The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (13 page)

The young man instructs me to enter the massage “room,” which is nothing more than a screened-in enclosure with a thin mattress pad and a few blankets folded up on the floor. Peering in, I deem it clean and hygienic enough. So I enter, shortly followed by—yes, you guessed it—the very same, smiling young man from the front desk.

A-ha
. Of
course
he is the aforementioned “Man on Staff” today.
Alright, let’s see how this goes.

Isn’t it interesting that Indian women masseuses request you leave your knickers on, requiring that you remove only your brassiere, yet the men have different requirements for their technique? After informing me that I need to remove
all
—yes, all—of my clothing and lie face down on the floor, the masseur sets to work.

Monsieur Masseur the Eager knows very well that this is his lucky day and seems to possess no qualms about expressing his glee—his telling grin stretches from ear to ear. Just look at his good fortune: a liberated American woman who will oblige and not balk at his request to remove all of her clothing, for she is accustomed to receiving nude massages in the West.

He begins with a somewhat skillfully delivered “oil treatment,” and—well, let us just say—Monsieur Eager takes advantage of the opportunity to treat various parts of my anatomy with excruciating detail. I’m sure that Ayurveda considers the
chest
area to be a very important, sensitive area, requiring much linger and attentiveness, no?

Conscientiously caressing my calves—surely opening up sensitive acupressure points and activating energy meridians, yes?—he delicately removes my silver anklets as attentively as a lover would tend to his consort.
Holy cow shit
, I’m thinking.
What in Shiva’s name did I get myself into here?

Sure, I know I can halt the course of events at any moment I may feel uncomfortable. At this point, however, I’m slightly amused and curious as to how long this pseudo-sexual savant is going to keep up his professional demeanor before he flips a lid.

And then. Flip a lid he does.

All that repressed energy stemming from being raised in a sexually-conservative, arranged-marriage culture spills out. While I’m lying on my back, he torques one coconut oil-basted leg high over my head—a yogic stretch that, believe it or not, is highly beneficial for hip-opening. It’s now apparent to the masseur that I am, indeed, quite flexible.

“Very good body, Madame!”

“Oh?” I respond drowsily. I’m quite relaxed, half-asleep and enjoying the manipulation of my much-neglected musculature. But then, suddenly, Monsieur Masseur jumps up and starts tugging at his clothes.
Something
has set him off.

“You having (
gasp
) much power, Madame! I think you having more power than me!
Ho!
So much… so much
Shakti
!” He is actually wailing.

Startled, I pull myself out of my passive posture and raise my head. “I’m sorry?” I mutter.

“Yes! So
hot
. Energy so
hot
. I feel myself... I feel... I’m having to remove my clothing!”

I hope he’s not serious.
He’s just having his kicks
. On the other hand, for all I know, he could be telling the truth. It’s quite likely I do have a lot of energy running through me and, if he is worth his healing salts, he could be absorbing it.

The guy is now sweating profusely and wiping his face with his t-shirt. Before I have time to respond, or grab a sarong to cool things down a bit, he gets back to the task at hand. Walking behind me, he confidently props me up like a rag doll in seated position. Next, he pours a bucket of oil on my head, works the 40-weight into my hair, and vigorously scratches my scalp.

Whatever in the hell he’s just done, I’m happy, cured, pleasantly wrecked.
That was fucking great.

“Now, you have FULL POWER, Madame!” he declares triumphantly.

For an encore, he guides me into an herbal steam bath compartment—a body-size plywood box compartment with a wooden bench to perch on—and a space for my Flock-of-Seagulls, Medusa-mopped oily head to pop out the top.

Masseur plops a wet towel on my head and turns on the sultry steam. But he plays his fantasy trump card just before he closes the contraption: “OK, Baby, sit tight,” he commands, as if he were Al Pacino ordering his moll around. Shaken from my dazed state by the inappropriate use of the word “baby,” I contemplate whether to chide his tone.
Whatever
, I conclude. At this point, I’m mashed potatoes—too hot, cooked, and oily, to be bothered.

Post-sauna, I shower, change, and take my leave through the lobby. A group of young men is hanging outside the spa, with glimmering eyes and expectant ears. I can feel them watching my every move as I pass them. They’re surely about to demand a play-by-play update from Monsieur—my cue to make a particularly quick exit, and off I stride toward the bridge that will lead me across the river to my own private boudoir.

Upon registration, after receiving my “Dhamma Sevika” name badge, I walked into my assigned rudimentary private room, threw off my grimy pack, and looked around at the space that was to be my home for the next twelve days.

Right away, I sat down on the bed and prayed—which is antithetical to being in a Buddhist meditation center, I well know, but hey, the course hadn’t begun yet, and if there’s anything that keeps me sane and connected to my Self and the greater Plan of Existence, it’s a good, old-fashioned plea to the Ultimate Powers-That-Be. I muttered,
God, I don’t think I can do this. I really don’t. I’m not going to unpack yet. I think I have to go down to the main office and tell them I’ve changed my mind. I’m unfit to serve this course. Better I leave now than climbing through the bathroom window on Day Four to skip town, yes? So help me now. I need a sign. Pronto!

I’d felt this sort of panic before. In the year before I first came to India, while visiting family in Europe, I served a similar three-day meditation course in Belgium. Even though it was my very first time serving on a course, for some strange reason, the teachers assigned me the top-dog job of Female Course
Manager
. I was the person ultimately responsible for all of the women participants.
Great…how did I get to be an example?

During the Belgian retreat, I almost DID crawl out my bedroom window one night. The women were having the usual meltdowns—wanting to leave, not sure they could continue in silence—and it was my job to help them stay strong and not leave in the middle of the course. I felt like a hypocrite and a failure; but somehow I stuck it out, and so did all of the women. By some small miracle, no one quit that course, not even me.

This is the experience I am remembering as I am praying for the strength to go forward this time. I have severe doubts, but I also know myself to be a courageous person who scarcely backs away from a challenge. I’ve also sat three long, ten-day courses, and giving back through service is a major part of this tradition. It represents a sort of full-circle completion for me. As they say, we can’t keep what we don’t give away. I want to be able to give the same opportunity that I have received to the women who are fearlessly surrendering themselves to this meditation technique. Someone gave it to me, and it’s my turn.
I can’t let them down; I’d be letting myself down, since it’s all one big wheel turning
’
round.

So I pull my wits about me, take a shower, and change into my one traditional Indian outfit—a Punjabi suit with loose pants, a shawl, and long top. It is shabby and worn from traveling, but conservative and appropriate for this setting. Next, I whip out my Tarot deck—another no-no in the meditation center, but I’m desperate and the course hasn’t officially started yet—to ask the cards for guidance.

The insight of my mini-reading is: “Yes, it’s going be a hell of a lot of work for the next ten days. You’ll feel burdened and at times overwhelmed, but there is a way out of misery. And the way out is to Be Yourself, meaning: even though you’re in somewhat of a convent, in an incredibly structured, monastic setting,
Be Yourself
. Be enthusiastic, gregarious, adventurous, good-humored, and outspoken.”

Well, that’s gonna be interesting
, I muse.
How to be outspoken, enthusiastic, and adventurous in a
silent
meditation retreat?

But, the Tarot reading does put me into a better frame of mind. Freshly showered, with a tiny iota of confidence that I can make it through the next ten days, I bound down to the main office to greet my co-servers. All five of the women are serious, long-time Vipassana students—committed meditators who seem to have no problem following rules or sitting for long hours at a time. Immediately, I’m back to feeling like an imposter.

Our leader, a middle-class Indian woman called Bhavana, assigns our duties. I’m praying I do NOT get assigned something that is scarily vital. I’m hoping it’s a menial job, so that if I screw up, there won’t be any disastrous repercussions. Bhavana hands me my task list: I’m assigned as Chief Bell Ringer and Compounder. Five times a day, I’m responsible for getting the women—all 222 of them!—out of their catatonic slumber, into their saris, bindis and bangles, and moved into the main meditation Dhamma Hall—silent all the while. Yes, silently with no words, only bells, so they will be perched on their meditation cushions and ready to observe the workings of the mind with full awareness. And all before the teachers enter the hall.

Starting at four in the morning.

Uh-huh. This is India, people. A group of Indian women is not quiet, by nature. They like to chitchat, and they like to sleep. They don’t deal with discipline, structure, and silence like European or American meditation students. From Day One, getting them off to the Dhamma Hall is one big cosmic joke.

At four a.m., after the main meditation gong goes
bing-bang-bong
around twenty times, it’s my duty to go throughout my assigned block of five dorms and get these women moving. They look at me as if I’m INSANE. You’ve got to be kidding, their faces say. They’re supposed to be observing Noble Silence for the entire ten days, which means no speaking, no miming, no eye contact. Yet, no matter what time of day, whenever I’m trying to get them on their merry way, they’re either snoring, ignoring my bells, or caught twittering away amongst themselves. Or doing laundry, or showering and primping and chatting—when they’re supposed to be perched on their cushions in the hall, in silence.

I feel more like Chief Cat Herder than Chief Bell Ringer. All of my control issues are in my face. How can I remain calm, compassionate, and equanimous when—as they walk past me with bangles tinkling, smirking and playing eye-contact games with their friends to sneak a conversation in away from my watchful, schoolmarm gaze—this is what’s really going through my mind:
GET A MOVE ON, YOU LAZY ASSES!

How far from calm, compassionate, and equanimous can THAT be?

It comes and it goes, the balance of my mind, the “sympathetic joy” I’m supposed to be cultivating as I attempt to
help
these women get through what is probably the most difficult ten days of their life. I wish someone who speaks Hindi would sit them down and explain to them that the silence is for their BENEFIT, that it will help them go deeper if they don’t try to speak with their sisters, aunties, and grannies.