Massage therapy on Marine Drive

The skies above Marine Drive are a deep blue. The strangely compatible scents of kettle chai, salted kairi, mogra and sea spray hang in the air as Guddu Shah—who refuses to carry a real container for his tel-maalish bottles—walks past with long steps and the old smells dissolve under a wave of minty herbs.

"Khali teen hi bottle toh hain! (There are only three bottles)," laughs the 35-year-old, unconcerned about dropping one while rubbing them against each other to produce the tinkling sound that is his peddle-cry. Watch closely, and the dexterity with which he shuffles the oil bottles among spaces between his fingers tells you that he isn't being cocky. "Main chhota tha tab se ye maalish kar raha hoon--pehle Chowpatty mein kia, fir bazaar mein kia, ab teen sal se idhar hoon (I have been doing oil massages since I was very young, first in Chowpatty, then in the bazaar and now here for the last three years)," he clarifies.

A middle-aged man with very little hair and a cotton shirt spilling out from under his belt motions, and Guddu is back at work – he slaps some oil onto his palms and begins the champi. He tunes out of the good-natured banter as his fingers work their way around uncle's scalp, at lightning speed first, then lingering some. I ask Guddu if he often strikes up real conversations with his customers and he simply shrugs. Uncle though, his eyes finally shut after a few suspicious seconds of darting from my face to the recorder in my hand, lets out a little grunt—whether in response to my question, I'll never know. I decide to let Guddu finish his massage before badgering him some more.

I watch him at work, realizing, for the first time that a good champi is probably less about the oil and more about the oil massager. (Guddu's hand movements look nothing like the mother/roommate's in those cute Parachute advertisements.) While the vigour with which he massages doesn't convey the bliss associated with a champi-of-love, the drowsiness on uncle's face suggests it's plenty comfortable. Glance around, and you will probably be able to draw up an imaginary list of people who, like uncle, enjoy a champi with closed eyes and radio silence on the side. I'm thinking locals from the neighbourhood work-stations, curious tourists bent on the aamchi Mumbai experience, perhaps even the taxi and policewallas lined up at a distance. After all, there's only so much champi you can witness without craving for one yourself.

It is after seven minutes (my guess) that Guddu slows out the circular motion around uncle's temples, (which are surprisingly not as sticky as one would expect them to be) lightly grazing his fingers across his forehead before terminating contact completely. To me, it looks like a nuanced caregiver preparing to wean a baby off his pacifier, not particularly concerned about the outcome but keen to stop the child from bawling anyway. Uncle opens his eyes and hands Guddu a damp Rs.50 note without asking, I try to read the expression on Guddu's face but fail.

"So how much do you earn in a day?"

"Sometimes there's no bauni, Madam," comes the reply, followed by "but on Saturdays it can go up to Rs 600-700". Apparently, the rates for a good champi range from good to unfair, depending on the customer's generosity and, I suspect, the maalishwala's marketing skills.

Guddu, to me, appears to be the kind of professional, who will consider it beneath himself to haggle or coax a patron into giving him a higher sum. I ask him how that works out when the massage duration or area is different. Surely a quick champi cannot cost the same a head-neck-shoulder massage?

"Ab Madam, chal raha hain, toh chal raha hain. Full body ka koi Rs.200 deta hain, koi Rs150, koi sau bhi deke chala jata hain (Some people give Rs.200, some Rs.150 and some just give Rs.100)," he announces. Before I can ask him what kind of a 'full body' massage can be possibly pulled off in the very public sitting position most Marine Drive-ers prefer, he is off again, navigating his way through the traffic of cycle-cigarette vendors, kids selling bubbles or glow-in-the-dark wrist bands and chaakna walas brandishing spicy paper cones.

I tail along. "Guddu-ji, you didn't tell me where you're from?" This time, he seems visibly disinterested and I realize that I might be getting in the way of his business. Before disappearing to the far end of the boulevard though, he reveals some vital information. I now know that he is from Mathura, his father too was a champiwalla, that his hours are from 9 pm-1 am, sometimes all the way till 4 in the morning, if he is lucky to skirt around the police patrol. I also gather that 11 pm-12 am are his peak business hours (I check my watch and realize why his friendly mood is on wane) , that he leaves from his gaon during the monsoons, and uses nariya tel (coconut oil) and sometimes Navaratna-'cool cool' for his work. He also claims to have no other day job in Mumbai.

Thanking him, I let Guddu Shah, the tel-maalishwala I briefly befriended, go. That's a cool bit of ground reporting, I think smugly. On my way back to the Girgaum end of the promenade, I run into a younger fellow, with the same accustomed tinkle of fragrant bottles and purposeful steps I've just chronicled in my memory. On an impulse, I corner him the same way, ask him the same questions. This time, I am in conversation with Shahrukh Shah, also from Mathura, also an ex-Chowpatty champi-man. Shahrukh however, claims that the "fixed price" for all full body massages is Rs.300, strictly the same for every one.

I switch off my recorder and my smugness, hail a kali peeli from the sidewalk, swallowing the fact that three hours and two interviews later, I am further away from gauging the realities of the Mumbai maalishwala than when I started out. Clearly, fiction has a way of looking like fact beside a dark sea smelling of salt, mogra, kettle chai and thanda tel—or is it the other way round?