The Maalishwalla

Murzban F. Shroff The Maalishwalla Chowpatty beach, Bombay. 10.30 p.m. The swaying palms cast sinister shadows along the sleepy coastline, while cars whiz uproariously along the sea road. Some of the motorists feel grateful to the Queen's Necklace: that shining, twinkling stretch of road along the coastline, which allowed them the freedom to race their cars, feel the wind in their hair, and in that, dispel the frustrations of living in India's busiest, most hectic city. Bheem Singh Bahadur himselfpondered this reality, as he spread out the thin red towel—shrunk by use and abuse—on the soiled sand ofChowpatty beach. He glanced at his customer: a stunted middle age man, with sly lips, a straining belly and an angular face that seemed to have got that way from having a conversation with itself. Bheem Singh snapped his fingers, one by one, readying himself for the maalish, or massage, as you may know it. He looked at his customer and felt a strange sense of distancing. It happened to him usually, when the men he maalished brought with them limp, slovenly bodies, distorted by excess food, excess liquor and excess money. Bheem Singh knew the type only too well, but then, they were the kind who could afford the luxury of a maalish —a slow rhythmic massage—which gave Bheem Singh his living, night after night. The man turned, faced the sea, and started pulling off his shirt; his fat quivered into sight. Unconsciously, Bheem Singh's eyes wandered to the man's back pocket. It told the usual story: a vulgar bulge, the assertion of one-too-many credit cards, and a thappi of notes. Big denominations, that too. Bheem Singh's eyes lingered on it and felt resentment. Even ifhe worked twenty months in a row, he could never hope to have so much money. Not on himself at least. Not while he had so many responsibilities to meet on behalf of his family. His mind drifted. To his village. His beloved Isthaanpur. Where life was lived in full earnest. Where the pace never changed, nor the balance of equations. Where the ribbing was earthy and affectionate. Where everybody knew what the other did, and despite the usual stream of gossip in the quadrangle and the squabbles at the well, no one did anything unexpected, which got others on their guard. But Bombay? It was different. Demanding? Yes! Life sucking? Yes! You had to have alliances and a ready salute for power. There was always someone to bow to—like the lungiwalla dada in the slum where he lived, who claimed free massages from Bheem Singh, in addition to the eight hundred rupees he took as rent. Like also the head maalishwalla who had allowed him into the coterie, after an initial deposit of twelve hundred rupees and an agreement that he would do no more than 30 the minnesota review three massages per night. And that arrogant policewalla, who came to the beach, night after night, to rob Bheem Singh of his earnings. The face of the policewalla was different each night, the attitude the same. The click of the stick demanded that money change hands. 'Harami police, harami city!' 'City of bastards.' Bheem Singh brooded. The customer had taken off his trousers and settled himself into a funnel -like position on the towel. He looked like a deformed eel, an amorphous mass of lethargy, and Bheem Singh, who enjoyed excellent physical health and was a strapping six foot three vertically and well expanded on the chest, could not help but feel a wave of contempt. Like all rustic men, Bheem Singh counted strength over riches: a good body was the first thing a man should have. But anyway, the customer had money and Bheem Singh had talent—so it seemed an acceptable transaction. Bheem Singh knew it was a rare talent that he carried between his fingers. He could massage his customers for hours, removing tension blocks, easing their nerves and pouring the life back into their bones. He knew that his customers enjoyed his massages, though, at first, they would haggle over the rate. He would start by demanding thirty rupees...