Haresh Shah
What’s There Not To Like?
When I was just a kid, I remember the family barber stopping by on the fifth floor of Jagjivan Mansion – built by my grandpa and his three brothers – park himself in the corner by the stairs at the end of the long corridor, at the foot of the custom built telephone booth. He carried a black shoulder bag made of rugged leather, containing multiple pockets to accommodate his long and shiny sharp bladed knives, several pairs of scissors, manual trimmers with handles, a mixing bowl for soap and the water, a soft lather brush and a long leather strap about three inches wide on which he sharpened his long blades while waiting for one of the older males sitting down on the floor in front of him and submit himself to the barber’s ministrations with his head bent down while the barber squatted over, trims the hair, shaves the day old growth on their chins and then oils their scalps with his palms pummeling their heads with quick jerking and frequent slapping motions. As rough as it looked and sounded and at times even hurt, once he was done, your head felt light as a feather – all the worries slipped away and be ready to face the world all over again. Professional barber’s pride and joy was the boast that he would be the only person in front of whom even the king had to bow his head.
The days of those professional home visiting barbers began to fade when my generation of Shahs began to patronize the modern hair salon down the street from our home. Equipped with high adjustable chairs and mirrors on the walls. Soon, they sprouted up in every neighborhood, symbolized by the round vertical drums of red, white and blue striped flags that twirled non-stop.
My image of the barber shop. When I first noticed similar shop fronts in Taipei, Taiwan, they didn’t look anything like typical barber shops with the hairdressers hovering over heads snap-snapping. They were wide shop fronts with clear glass walls behind which would be a well lit modern reception desk and staring at the computer screen would be a pretty young thing. A huge vertical tube of the traditional barbershop flag continuously turning inside round glass drums, some as tall as the height of the mostly revolving glass door entrances. Displayed credit card decals indicating the acceptance of Diner’s Club, American Express, Visa, Master Card and other local bank cards. Uhm, Fancy! I think to myself. But little did I know!!
Unlike European and South American business dinners that can begin as late as eleven, with meeting for drinks at nine, in the Orient, dinner takes place earlier, most of the time soon after leaving the offices. Even the most elaborate meals are done by nine or latest by ten. But when you’re being entertained, that’s when the real evening begins. Normally they took me to their usual hangouts, small cozy bars in obscure alleys and buildings. The place we most frequented was Hsilang Bar – a cozy hole in the wall. I still remember one of the hostesses by the name of Michelle. Since she spoke the most English and also we had taken to liking each other, whenever she could get away from other customers, she would come and sit next to me and we would talk. The most we would ever do was tenderly hold hands and look into each other’s eyes. Confide in little things. I would be happy just to stay home, have a couple of kids. Cook for my family I will always make myself pretty and be there for my husband, for whatever he wants to do with me. At the time Carolyn and I had recently split, and often I couldn’t help but fantasize about being that husband to her. While there may have been some hostess bars where you could take one of them home or to a motel room, neither Hsilang Bar nor a couple of others that Playboy team frequented were anything more than bars with hostesses, who sat with you and served drinks, like Saqi in the ghazals of Mirza Ghalib. Neither were they exclusive men’s territories. Half of Taiwan Playboy staff and contributors were females, and they too would hang out with us. And then I would either grab a cab or someone would drop me off to my hotel.
But one evening, when everyone else had left I find myself alone with Winston (Tsui), an executive and the editor-in-chief, Henry (Jen). I think it is Henry who is driving both Winston and me back to our respective hotels, when Winston says: It’s still early to go home. Why don’t we stop at a barber shop and get a proper massage? We’ve been working so hard, we deserve one!
Suddenly, I am standing with the two of them in front of well lit and sophisticated reception desk with the young pretty lady holding in her hands a long piece of paper looking like the one they give you at Dim Sum restaurants, to check off whatever, for when the Dim Sum carts come by, they can glance at the list and serve you accordingly. We order full body massages. And then she asks something in Chinese. Henry and Winston consult each other and then ask me, how I want my massage to end? Sensing confusion on my face, one of them explains, it has to be pre-ordered and paid for in advance and the price they charge is based on whether following the massage you wanted to have an intercourse with the woman, or perhaps just a blow or a hand job. Though I had suspected something of the sort, I haven’t given any thought to it. I certainly didn’t want to have an intercourse or the blow job. Something I just didn’t do. Plus, as a defense I would always say in jest, you know what you went in with, but never know what you might come out with!
‘Never mind.’ Says Winston and tells the girl something in Chinese. She jots it down and then inputs all of it in her computer. Winston flashes his corporate American Express. She hands us each a card with a number on them and buzzes the side door open for us to enter the facilities. I smell chlorine and the sound of water flowing. We are standing in front of a decent sized swimming pool with crystal clear water and the pool with blue tiles at the bottom. There are some men splashing in it. There is a Jacuzzi at the farthest end of the pool and the place is also equipped with the steam bath and sauna. And there are tropical plants scattered around. Everything looks clean and shiny and reverentially quiet. It’s a high quality and high priced health club. I am not sure, if we swim, but probably take showers before walking down the stairs and to our assigned cabins for our respective massages. The room is dimly lit and the layout reminds me of the tourist class cabins of the SS Marconi and QE II, the luxury liners I had sailed on.
‘That’s your cabin. See you later. Enjoy.’ Says one of them and they both disappear down the corridor.
Not knowing what exactly to expect, I lightly knock on the closed door. A petite young Chinese woman opens the door, bows slightly and lets me in, gently closing the door behind us. She doesn’t speak any English, so our communication is a few words and more gestures. As I remove my outer clothing, she neatly folds each one of the items and places them on a side table. I am down to my jockey shorts. She gestures me to lie down on my stomach on the massage table.
The room is small but seems well organized with shelves full of towels, piles of bed sheets, bottles of fragrant oils lined on a counter, a small stool placed by the side of the massage table. It is lit in a shade of purple haze. Soft piped in music wafting in is soothing and puts me in a trance as I feel her hands touch my back.
Forty five minutes or so later, I am feeling like a million dollars. Winston was right. We’ve been working really hard and it seems with those oils and her magic hands she has squeezed out of my body every iota of the stress and stiffness. All the toxins peeled off. My eyes are closed and the feeling of being lulled to peaceful sleep envelops me, when I feel her hands tugging at the elastic of my jockey shorts. She is gesturing for me to lift my butt to facilitate their removal. I comply. She slowly and softly begins to caress and massage my inner thighs. Ever so gently. I am being aroused. She has been sitting on the edge of the massage table with her back facing me. And then she lithely turns her torso and makes eye contact with me. She points at her blouse and touches the upper button.
‘Open?’ She asks.
Daintily and slowly she unbuttons her blouse and lets it slip off with a slight shudder of her shoulder blades. She is wearing no bra. Her breasts are small and firm with dark pointed nipples. They certainly don’t need support of a bra. She lets my eyes linger on them for a bit longer before turning around and reaching for my inner thigh with her hands. But then stops and brings her hands backward and lifts both of my mine lying limply by my side and with a gentle pressure places my palms over her bare breasts. It feels like a mother buckling her young kid into a seat of a Go-cart, and putting his hands over the steering wheel for him to hold onto when the car begins to gain speed.
When I feel her hand on my penis, it reminds me of Jean Jacques Lesueur – tall, handsome French man with an angular face, curly dark head of hair and a permanent impish grin on his face. He is married to the stunning Danish beauty Katrine and they live in Athens, Greece with their two kids. Jean Jacques is in the business of publishing with his best friend – a young Greek and is the publisher of the Greek edition of Playboy.
One evening I am sitting in the living room of their Athens home, having pre-dinner drinks with him and Katrine and he reminisces about his trip to Thailand, while Katrine listens in with her ever so sweet dimpled smile. The way Jean Jacques tells it is obviously more animated and somehow sounds cuter in his French accent. But I will try my to re-tell it as best I can, albeit in third person.
His father-in-law is a diplomat and at the time is posted in Thailand. Jean Jacques and Katrine are taking a vacation in Bangkok. Whereas Katrine has traveled some days earlier, Jean Jacques has just arrived after a long flight from Athens. It’s just before dinner time in the evening and the family of four is sitting around in the living room having drinks before the dinner is served. Considering that Jean Jacques would be tired and may enjoy a nice relaxing massage before they sat down for dinner, his in-laws have arranged a professional masseuse to give him a full body massage. She has set up her massage table and is waiting for him in one of the rooms in the house. She is young and pretty and an excellent professional of her trade. During an hour long massage, he is completely relaxed and refreshed and is thankful for the thoughtfulness of his in-laws. But he gets a bit uneasy when he feels her pulling at his underwear. He is not sure. If a bit guiltily and hesitantly, he allows her to finish the massage, the one he terms: with a happy ending. He emerges out of the room, not able to hide the glow of the guilty pleasure, blushing like a little kid. He notices a slight smile on his wife’s face – the kind I am noticing right now – followed by smirks on his in-laws’ faces before all three break out in a hearty laughter.
‘Comment était ton premier Thaï massage mon chérie?’ Asks Katrine. He just smiles back, thinking, what’s there not to like?
© Haresh Shah
Illustration: Celia Rose Marks
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Next Friday, October 12, 2013
THE DUTCH TREAT
Nope, this one is not a cheap one. Actually its about the dinner at Restaurant de Hoefslag at the time of its two Michelin Stars glory. It must have cost an arm and a leg. Delicieux. And all that champagne flowing? Lekker!
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