Salad Tales
Damndest thing...this jetlag. It's coming up to twenty past one in the morning, and here I am.... and who's going to believe me at work when I get in all bleared eyed and incoherent blaming it on the jetlag. I would have said my morning reputation was in shreds, but truth be told, I just don't have a reputation to speak of when it comes to the am and the office... so much so that despite all the melodramatic gasps when people find me in at 8.30, no one seems to remember those monumental occasions when it comes to slagging off Apara and her daytime appearances at work - cry wolf! gah! I have been awake since Monday morning NYC time, and now it's Wednesday am UK time, and I'm still bloody awake. Wasn't it enough - the interminable wait for the delayed flight at JFK's cruddy terminal 7? Their duty free shops and waiting areas are almost reminisicent of CS International Airport, Mumbai! Then the flight from hell - bawling babies, muttering men, nasty cabin crew, the sudden piercing of garish lights during a totally unnecessary, tasteless and excessively loud dinner service, whining people missing their special asian vegetarian meals. It's bloody midnight - eat up or shut up!
But to the highlight of my misanthropic adventure.... Caesar salad. Like no other. If I was lyrical, I'd pen an ode to this creation, but since I'm not, allow me to describe the most unique de-construction of a Caesar I've ever seen....and I've seen a few - the best being the one they used to serve up at Bellissima in Bombay, positively addictive, and that's hard to say about a bunch of leaves, toast and some dressing! Still, there I was, not really hungry.. just mostly bored with the waiting around in the hall of hell that is terminal 7, so I venture into this restaurant where an insipid hostess informs me in martyred tones that they've just finished the last order for the drinks... good start. I wave her aside and demand food and a seat under some light so I can read my book - an erotic tale of twins sharing their lover. Ok, so it's pornography, but hey, the style was literary... verrrry literary. Since I'm not really hungry, I absentmindedly eavesdrop on the Bangladeshi wait staff, but they're not slagging anyone off, so I turn my attention to the menu and the next table, where the chewed remenants of a corn cob send me into nostalgic rapture of bhutta in the rain on Marine Drive. I can almost smell it roasting on the charcoal, the angry red, yellow sparks finding your bare skin. I can't just ask for a corn on the cob... or so I believe, so I sigh and gaze at the uninspiring menu again. Obviously too much fine dining in NYC, my lips curl in disdain as my brain processes the descriptions and my stomach turns. A Caeser salad is simple. Elegant. Hard to ruin. So when the smiley Bangladeshi waitress asks 'Is that going to be enough for you honey?' I just smile at her nodding my thanks.
There's my corn on the cob - a bit boiled, but all in all, not a bad taste at all (well, if you daub buttery cheese flavoured stuff on anything hot and roasted, you can't go wrong can you??).. and then I stop, like a ricketly old car that stalls at the traffic light, my front teeth still attached to the bhutta as lo and behold... another bhutta is brought towards me. Except this one's green. Mother of God! (and for all you believers, I do NOT say this in vain). It's the Caesar Salad. The most unique interpretation I've seen yet. I manage to disengage my teeth from the cob, and even set it back down on the dish that it came in, all without using my eyes. They're in thrall. I inspect the salad from all angles. It looks like an unhusked ear of corn with bits of creamy white stuff and bits of grated cheese on it. I poke at it experimentally with my fork. For some reason, I have two of those implements, but no knife. But, they did have those lovely paper serviettes that pretend to be cloth... I wave at another Bangladeshi mimicing a rusty guillotine, and she brings over the necessary steel.
Faced with this bold statement of a salad, I lose my customary assertiveness, and gingerly saw at the top of the green object. Nothing happens really. So I muster my machoness and hack at it. Houston, we have visual. It's an entire whatchamacallit of iceberg. Head of lettuce I suppose - but it looked more like a cigar on steroids. I mutter to myself 'It is I... LeCigar, disguised as a wilted corn field...and I shall only say zis wance...' People are looking at me, so I take up my book with great nonchalance and read a few lusty lines. But my attention is back to this UFO in front of me, and I have to put my book down. All my faculties are engaged as I call upon my best hand eye co-ordination to wrestle the Caesar into submission, inadvenrtently knocking one of the three pieces of fried bread that were masquerading as croutons onto the tablecloth. No one's looking, so I stick it back on the plate and spike it with my fork. It's so well fried, that it splits the moment my fork makes contact, and I feel a bit like I'm wielding Poseiden's trident. Somehow I manage the chop off a hunk of leaves, the outer ones redolent with velvety dressing and specs of grated cheese (rumour had it was parmigianna, but I couldn't say...), the inner ones all bright green, leafy and well, tasting of leaf, and crumbling bits of crouton - a complete mouthful - and after a brief struggle with some overly affectionate leaves, I reign supreme. I chew thoughtfully. It tastes like a Caesar... mostly.
Like Dora the Explorer I hack my way through most of the vegetation, but have to stop halfwayish for some immoral sustenance, before regrouping for the next assault. Moral of the story? Not a good combination - a salad that fights back above the waist and a sexy novel that undermines from below..... an interesting meal, shall we say...? I left a generous tip... :)
But to the highlight of my misanthropic adventure.... Caesar salad. Like no other. If I was lyrical, I'd pen an ode to this creation, but since I'm not, allow me to describe the most unique de-construction of a Caesar I've ever seen....and I've seen a few - the best being the one they used to serve up at Bellissima in Bombay, positively addictive, and that's hard to say about a bunch of leaves, toast and some dressing! Still, there I was, not really hungry.. just mostly bored with the waiting around in the hall of hell that is terminal 7, so I venture into this restaurant where an insipid hostess informs me in martyred tones that they've just finished the last order for the drinks... good start. I wave her aside and demand food and a seat under some light so I can read my book - an erotic tale of twins sharing their lover. Ok, so it's pornography, but hey, the style was literary... verrrry literary. Since I'm not really hungry, I absentmindedly eavesdrop on the Bangladeshi wait staff, but they're not slagging anyone off, so I turn my attention to the menu and the next table, where the chewed remenants of a corn cob send me into nostalgic rapture of bhutta in the rain on Marine Drive. I can almost smell it roasting on the charcoal, the angry red, yellow sparks finding your bare skin. I can't just ask for a corn on the cob... or so I believe, so I sigh and gaze at the uninspiring menu again. Obviously too much fine dining in NYC, my lips curl in disdain as my brain processes the descriptions and my stomach turns. A Caeser salad is simple. Elegant. Hard to ruin. So when the smiley Bangladeshi waitress asks 'Is that going to be enough for you honey?' I just smile at her nodding my thanks.
There's my corn on the cob - a bit boiled, but all in all, not a bad taste at all (well, if you daub buttery cheese flavoured stuff on anything hot and roasted, you can't go wrong can you??).. and then I stop, like a ricketly old car that stalls at the traffic light, my front teeth still attached to the bhutta as lo and behold... another bhutta is brought towards me. Except this one's green. Mother of God! (and for all you believers, I do NOT say this in vain). It's the Caesar Salad. The most unique interpretation I've seen yet. I manage to disengage my teeth from the cob, and even set it back down on the dish that it came in, all without using my eyes. They're in thrall. I inspect the salad from all angles. It looks like an unhusked ear of corn with bits of creamy white stuff and bits of grated cheese on it. I poke at it experimentally with my fork. For some reason, I have two of those implements, but no knife. But, they did have those lovely paper serviettes that pretend to be cloth... I wave at another Bangladeshi mimicing a rusty guillotine, and she brings over the necessary steel.
Faced with this bold statement of a salad, I lose my customary assertiveness, and gingerly saw at the top of the green object. Nothing happens really. So I muster my machoness and hack at it. Houston, we have visual. It's an entire whatchamacallit of iceberg. Head of lettuce I suppose - but it looked more like a cigar on steroids. I mutter to myself 'It is I... LeCigar, disguised as a wilted corn field...and I shall only say zis wance...' People are looking at me, so I take up my book with great nonchalance and read a few lusty lines. But my attention is back to this UFO in front of me, and I have to put my book down. All my faculties are engaged as I call upon my best hand eye co-ordination to wrestle the Caesar into submission, inadvenrtently knocking one of the three pieces of fried bread that were masquerading as croutons onto the tablecloth. No one's looking, so I stick it back on the plate and spike it with my fork. It's so well fried, that it splits the moment my fork makes contact, and I feel a bit like I'm wielding Poseiden's trident. Somehow I manage the chop off a hunk of leaves, the outer ones redolent with velvety dressing and specs of grated cheese (rumour had it was parmigianna, but I couldn't say...), the inner ones all bright green, leafy and well, tasting of leaf, and crumbling bits of crouton - a complete mouthful - and after a brief struggle with some overly affectionate leaves, I reign supreme. I chew thoughtfully. It tastes like a Caesar... mostly.
Like Dora the Explorer I hack my way through most of the vegetation, but have to stop halfwayish for some immoral sustenance, before regrouping for the next assault. Moral of the story? Not a good combination - a salad that fights back above the waist and a sexy novel that undermines from below..... an interesting meal, shall we say...? I left a generous tip... :)
Gasp! Two weeks and counting...
As usual, I succumb to the pressure of those near and dear to me, and return to the blog under duress. Another cutlet I'm rather fond off made not so gentle inquiries about my latest update, and I had to guiltily confess to not straying near here since I tore myself away to finish the vacuuming... and why not you ask? Well, the parents are here aren't they? and when i'm not bullying them (the little, belligerent, pugancious female parent) into going for a walk, or arguing about who gets to wash the dishes, or pay for groceries (this time the tallish, beer guzzling male one), I'm traumatising them by taking them to Ethiopian restaurants where the menu advises one to eat the tablecloth! :) Such a joy to have children, wot?! And what's more, we're now embarking on our ultimate revenge of the long suffering older sibling and parents... yep, we're descending upon Mimi & Rahul in NYC, tomorrow. Yay!! Revenge is sweet! Served cold or warmish with onion rings on the side :-). Poor Mim's gone on a buying spree - bed linen, towels, and hasn't stoped whining about my deliveries that are being stockpiled in their flat waiting for my ascendency. Going to be a fun week given that they live in a lovely 1 bedroom apartment opposite the gay, naked yoga class (Yep, ladies day, every Saturday morning for breakfast ;-))... guess I'll be sleeping in the tub!
So why am I here?
Because I will do anything not to have to vacuum... or make the bed...or fold away the laundry (if any of you actually thought I'd throw in ironing, you must be the peripheral lot that do not know the Maharani of Kuchbhinahin well at all! Normally, I'd read this and go... well, don't then. But today is extra special coz Ma & Ba arrive shortly, and them, the Mok will indulge happily. By the way, my feet look very fetching in my new jane norman osho chappals - chocolate and turquoise, quite scrumptious. Was actually hanging around the dating website flinging back silly emails, when I thought it was time I updated those of you who do read this on the protocal of blogging as see through the lens of Apara..... you're meant to post your comments, not send me wonderful emails! actually, feel free to do both, but I just wanted to share what super deluxe cutlet from up north had to say about my 'chasma' (glasses) episode, as in his usual brilliance he's stolen the words right off my fingertips, and I enjoyed it too much not to share. Those of you that continue to be visually challenged, will really appreciate this... so as Bollywood's greatest loss said to me, and I quote......
"I think glasses are sexy...seen as I too have a tendency to indulge in them, from the age of 7! If I had laser surgery, what would freak me out is waking up in the morning and actually seeing things without the usual frantic grope ! My other irrational fear is if I were to be kidnapped and my captors took away my glasses, I wouldnt know who I was kneeling down in front of, but then again..... :-)Hope you are doing OK cutletWe're off to our annual pilgrimage to le France tomorrow with less Euro's to spend this time !!Vinod"
In case you wondered, it's a funny old day here... warm, but cloudy. Feels and looks like rain in the air, but it's behaving like an annoyingly coy bride refusing to raise her eyes beyond the tip of her dainty nose. Still, I rather like it, despite the spring song of this idiot bird on the tree outside. The weater also seems to spawn stud muffin types roaring around in their porsche/bmw convertibles, funky music blaring.... just seems so wrong in this delicate neighbourhood (and don't be rude and go asking so what the hell I'm doing living here!) - especially when you stumble upon an aston martin roadster (yes!! can you believe it??) engine growling in that sexily threatening way only a roadster can... then as your heart races and your eyes adjust to the testosterone steaming for the car, you notice the sole occupant. Sunglasses, gold ornamentation and cigar... yep - waaaay too many fittycen videos methinks. Suddenly, jeans and combat boots don't seem to be a bad thing to be wearing when this snarls past you.
Right, guess I'd better get a move on - it's just gone 5 pm, and there's only so long that the drying towels and I can balefully glare at each other....
"I think glasses are sexy...seen as I too have a tendency to indulge in them, from the age of 7! If I had laser surgery, what would freak me out is waking up in the morning and actually seeing things without the usual frantic grope ! My other irrational fear is if I were to be kidnapped and my captors took away my glasses, I wouldnt know who I was kneeling down in front of, but then again..... :-)Hope you are doing OK cutletWe're off to our annual pilgrimage to le France tomorrow with less Euro's to spend this time !!Vinod"
In case you wondered, it's a funny old day here... warm, but cloudy. Feels and looks like rain in the air, but it's behaving like an annoyingly coy bride refusing to raise her eyes beyond the tip of her dainty nose. Still, I rather like it, despite the spring song of this idiot bird on the tree outside. The weater also seems to spawn stud muffin types roaring around in their porsche/bmw convertibles, funky music blaring.... just seems so wrong in this delicate neighbourhood (and don't be rude and go asking so what the hell I'm doing living here!) - especially when you stumble upon an aston martin roadster (yes!! can you believe it??) engine growling in that sexily threatening way only a roadster can... then as your heart races and your eyes adjust to the testosterone steaming for the car, you notice the sole occupant. Sunglasses, gold ornamentation and cigar... yep - waaaay too many fittycen videos methinks. Suddenly, jeans and combat boots don't seem to be a bad thing to be wearing when this snarls past you.
Right, guess I'd better get a move on - it's just gone 5 pm, and there's only so long that the drying towels and I can balefully glare at each other....
Perspectives
'Why don't you get contact lens? or laser surgery?'. A familiar refrain when you've been wearing glasses since you were eight. What can I say - I'm lazy? I like them? I'm less likely to get thwacked in the face? All the above? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
I went out with this guy, who wore lens - which I didn't realise and when I asked the naive question why?.... he very gently pointed out to me that if I were to take my eyes off his face for a moment and look around the pub, I'd see the obvious. I'm Indian, and subtlety isn't obvious enough for us, so I only said 'Oooh!' when he pointed out that I was the only one in that room wearing glasses. Hmmmmm. A crowded pub on a Saturday night in Islington - il disastro! Guess it was a good thing I was already there with a date.....
Since last weekend, my pity for all those sods who succumb to the dictates of societal vanity knows no bounds, because now I can finally articulate why I'll never give them up. With them, I see what you see... (well, mostly anyway). Without them, I'm in a magical world, ruled by soft focus and blurry lines, where anything might happen, but you'll never know what that might be like. Not without taking away the 20/20 vision for a flawed lens. Ah - but you can't, can you?
I look up breathing in the rain, and the leaves melt into one another like indistinct pixels on a colour palette, a filigreed cobweb canopy. A sudden faintly apologetic shaft of sunlight, and I feel like I'm underwater. A pond bottom dweller looking up at the algae and assorted pond scum, jostling each other to deny the diluted sunbeam. Weightless, insubstantial and safe in my quiet little haven, unaware of anything above the water line. My new perspective broken into by a human voice.... a question that begged an answer that required vision. Out came my glasses, and my pond surface became an awning, the sheltering leaves with distinct edges, clearer, but less evocative, less magical. I could have stayed submerged for days.... still, watching the haze of moisture morph into a veritable army of slender needles as they race towards you is exquisite... although I would have felt a greater satisfaction if I could have actually caught more than three and a half shards of rain on my tongue. Now see, if you had imperfect vision, you'd have just seen dawdling figures on the heath getting soaked instead of calling the men in white coats.... it IS all about perspective.
I went out with this guy, who wore lens - which I didn't realise and when I asked the naive question why?.... he very gently pointed out to me that if I were to take my eyes off his face for a moment and look around the pub, I'd see the obvious. I'm Indian, and subtlety isn't obvious enough for us, so I only said 'Oooh!' when he pointed out that I was the only one in that room wearing glasses. Hmmmmm. A crowded pub on a Saturday night in Islington - il disastro! Guess it was a good thing I was already there with a date.....
Since last weekend, my pity for all those sods who succumb to the dictates of societal vanity knows no bounds, because now I can finally articulate why I'll never give them up. With them, I see what you see... (well, mostly anyway). Without them, I'm in a magical world, ruled by soft focus and blurry lines, where anything might happen, but you'll never know what that might be like. Not without taking away the 20/20 vision for a flawed lens. Ah - but you can't, can you?
I look up breathing in the rain, and the leaves melt into one another like indistinct pixels on a colour palette, a filigreed cobweb canopy. A sudden faintly apologetic shaft of sunlight, and I feel like I'm underwater. A pond bottom dweller looking up at the algae and assorted pond scum, jostling each other to deny the diluted sunbeam. Weightless, insubstantial and safe in my quiet little haven, unaware of anything above the water line. My new perspective broken into by a human voice.... a question that begged an answer that required vision. Out came my glasses, and my pond surface became an awning, the sheltering leaves with distinct edges, clearer, but less evocative, less magical. I could have stayed submerged for days.... still, watching the haze of moisture morph into a veritable army of slender needles as they race towards you is exquisite... although I would have felt a greater satisfaction if I could have actually caught more than three and a half shards of rain on my tongue. Now see, if you had imperfect vision, you'd have just seen dawdling figures on the heath getting soaked instead of calling the men in white coats.... it IS all about perspective.
When in doubt...Effleurage!
Here we are - Same place, same time, same women and yes, same dilemma! She forgot to write up her notes after the last massage!!! Whoever said change is the only constant didn't know much about us obviously. 'Right' says Somya as she scans her papers, with her best professional demeanour which like her towel technique could do with some work. 'What advice did you give?' she mutters to herself. 'I gave you good advice didn't I?' as we studiously avoid looking at each other. 'Apparently' I respond in my most encouraging voice. 'So, what advice did I give you?', and reflexively my eyes snap up to hers, and we're lost, engulfed by the giggles, punctuated by severely unladylike snorts. Luckily, I remember some of her spiel from the last time, and offer up dry brushing - a brief confabulation on why that was good advice, and it's duly recorded.
Since I'm a fast learner, and past experience tells me this will take a while yet, I scavenge for food and virtually inhale whatever I can lay my hands on (who said massage wasn't fattening?!) before tending to my pretty pink toes, when the rustling of papers and under breath muttering is rudely broken by a 'Fuck!' 'Now what?' I said, trying to colour within the lines. 'Did I find any fibrosis??' she demands? 'Huh? I thought you were looking for crystal deposit?' She dismisses my contribution with a negligent wave of her hand... personally, I don't think she knows what fibrosis' is/are?? She's back to muttering about thoracic, deltoids and trapezoids, and I'm now idly curious as to which came first.... Musculature or Geometry, and naturally we debate this for a bit. Math is older than medicine so Geometry beats Musculature (but then given our pediculosis revelation, I'm open to correction…). We return to the matter at hand - a flurry of questions... did I explain the treatment? did I do this.. that.. and the other.. and I just nod amiably till my brian registers the fact that my antennae are quivering with indignation... and I replay the last question... 'Did I deal with you Gluteus Maximus?'. 'Hang on!' I rudely interrupt her flow. 'You bloody well did not!' 'Not what?' she asks confused. 'Deal with my Glutinuous Maximus!' I yelp, most upset. If there's one thing I love, it's a butt massage, and nowhere in all our muscles groups study sessions had this come up as a thing to be inflicted upon a willing case study, and yet, here the questionnaire was asking if it had been dealt with?!?! This was about when the Freudian connotations of my tongue trip occurred to me, and let me tell you, the sound of hilarity warring with righteous anger sounds makes for some very interesting acoustics. 'You should bloody well read this stuff up before the massages, so you know what to look for when you're massaging...!' I rant. 'Abhi to paad rahi hoon na?!' she retorts. (loosely translated as a rude "I’m reading it now aren't I"). I overlook her lack of preparation with a benign eye - what she needs is a massage. I'm not being frivolous here - since eBay hasn't parted with it's massage table yet, we're still working on my bed, which means she's contorted over my body while torturing me, which isn't helping her back any. 'What about the pressure?' she demands. 'What about it?' 'Was it alright?' I shrug - it had been fine. Really. Just a different story that I had a stiff neck and shoulders following that and her right thumb was unable to bend.... She glares at me. Apparently a shrug is inadmissible as an answer. 'Yeah, sure. fine'. I'm rapidly losing interest in the inquisition. 'So what pressure was it?' she queries, her pencil poised. 'What?' 'Was it light, medium or hard?' she elaborates patiently. 'How the fuck should I know?! You're the one giving the massage!! What were you doing?' Honestly! Women, I tell you!!! 'I don't know!' she yells. 'How can you not?!' I yell back. 'What did it feel like?' she persists, her tone edging on accusatory. 'Pain and torture!' I shoot back, glaring at her. Then the silliness of it all overwhelms us, and we give up. Yep. R&R That's what we both need. Some serious R&R - relaxation and recovery!
We deliberate abandoning the homework, but somehow finish it, and then do a dry run of the massage. I don't need the book any more for the back... effleurage the whole back 3 times, then 3 circles - lumbar, thoracic, cervical, then effleurage again... you know the song. We move our operation to the bedroom, and do the whole routine – right from the welcome madam, you can leave your jewellery here…. (takes an awfully long time to unscrew 6 rings!), all very professional till we get to the dreaded ‘protect the clients modesty’ towel adventure, which completely unwomans us, causing Somya to lapse into in inelegant ‘Chaal. Laet ja..’ (a not very refined manner of saying drape yourself on the bloody bed). You really didn’t think we were going to be able to sustain the client relationship did you??? There is much work to be done in this arena…
The ceaseless creaking of my bed, like a comforting straightforward shag with little variation, makes me smile. Last session had it offering up erratic squeaks and groans as if were being put through some serious S&M. No bum balancing today, and the silence apart from a stray mutter from her and the gyrations of the bed is soothing, and I feel my body actually relax into the bed. It’s the quietest it’s ever been (despite what my downstairs neighbour might be thinking) and her hands are confident and sure as they skim and knead and effleurage over my legs, back and shoulders. I think she's got it – the most relaxing massage under those hands since we began this caper! Hallelujah!! Houston we have lift off.
Since I'm a fast learner, and past experience tells me this will take a while yet, I scavenge for food and virtually inhale whatever I can lay my hands on (who said massage wasn't fattening?!) before tending to my pretty pink toes, when the rustling of papers and under breath muttering is rudely broken by a 'Fuck!' 'Now what?' I said, trying to colour within the lines. 'Did I find any fibrosis??' she demands? 'Huh? I thought you were looking for crystal deposit?' She dismisses my contribution with a negligent wave of her hand... personally, I don't think she knows what fibrosis' is/are?? She's back to muttering about thoracic, deltoids and trapezoids, and I'm now idly curious as to which came first.... Musculature or Geometry, and naturally we debate this for a bit. Math is older than medicine so Geometry beats Musculature (but then given our pediculosis revelation, I'm open to correction…). We return to the matter at hand - a flurry of questions... did I explain the treatment? did I do this.. that.. and the other.. and I just nod amiably till my brian registers the fact that my antennae are quivering with indignation... and I replay the last question... 'Did I deal with you Gluteus Maximus?'. 'Hang on!' I rudely interrupt her flow. 'You bloody well did not!' 'Not what?' she asks confused. 'Deal with my Glutinuous Maximus!' I yelp, most upset. If there's one thing I love, it's a butt massage, and nowhere in all our muscles groups study sessions had this come up as a thing to be inflicted upon a willing case study, and yet, here the questionnaire was asking if it had been dealt with?!?! This was about when the Freudian connotations of my tongue trip occurred to me, and let me tell you, the sound of hilarity warring with righteous anger sounds makes for some very interesting acoustics. 'You should bloody well read this stuff up before the massages, so you know what to look for when you're massaging...!' I rant. 'Abhi to paad rahi hoon na?!' she retorts. (loosely translated as a rude "I’m reading it now aren't I"). I overlook her lack of preparation with a benign eye - what she needs is a massage. I'm not being frivolous here - since eBay hasn't parted with it's massage table yet, we're still working on my bed, which means she's contorted over my body while torturing me, which isn't helping her back any. 'What about the pressure?' she demands. 'What about it?' 'Was it alright?' I shrug - it had been fine. Really. Just a different story that I had a stiff neck and shoulders following that and her right thumb was unable to bend.... She glares at me. Apparently a shrug is inadmissible as an answer. 'Yeah, sure. fine'. I'm rapidly losing interest in the inquisition. 'So what pressure was it?' she queries, her pencil poised. 'What?' 'Was it light, medium or hard?' she elaborates patiently. 'How the fuck should I know?! You're the one giving the massage!! What were you doing?' Honestly! Women, I tell you!!! 'I don't know!' she yells. 'How can you not?!' I yell back. 'What did it feel like?' she persists, her tone edging on accusatory. 'Pain and torture!' I shoot back, glaring at her. Then the silliness of it all overwhelms us, and we give up. Yep. R&R That's what we both need. Some serious R&R - relaxation and recovery!
We deliberate abandoning the homework, but somehow finish it, and then do a dry run of the massage. I don't need the book any more for the back... effleurage the whole back 3 times, then 3 circles - lumbar, thoracic, cervical, then effleurage again... you know the song. We move our operation to the bedroom, and do the whole routine – right from the welcome madam, you can leave your jewellery here…. (takes an awfully long time to unscrew 6 rings!), all very professional till we get to the dreaded ‘protect the clients modesty’ towel adventure, which completely unwomans us, causing Somya to lapse into in inelegant ‘Chaal. Laet ja..’ (a not very refined manner of saying drape yourself on the bloody bed). You really didn’t think we were going to be able to sustain the client relationship did you??? There is much work to be done in this arena…
The ceaseless creaking of my bed, like a comforting straightforward shag with little variation, makes me smile. Last session had it offering up erratic squeaks and groans as if were being put through some serious S&M. No bum balancing today, and the silence apart from a stray mutter from her and the gyrations of the bed is soothing, and I feel my body actually relax into the bed. It’s the quietest it’s ever been (despite what my downstairs neighbour might be thinking) and her hands are confident and sure as they skim and knead and effleurage over my legs, back and shoulders. I think she's got it – the most relaxing massage under those hands since we began this caper! Hallelujah!! Houston we have lift off.
A massage a day keeps pediculosis away???
So, how lucky can a woman get? Apparently, unbelievably so….. I can just see the lot of you thinking of the most unspeakable things that might fit that category. Mostly to do with men and rude behaviour involving dark chocolate and whipped cream, I suspect… Well, you can ease up on your panting, and suck up that saliva (ugh! Gross imagery!). What I’m talking about here, is the desire for learning. Someone else’s naturally....., Somya to be precise. For those ignorant of how history has unravelled, I used to know Somya in Bombay many years ago (neither of us like to dawdle over these mangy details) and reconnected in London in the recent past, to our great mutual satisfaction, and in the same neighbourhood as well (that was a result of deliberate engineering and not kismet however). Still, the fact remains, she’s a good friend, who lives nearby and had this sudden desire to improve herself. As a friend, I wholeheartedly supported this noble endeavour, and when it transpired, that salvation lay through holistic healing, which included the word ‘massage’, my support knew no bounds. A handy neighbourhood medic cum masseuse – doesn’t get much better than that!
Still, we are in the UK and they just don’t let you loose on the general junta without full on training and insurance indemnity, so for those of you who were under the delusion that our Somya would be reminiscent of your neighbourhood maalishwaali, put away your paltry Rs.150. She will be ‘phofessionally’ qualified, possibly ‘certified’ and definitely with a massage table. So there, Kantabai eat your heart out. But, to get to this exalted status, Somya’s had to sacrifice weekends hitting the books – anatomy, musculature, physiology… yep, it’s like being back in school, except for this time around, you need to know more than where your gluteus maximus is! (4.5657 points to those who swear gluteus maximus is to be found in Asterix, along with radio and ulna…).
Being the supportive friend that I am, I offer myself as her ‘case study’, and lesson 1 commences with much fanfare. It’s decided, because I’m lazy, the venue for test /practice massages will be my place, and Somya turns up with all her paraphernalia: Mexican carpet to drape over the bed, copious quantities of notes, towels, and a full on professional demeanour (which lasts all of 15 seconds). We agree on olive oil – actually, she instructs and I fetch, and after a quick read up of her notes, dimming of the lights to a suitable seductive level, and agreeing on a soothing oud (that's a Moroccon sitar type instrument) rendition in the background, we’re ready to go…. The first challenge, and what might possibly be her undoing… the great English towel wrap. Living in the land of the politically correct has its own peculiarities - it’s apparently not done to tell your clients to strip down to their undies and hop on…., So, modesty must be protected and comfort maintained with some fancy towel work. Except, Somya hasn’t been paying attention, and muffs it. So there I am, my modesty shielded by a large towel, lying flat on my stomach, as she commences her manoeuvres. ‘hmm, now how did they do this.. first fold this one here, then move it like so, then take the other one.. no that’s wrong. Maybe it’s this, first, fold, no that’s not right either.. how did they do it?...’ That, my friends, is a foretaste of things to come. And before I know it, the whole towel escapade has gone horribly wrong, and I’ve been none to gently pushed and poked in an attempt to get rid of the towel I had, only to wind up towelless completely. Right. She’s going to flunk the towel test.
Having given up on the towels, we just get on with it Well, she does anyway, and I’m thinking, I feel like I’m being basted. Olive oil.. just chuck in a little rosemary, thyme, tarragon, and call me Italian! Just the legs and back… remember, this is the first class. She gets to my back, muttering under her breath all the time, ‘now easy, gentle strokes along the outside of the spine, oh… I forgot my notes.. but I’m not supposed to leave you.. always have your hands on the client…’ and then the both of us are in splits at this delicate dilemma – to abandon the fundamental principle of keeping your hands on the body, or find out where those are hands are supposed to move to next! Sanity prevails, and Somya leaves me giggling as she fetches her user guide and we continue, mutter, massage, giggle, mutter, massage, giggle.. and voila. Lesson 1 complete, although I felt a bit incomplete being only partially basted, so remedied that with more olive oil while we drank tea and reviewed the session. A very fragrant night.
Lesson 2, was a lot more technical and exhausting, not helped by the fact that we began after 10 pm. A long drawn out consultation, which I failed miserably. Her sample case study was depressed, had man trouble, was unhappy at work and thusly deeply stressed, so the benefits of massage were bountiful. My profile was a bit lightweight – mostly healthy, happy, stress free, and just loved being massaged. Well, between us we managed some creative expansion to that just to give her case study profile a bit of meat. Between my scarfing down random wantons and Somya’s drinking tea, choosing the appropriate writing implements, googling some of the more technical terms that popped up in the paperwork (if any one that reads this can tell me what "pediculosis" means without referring to anything or anyone else, I will cook them a 4 course meal), we managed to complete all the documentation (and this included a trip back to her place coz she’d forgotten the most critical bits of paper..!!!) having read all the necessary bits, established the client healer relationship and signed off all release forms for any injury claims, we were finally ready for the damn massage.
This time, experience came into play, and we had sunflower oil instead of olive (lighter and easier spread in case you’re wondering – it’s not about the flavour!), notes with us right off the bat. But alas! The towel syndrome was inevitable. She thought she’d cracked it, and didn’t take notes, and there we went again.. mutter, mutter ‘no that’s not right.. it’s like this.. .let’s try again…’ 18 marks for the towels, so don’t snigger. Anyway, we gave that up as a lost cause for the moment, and with the directions precariously balanced on my bum, we crack on – a pretend cleaning of the feet, then the back of the legs, spine, shoulders, and a hunt for the trapezoid and some other complicated muscles that I can’t even recollect, gentle soothing strokes, draingage of the lympatic system… all going well, mutter, mutter….. 'hain, again? but i've already done that.... i did it before i was supposed to.. oh well, mutter mutter' and then, it’s time to flip over. But can one just flip over? Don’t be ridiculous, there’s towel technique involved here as well, and after some most inelegant yanking, which was meant to have me gracefully roll over with the towel now draped over my front, well, at least in theory, we just admitted between guffaws, towel grabs and rude displays of flesh, that she was going to have to do some serious note taking if she wanted those 18 marks.
New territory… the face and shoulders… and I swear, any injury I sustain will be a result of being massaged under mirth. My body tensing in anticipation of damage.. I mean what can you expect when your masseuse keeps muttering, and not under her breath either, of what she’s doing wrong, and what she ought to have done instead…. So much for a relaxing massage. Still, we made it through this one unscathed, and then realised, that she was supposed to have done a pre and post massage write up… which again set us off into hysterics… what did you notice in the client when you were massaging her…we decided crystal deposits sounded good as did structural integrity problems (first very kindly pointed out by this sadist masseur in Berlin who I had the privilege of paying for to be told in my agony that I was structural unsound….). Well, at least she can’t complain, might be happy and unstressed but hey, structurally flawed – that’s got to make for a good case study! Tonight is supposed to be lesson 3…. and I can feel my trapezoids tense in anticipation….and oh yes.. pediculosis has nothing to do with your feet, but everything to do with.... get this, head lice. And in case you were beset with overriding curiosity, there is a National Pediculosis Association founded in 1983.... you live and you learn!
Still, we are in the UK and they just don’t let you loose on the general junta without full on training and insurance indemnity, so for those of you who were under the delusion that our Somya would be reminiscent of your neighbourhood maalishwaali, put away your paltry Rs.150. She will be ‘phofessionally’ qualified, possibly ‘certified’ and definitely with a massage table. So there, Kantabai eat your heart out. But, to get to this exalted status, Somya’s had to sacrifice weekends hitting the books – anatomy, musculature, physiology… yep, it’s like being back in school, except for this time around, you need to know more than where your gluteus maximus is! (4.5657 points to those who swear gluteus maximus is to be found in Asterix, along with radio and ulna…).
Being the supportive friend that I am, I offer myself as her ‘case study’, and lesson 1 commences with much fanfare. It’s decided, because I’m lazy, the venue for test /practice massages will be my place, and Somya turns up with all her paraphernalia: Mexican carpet to drape over the bed, copious quantities of notes, towels, and a full on professional demeanour (which lasts all of 15 seconds). We agree on olive oil – actually, she instructs and I fetch, and after a quick read up of her notes, dimming of the lights to a suitable seductive level, and agreeing on a soothing oud (that's a Moroccon sitar type instrument) rendition in the background, we’re ready to go…. The first challenge, and what might possibly be her undoing… the great English towel wrap. Living in the land of the politically correct has its own peculiarities - it’s apparently not done to tell your clients to strip down to their undies and hop on…., So, modesty must be protected and comfort maintained with some fancy towel work. Except, Somya hasn’t been paying attention, and muffs it. So there I am, my modesty shielded by a large towel, lying flat on my stomach, as she commences her manoeuvres. ‘hmm, now how did they do this.. first fold this one here, then move it like so, then take the other one.. no that’s wrong. Maybe it’s this, first, fold, no that’s not right either.. how did they do it?...’ That, my friends, is a foretaste of things to come. And before I know it, the whole towel escapade has gone horribly wrong, and I’ve been none to gently pushed and poked in an attempt to get rid of the towel I had, only to wind up towelless completely. Right. She’s going to flunk the towel test.
Having given up on the towels, we just get on with it Well, she does anyway, and I’m thinking, I feel like I’m being basted. Olive oil.. just chuck in a little rosemary, thyme, tarragon, and call me Italian! Just the legs and back… remember, this is the first class. She gets to my back, muttering under her breath all the time, ‘now easy, gentle strokes along the outside of the spine, oh… I forgot my notes.. but I’m not supposed to leave you.. always have your hands on the client…’ and then the both of us are in splits at this delicate dilemma – to abandon the fundamental principle of keeping your hands on the body, or find out where those are hands are supposed to move to next! Sanity prevails, and Somya leaves me giggling as she fetches her user guide and we continue, mutter, massage, giggle, mutter, massage, giggle.. and voila. Lesson 1 complete, although I felt a bit incomplete being only partially basted, so remedied that with more olive oil while we drank tea and reviewed the session. A very fragrant night.
Lesson 2, was a lot more technical and exhausting, not helped by the fact that we began after 10 pm. A long drawn out consultation, which I failed miserably. Her sample case study was depressed, had man trouble, was unhappy at work and thusly deeply stressed, so the benefits of massage were bountiful. My profile was a bit lightweight – mostly healthy, happy, stress free, and just loved being massaged. Well, between us we managed some creative expansion to that just to give her case study profile a bit of meat. Between my scarfing down random wantons and Somya’s drinking tea, choosing the appropriate writing implements, googling some of the more technical terms that popped up in the paperwork (if any one that reads this can tell me what "pediculosis" means without referring to anything or anyone else, I will cook them a 4 course meal), we managed to complete all the documentation (and this included a trip back to her place coz she’d forgotten the most critical bits of paper..!!!) having read all the necessary bits, established the client healer relationship and signed off all release forms for any injury claims, we were finally ready for the damn massage.
This time, experience came into play, and we had sunflower oil instead of olive (lighter and easier spread in case you’re wondering – it’s not about the flavour!), notes with us right off the bat. But alas! The towel syndrome was inevitable. She thought she’d cracked it, and didn’t take notes, and there we went again.. mutter, mutter ‘no that’s not right.. it’s like this.. .let’s try again…’ 18 marks for the towels, so don’t snigger. Anyway, we gave that up as a lost cause for the moment, and with the directions precariously balanced on my bum, we crack on – a pretend cleaning of the feet, then the back of the legs, spine, shoulders, and a hunt for the trapezoid and some other complicated muscles that I can’t even recollect, gentle soothing strokes, draingage of the lympatic system… all going well, mutter, mutter….. 'hain, again? but i've already done that.... i did it before i was supposed to.. oh well, mutter mutter' and then, it’s time to flip over. But can one just flip over? Don’t be ridiculous, there’s towel technique involved here as well, and after some most inelegant yanking, which was meant to have me gracefully roll over with the towel now draped over my front, well, at least in theory, we just admitted between guffaws, towel grabs and rude displays of flesh, that she was going to have to do some serious note taking if she wanted those 18 marks.
New territory… the face and shoulders… and I swear, any injury I sustain will be a result of being massaged under mirth. My body tensing in anticipation of damage.. I mean what can you expect when your masseuse keeps muttering, and not under her breath either, of what she’s doing wrong, and what she ought to have done instead…. So much for a relaxing massage. Still, we made it through this one unscathed, and then realised, that she was supposed to have done a pre and post massage write up… which again set us off into hysterics… what did you notice in the client when you were massaging her…we decided crystal deposits sounded good as did structural integrity problems (first very kindly pointed out by this sadist masseur in Berlin who I had the privilege of paying for to be told in my agony that I was structural unsound….). Well, at least she can’t complain, might be happy and unstressed but hey, structurally flawed – that’s got to make for a good case study! Tonight is supposed to be lesson 3…. and I can feel my trapezoids tense in anticipation….and oh yes.. pediculosis has nothing to do with your feet, but everything to do with.... get this, head lice. And in case you were beset with overriding curiosity, there is a National Pediculosis Association founded in 1983.... you live and you learn!
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