Note 8 from Avikal’s collection, Coming Home
“This is the devil’s massage!” Shankar’s fiery eyes were fixed on mine and, together with his words, they pierced me like a flame that demanded – indeed, commanded – my complete surrender.
I was lying spread out on the ground on a mat of woven straw and a lungi – the Indian sarong – beneath a reed canopy in an open space opposite the Jama Masjid, the main mosque of Old Delhi.
I’d arrived in India a couple of days earlier. It was my first time there, and I felt right at home. It was as if I’d finally returned to where I’d lived for who knows how many lifetimes. Everything was familiar: the smells, the food, the crowds, the rhythms of life.
That morning, Beppe – the friend I was traveling with – and I had gone to visit the mosque and afterwards, on the way out, I’d noticed all these reed-canopied shelters and men having massages – some on the head, some on the shoulders, some all over the body.
I asked for information from one of the men sitting there, waiting for his next customer. He stood up and invited us to follow him. He led us a few meters further on, to another shack, beneath which a small, thin man with a pockmarked face and an intense gaze sat drinking tea.
They spoke to each other – in Hindi, I think – and the seated man, gesturing for me to sit in the shade, said his name was Shankar.
As often happens in India, a small crowd had gathered to watch this strange spectacle of a white man sitting in that place, and – as also often happens in India – among them was someone clearly better off, who told me in excellent English that I shouldn’t really sit there, since those people belonged to a very low caste.
Anyway, I had a cup of tea and a chillum of excellent hashish, and after a few minutes I found myself practically naked, wearing only a small loincloth, lying down to receive my first massage in India.
Right from the start, it was clear that this was more than just a massage: Shankar’s fingers, his palms, his elbows or his knees weren’t just touching my skin or relaxing my muscles; it was as if they were searching for my soul. It was as though, by demanding my total attention and presence, second after second, touch after touch, they were opening up an ever-widening inner space where my mind could let go and disappear.
It was marvelous and terrifying at the same time.
To stay or to disappear? Resistance or surrender?
It was then, trying to regain a little control over myself, that I opened my eyes and asked that silly question: “What sort of massage is this?“
The reply: “This is the devil’s massage“ – and the energy of the man looking at me penetrated me like molten lava that dissolved every defense, while a feeling of total trust spread throughout my body, quenching my thirsty heart.
I rested my head on the mat and felt the purest joy of total surrender, the absolute perfection of the present moment.
Feeling the hard dry earth under me, hearing the noise of the city all around, watching a rat scurrying furtively along the low wall beside us and a crow hopping about looking for something to peck at, whilst Shankar sank his fingers into my flesh and my soul, I felt and knew the pure ecstasy of being at home. And, giving thanks to existence, I realized that that home was within me.
Featured image by the author – translation from Italian by Osho News
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