wait, no, G spot!!!) as I desperately try to keep my poise. Afterward, he carefully reties my loincloth ready for rinse down. Just as I think the treatment is over, Shaju leads me to the shower where a bucket of warm water is prepared and assists with an unanticipated whole body scrub. Once again, Shaju removes my covering then hands me a handful of scrub, which I use in the groin area and only later realize is meant for the face. That's when he passes me another handful and says, smiling, "for your face."

Now dried and dressed and refreshed, I gaze into the mirror and it suddenly strikes me. For the first time, it has transcended upon me the travel adventurer in me, as I stumble into the unknown, fearless of discovering novel, untold experiences. It is not in the guidebooks, not shared by friends and colleagues. It is an inconspicuous massage parlor in the backstreets of urban Chennai - one that provides a newcomer like me nothing more than an inadequate introduction of the treatments it offers - that I brave into without preconceptions. I decide to give it a go - after all, what is the worst thing that can happen?

Sometimes, surrendering oneself to the hands of the unknown can turn out to be a rewarding experience of self-discovery. It is incredible that only an hour ago, my mind exploded with curses and contempt against this city, this country. I have let the heat, the noise, the odors, the chaos, the in-your-face confrontation of India get into me. I stepped out of the massage parlor like a new being. And instantly all my misgivings of Chennai have been duly forgiven.

[Any thoughts or comments? Share with me!]