But having worked in an industry that screens and assesses aspiring businesses, I also know by now that no matter however far your travels take you, you’ll never find a girl who smiles at you from the travel brochure.[break]
I work in a bank, in a department that gives small business loans to aspiring businesses. One of the perks, and there are many, is that these businesses often offer you discounts on their goods when you visit their workplace. Often enough, they’ll even try and squeeze you with a freebie.
I was visiting a spa that had applied for a loan recently when the owner suggested that I come back to try the massage therapy. I declined politely.
He insisted. I declined, firmly. He then nodded his head and told me that anytime I decided I wanted a massage, I would be entitled to a discount.
It wasn’t very long before I got the urge to go for a massage, envisioning the good it would do to my back which seemed a bit out of shape after spending long hours sitting in front of the computer.
On arrival, I was introduced to the spa manager, disrobed and bundled into what seems like pretty cheap Superman-era underwear and made to lie face down on a cushioned table.
Soft chanting music, the ones that foreigners love to take back home with them from their visit to the country, started playing over the Chinese speakers. A soft voice, pretty disturbing, considering it was a guy’s, asked me if I was relaxed enough for him to begin.
Then he proceeded to gently press my backside while I tried not to scream out in sheer bravery.
The last time some guy had his hands on where they were right now was in a wrestling match on Parents’ Day in class 5 at St Xavier’s Godavari. As far as I recall, I don’t recall a happy ending then, too.
The naïve I had asked for an oil massage which I began regretting the very instance a bucketful was poured on my body. Now, imagine this. My body is being pressed, skins stretched, muscles turned and earlobes pinched. That’s right.
The masseurs apparently don’t spare the earlobes, either. Just when I was beginning to wonder why people would even pay for these kinds of things, warm oil was poured onto my forehead in a constant flow which seemed like a good 30 odd minutes to me.
And by “warm,” I mean “hot.”. And when I breathed, some of it actually went into my nostrils, causing me to temporarily gag on some form of cheap but awfully smelly “scented” oil.
An hour after I first laid down, I was assisted to my feet by the masseur. Not because I was loosened up but because the oil on my feet made it very difficult for me to stand up without falling down. It was either that or I had to grip the walls as I made my way into the showers.
I took a good 15 minutes to scrub the oil off of me, and finished off an extremely small bar of Ayurvedic soap in the process. It was of little use, however, and the oil refused to be washed away.
I finally gave up, wiped my body as hard as I could with a towel, and got into my clothes, wishing at least most of the smell had gone away. Alas, it was not to be.
Two days after that fateful day when I first made my mind up to walk into the spa, I’m still trying to get rid of the damned smell. I know it’s still there because my wife thinks I haven’t showered in a while.
Even Touché, my faithful dog who is normally very clingy, prefers to stay away. I think roughly a week passes before my body gets its natural aroma back.
Just about the time I finally think I’m able to blend into a polite company again without the people next to me sniffing cautiously in the air while trying to figure out the smell, a Dai from a courier company arrives with a large envelope.
With brochures and a gift certificate from the spa I recently went to that entitles us to a large discount if my wife and I decide to become its annual members.
As much as I agree with the idea that in marketing there are those who satisfy needs and those who create wants, I have nevertheless given the gifts certificate to the Dai.
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