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.

Yoga and the Art of Lying Down

I have stayed at several Ayurveda centres, and they all incorporated sessions of yoga in their programmes. But yoga is not something that comes naturally to me. I am not (and never have been) well-coordinated physically. Despite the fact that I rowed in my school’s First Eight at Henley Royal Regatta, I was hopeless at even the fundamentals of gymnastics. I think it broke my father’s heart, since he captained the school football team and also won a silver cup for the cross-country mile.

Yoga, as I have always imagined it - nigh impossible!

Yes, I have always had very negative feelings about my physicality, and it’s been a hang-up since my father first nick-named me “Jumbo” at the age of about three. It was an image I have tried to shed many times, and I decided that on this visit to Kerala, I would make the effort to join the early-morning yoga class and not let my clumsiness detract from my efforts to get some benefit out of the exercise.

Eagles soared threateningly overhead

And so, on Saturday morning, I made my way to the flat roof of the building at 7am, picked up a sponge yoga mat, and stretched out, enjoying the early morning warmth as I lay on my back and watched the eagles circling overhead. For a moment I wondered if they were vultures eyeing me over, but I think they were just Fish Eagles out for an early-morning soar.

The instructor arrived and the first part was easy. Breathing Through the Nose: I can do that. Then we did Standing Still with Feet Together: I pretty much had that mastered after a couple of attempts. We did Hands in the Air, Hands Out Sideways, and Head Turning to the Right and the Left. In a few minutes, I was full of confidence.

After that, things started to get more complicated, but the teacher was skilled at coaching students of a wide range of abilities, so that there was benefit for everyone. It was all about stretching and breathing, and it all made sense. I felt better for it, even if I still felt like the dummy in the class. At the end of the hour, I felt loose and more flexible; by Day Two, my toes were getting closer to my fingertips and I was glad I had decided to join the early morning group.

Arjay and Anand

Unfortunately, I had to change my plans on Day Three and give yoga a miss, at least for a day. The problem was that my two masseurs, Arjay and Anand, had been focusing on my lower back, and since the previous evening, I had been totally unable to move around anywhere, without using a walking stick.

Arjay and Anand are the two top therapists at Mattindia, and they really do know how to “hit the spot.”  Let me describe the fundamentals of Ayurvedic massage.

The massage bench is more than 2 metres long and is one solid piece of hardwood, treated and stained by years of massage oil and other medications. 

Traditional Ayurveda massage bench

I start by sitting sideways, with the two therapists standing one in front and one behind me. While Arjay supports my chest, Anand starts to work on my back, alternating between broad, gentle strokes and moments when he presses his thumbs on my spine and seems to be trying to rearrange the vertebrae. He locates pressure points and I gasp, groan and squeal as he pushes hard into my back. Then they switch roles and Anand supports my back while Arjay takes a turn at being the  torturer and starts to work on my chest, reaching up to concentrate on my shoulders and the side of my neck – both of which have been mildly troublesome for several months.

I then lie on my back while more oil is applied and they start on the full length of my body, switching between long, soothing strokes from my chest to my ankles and exquisite pain as one or other of them decides to work on the sole of my foot, or the inside of my thigh.

Finally, I lie down, covered with a thin cotton sheet while the two guys pour streams of hot, medicated water all over me. It is the most heavenly sensation,  and more than compensates for the anguish of the pressure-points.

I limped away from my session today, but although my back aches painfully, I noticed that my posture has changed and I am definitely walking more upright. Maybe I'll make it to yoga tomorrow.