When everyone you meet is trying to sell you something (while insisting they're not), follows you and won't let go until you shout at them or ignore them, sometimes you need to take a break for your sanity. Even ignoring people is tiring, as is the cycle of getting into what seems an innocent chat, only to have your hopes dashed when the wheedling starts. There comes a moment when you can't deal with it anymore.This moment arrived for me in Varanasi.
As I had half a day to kill, I decided to ignore the town and head to a nearby hotel for a massage and pedicure. The spa was beautiful - as modern and clean as any in England. However, not all aspects were similar. The notion of privacy and personal space has yet to be fully embraced by India so, as I undressed for my massage, the masseuse just stood there watching me. I'd seen women publicly bathing in the Ganges just the day before so I knew that, as an Indian, she was comfortable with the situation, and that any discomfort was on my side, so I carried on unabashed. Once I was lying down, she walked out of the room to get something, leaving the door wide open for all to see, as I lay face down naked from the waist up.
I'd asked for a firm massage and that is certainly what I got. My masseuse must have been in her late 40s and she told me she'd been doing this for 15 years. She had the strength in her hands to prove it. It was just what I needed. A very motherly-looking figure, she had a warm, round face and a warm, round tummy to match. I was puzzled to see her tying an apron over her uniform, but I was soon to find out why. At one point she was working on my spine, standing in a position above my head.
Masseuses in the UK always retain a respectful distance. Not so here. As her slightly-too-short arms ran down my spine, my head became embedded in her soft belly. It was like being smothered in a warm, squidgy cushion. Again and again my head disappeared into her rolls of fat as she worked up and down my spine. She didn't seem to mind the inconvenience of her bulk so neither did I. Her tummy was rather comforting, almost like a big motherly cuddle! If her arms were too short and my body was too long, then we'd both just have to make the best of it.
Once my massage was over, it was time for my pedicure. I thought this would be done in a little private room too, but I was wrong. As I'd come into the spa's reception, I'd failed to notice a couple of floor-mounted basins, complete with taps and a wheelie office chair. This was to be the location for my very public pedicure.
As the same lady filled the basin and assembled the instruments she'd need, I sat meekly in my office chair, while she kept up a non-stop conversation in Hindi with the girl on reception, who was amusing herself playing patience on the computer. As they chatted away happily, totally ignoring my presence, two maintenance men sauntered in. I thought they would be shooed out by the ladies to give me some privacy, but no, they looked on with mild interest and joined in the conversation. There I sat, feet in a bowl of hot, soapy water trying to soak away the grime of Varanasi, while my therapist and 3-strong audience carried on as if I wasn't there. I have never felt so insignificant, yet also strangely, so relaxed. The therapist was doing her job as she should, but otherwise my presence and situation didn't register with them. This was all very liberating. Small-talk during a beauty treatment can be excruciatingly dull and I was spared this torment by being ignored.
Meanwhile my therapist got on with my pedicure. Her motherly appearance was matched by her no-nonsense approach. She hauled each foot out in turn, peering through little rectangular glasses balanced on the end of her nose with a look of serious concentration. I felt like her grubby child, to whom she was administering a jolly good, long-overdue scrubbing.
This was confirmed when she announced, 'Very long cuticle. Long time no pedicure.'
'Er, yes,' I laughed meekly. I felt she did not approve.
To reduce my exceedingly long cuticles she used a small metal instrument to scrape them back, before trimming them off. Now when I say scrape, I mean scrape. Putting all her considerable force behind the blade, she ground away at the base of my nails with grim determination.
When satisfied that my cuticles were now of a socially acceptable length, she tackled my dead skin.What a disappointment I must have been to her! She took out a tool that can only be described as a fine Parmesan cheese grater and, with one of my feet clamped firmly in one hand, she set about it with the grater.
'Very lot dead skin,' she admonished, after a pretty severe bout of grating. I nodded in shame. If I could have read her thoughts they would have said, 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed.' Clearly she expected more refinement from my namby-pamby Western feet.
Next it was time for a foot scrub to refine the work of the cheese grater. She clearly thought this stage would require a bit more application of pressure than normal, so she wheeled her chair round to the other side and, with my leg wedged in her armpit, she ground in the granules with grim determination. By the time she'd finished a light sheen of sweat misted her brow. As my feet got better, my guilt got worse. This poor lady had definitely had to use all 15 years' experience to scrape, snip and buff my feet into an acceptable state. Thankfully, once the final coat of nail polish had dried, she did look quite satisfied.
'Is feel soft?' It was more of a challenge than a question. And yes, they did, so I said so. She smiled at long last. I only hope the tip I gave her was enough to compensate her for her labours.
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