The Massage

"Haan that part.. yes yes?.no?no..not there baba..a little below the
spot where you are touching now?aaaaaah, yes?yes?yes, keep pressing
that point?.ohhh I like that?.."

It was a lazy Sunday morning for the profligate Dipankar. He was lying
on his back on a chatai on the floor of the drawing room of his house
under the whirring blades of the ceiling fan, while his calves were
screaming in delight at the highly comforting and tingling sensations
which were being unfurled by the expert hands of the masseur. But for
Babloo, the man who was kneeling at Dipankar's feet, with his hands
working their magic charm, Sunday was the day when he worked the
hardest. It was the only day of the week when most of his clients
wanted a full body massage. Babloo was a personal masseur. And that
meant making personal visits to his client's houses and massaging their
dog-tired bodies for a whole hour for which he was compensated by the
market rate of Rupees one hundred and fifty. Babloo was a native from
the northern state of UP and was short with a beefy constitution with
especially powerful shoulders and forearms which his uncle who was a
masseur himself had spotted at an early age and later took the
initiative of initiating the young Babloo into his present career. His
coarse hands with thick heavy palms and short stubby fingers were again
a biological gift to his chosen field of work. His physiognomy was
devoid of anything remotely interesting except a large pock marked
lumpy nose which the maker slapped onto his face in a hurry.

"Bablooji, it seems like you have actually had breakfast today. You
have been really applying good pressure on the muscles. Just the way I
like it!!", Dipankar exclaimed.

"Nahin, Deepoobhai, actually you are the first client of the day today.
Usually I come to your house after attending two or three clients. So
the energy levels take a dip sometimes."

Dipankar chuckled.
"Ahh, so maybe now I should insist that you attend to me first in the
day and then move on to the other clients."

Babloo abandoned the legs with an air of finality to concentrate on the
upper part of the torso; namely the chest, ribs and stomach. Dipankar
sighed again with pleasure as Babloo crouched on top of Dipankar with
both his hands on his chest muscles.

"So how's Adnan Swami?"

Dipankar questioned Babloo looking directly into his eyes which were
calmly resting on his face, while his ribs were being pumped firmly and
rhythmically.

"Oh, he is visiting Bangalore for about fifteen days. And he has asked
me to come along with him. He said Babloo, pick your bags and come with
me. I'll take care of your accommodation and everything else. It is to
ensure that his massages happen regularly as always. He is ready to pay
me double my fees on top of everything else. He can't do without
me"
Babloo concluded with a triumph and a twinkle of haughtiness in his
eyes.

Dipankar broke into a chuckle again. He was a ludicrous fellow, really
this client of Babloo. "Adnan Swami" was in reality a man by the name
of Sanjay Jain. He was an extremely rich, big hearted guy whose bank
balance and generosity of mind and spirit were only matched by his
gargantuan girth and hence the moniker "Adnan Swami" in reference to
the original Pakistani singer's infamous size. Dipankar had never met
this Sanjay Jain aka Adnan Swami but had only heard reports of his
mammoth size and generosity through the humorous recapitulations of
Babloo which never failed to raise a hearty laugh amidst the greasing
of his surrendered limbs. So how's Adnan Sami - would generally cut the
ice on every session of his massage by Babloo and would be followed by
smiles on both faces. There would always be something interesting to
hear about the man from Babloo's lips. The visual of a massive hulk of
a man being massaged every other day by Babloo struck Dipankar as an
immensely funny visage. Both of them could not help but take a dig at
"Adnan Swami" at least once during their session.

An "OK" signal from Babloo's lips was enough for the highly relaxed and
partially oiled Dipankar to know that it was time to turn over on his
stomach and expose his flipside. He obeyed the command and readied
himself for the back massage which ideally started with the
buttocks.

Babloo had desisted from massaging Dipankar's buttocks for the first
month, resorting only to massaging the parts around or gliding over his
briefs superficially. But as a true practitioner of the medium knows,
this was not right and so it was only a matter of time before this
little modesty was dispensed with. But over time, both of them had
reaffirmed their faith in each other as pure heterosexual specimens.
And then just like that, in the middle of a session somewhere in the
third month, Babloo pulled down Dipankar's briefs unannounced. Dipankar
had pretended not to notice. His butt exposed, Babloo then
ceremoniously proceeded to knead the cheeks in circles with his thumb
for a few minutes following which the back massage started in right
earnest.

After that a butt massage was always in order except when there was
another person around. And that person inviolably happened to be
Dipankar's wife Tania.

Babloo being an idealistic self respecting North Indian male, would
ignore Dipankar's buttocks in Tanishka's presence. And since the
massage usually happened in the hall on a Sunday, Tania would usually
be flitting around the house leaving Dipankar's poor buttocks devoid of
massage oil in the end. Tania was absent today and seizing the
opportunity, Babloo had no sooner rolled down Dipankar's briefs and
commenced on kneading Dipankar's yielding, stretch marked buns that the
jangling of door keys at the door announced the arrival of Tania. It
was a fragile moment. Babloo wasn't doing anything immoral but the
situation was now at odds with his displaced masculinity. Under him,
Dipankar tightened his cheeks. Babloo clenched his jaws letting
professionalism take over and wordlessly massaged Dipankar's buttocks
for exactly four minutes and then rolled back up the briefs from his
thighs and proceeded with a silent relief to the safe upper regions.
Dipankar simultaneously relaxed the cheeks and let out a lot of
suppressed air from his lungs. And as Babloo squeezed some more oil out
of the plastic oil container, and slapped the greasy liquid on
Dipankar's back, the all too familiar sense of relaxation returned. He
asked Babloo about another one of his clients; that eccentric old man
who gets up on his feet after a massage and touches Babloo's feet as a
mark of respect and appreciation. That guy was a riot! And while Babloo
freed up Dipankar's tangled back muscles and waxed eloquent about the
esoteric client, drowsiness overpowered Dipankar what with the
soporific effect of the massage coupled with the general feeling of
felicity and mirth that Babloo's time passing idle narrative usually
brought about.

But he was suddenly jolted from his dreamy half awake state into full
consciousness by a thought.
"Where was Tania? She usually makes a lot of noise around the house
when she enters the house."

"Strange Babloo." He thought aloud. "I thought my wife had entered the
house. Didn't somebody open the door with a set of keys?"

"Yes, it's strange. But I did not see anybody enter the house."

And then the thought struck him. In the morning while he was fast
asleep in bed, Tania had awoken him and told him something. He
remembered it hazily. Her words somewhat came back to him. She was
going for an outing for the entire day. The maid needed some money
urgently. Tania did not have any cash at hand yesterday. So she had
instructed the maid to come around mid day today to collect it from
Dipankar. As a reminder, Tania had also left a note on the
fridge.

The maid always had the keys to the house. But if the maid had arrived,
where was she?
"Savita", Dipankar called out turning around.
"Haan" the shy diminutive fifteen year old girl replied from the
hallway, still and frozen.

It would take some time for Savita to forget the sight of the saahib's
white buttocks being fondled by another man. She and her girl friends
had been recently discussing the activities of gay men which was
something of an eye opener for the teenage bunch. One of her girl
friends had caught hold of a gay men's magazine at a raddiwala and the
entire group of girls had spent endless hours laughing and giggling
uncontrollably over the shameless pictures of men hugging, kissing and
fondling. Little did Savita know that she would soon be privy to
something similar so soon. She abruptly opened the latch of the door
and exited Mister Dipankar Bose's house without any money in her
hand.