The Agony of the Massage and the Ecstasy of the Oil Bath

The doctor changed my medicine yesterday. It’s not like conventional medicine, where they put you on a drug and leave you there for a month or two; like my four month prescription of antibiotics for Cellulitis, back in Lincoln. The lovely lady doctor here in India decided to change a couple of items since she seemed to be having some success with her diagnosis and treatments. 
My before-meals syrup is a great improvement and verges on palatable. My new post-meal powder now just tastes of ground-up cloves. Then there are the pills: the little brown cylinders that look like rat droppings and the little balls that are as black as liquorice. They lack the sleek coating of factory capsules from Big Pharma, so you have to be adept at swallowing fairly large tablets with swigs of water. I can’t describe how they actually work, but my head is clearer and my back is straighter, and I can think more clearly and more creatively.

I have new medication tonight. I have woken at 1am every night since arriving, and sometimes failed to get back to sleep till past 4.00. Maybe it’s jet-lag, or maybe it’s the climate, and when you combine those with the exhausting massages, it’s not surprising I’ve dozed off most afternoons. I went to talk to doctor about this, and she gave me more syrup and more pills, and I'll see what these do. 

She gave me an inscrutable smile and one of those characteristic wiggling nods that Indians add to any verbal communication, “So you are feeling the massages? I am hearing your noises.” This is hardly surprising, since her consulting room is directly below the massage room, and Arjay and Anand have been competing to see who can generate the most vocal response from me. “Yes,” I replied, “they are very good with their hands, aren’t they?” 

They really are incredibly effective with their skills; I fear that after a couple more sessions they’ll have me out jogging. 

I was nearly in tears this morning when the two of them both simultaneously hit pressure points on different parts of my body. I think this was strategic, so that while I was groaning and squealing at Anand’s manipulation of my instep and ankle, my senses were distracted from Arjay’s work on my shoulder. Sometimes I am holding my breath for what feels like minutes, just to control the pain, and then, when they stop, I am left panting, gasping and wondering why I am putting myself through all this.

The answer is, of course, that I do it because it works. The tiny 52-pence pot of ointment, that doctor gave me for my cellulitis, virtually eliminated the rash in 48 hours. Every day the stairs here seem less steep, and I know my posture has changed significantly. And it’s not all pain.

My latest treatments on the bench are exhausting, but they are followed by a totally sybaritic oil bath. After my massage, I lie on the bench, slowly recovering, while the guys heat up a big, shallow pan of medicated and perfumed palm oil. When it is warm enough, they take jugs and pour the oil over me. The bench is on a slight slope, with a pipe in the lower corner that feeds the oil back into the pan on the gas-ring. As they pour on the oil, they swish it gently over my back, and down my arms and legs. I swear I can feel the aches and pains washing away.

Then I turn over and they continue on my chest and stomach and all over. All I do for half an hour is lie there, occasionally grunting with pleasure and occasionally flinching if the oil is getting a little too warm. Can you imagine the luxurious pampering of lying down and relaxing, while two guys pour jugs of hot oil all over your genitals?

No, neither could I; but I can vouch for the ecstatically pleasurable sensation.