Upon ascending to the lofty heights of the 6000ft hotel in Munnar, amid sprawling tea plantations, I felt subtle pressure beginning to build on my head. I considered it an ominous sign of an impending ailment or altitude sickness. So, despite my infrequent indulgence in hotel spa services, the prospect presented as an opportunity to alleviate the tension in my neck and head and cure whatever was ailing me.

Flipping through the hotel's "spa directory," I called guest services, opting for the "mind care" massage—a 30-minute traditional Indian head massage designed to combat stress and tension. While my initial intention was a standard session, after some contemplation in my room, trying to knead out the pain in my head, I decided that 30 minutes wouldn't suffice. I called back and requested a double session.

Promptly arriving at the spa for my scheduled 6 pm massage, I was met by the spa manager, who, after noting my name and room number, guided me towards a treatment room, extolling the virtues of my forthcoming "full body hot oil massage."

“No, no,” I said. “That must be another guest. I'm here for a 60-minute head massage”.

We retraced our steps to the reception area, where he presented a compelling cost analysis—opting for a full body massage proved more economical than two separate head massages. Notwithstanding this wasn’t what I wanted, the sincerity of the Manager offering a more fulsome service for a better price was not to be argued with.

Going along with the unexpected turn for the full body massage, I was guided to my treatment room and young Indian masseuse.

I will pause here to say that I get massages regularly, deep tissue massages with an incredibly skilled massage therapist, so I was expecting something similar to my usual treatments but with the addition of hot oil.

I found myself in a modest, starkly lit treatment room with marble flooring. The masseuse handed me a cloth bag, instructing me to disrobe, put all my clothes in the bag, and then hang it on the back of the door. She also handed me what I can only describe as a piece of string, and in the middle of the string was a white strip of rectangular tissue paper that hung down. She indicated that once my clothes were off, I needed to tie the string around my waist with the white strip of paper strategically between my legs. The paper was long enough to almost touch the floor, and I was instructed to reach behind my legs, grab the hanging paper, pull it through, and then tuck it into the string.

The masseuse stood directly in front of me, watching as I tried to contort myself to accomplish this task. I was awkward and was struggling to get the paper in position. My masseuse had to step in, moving behind me to crawl through my legs and get a hold of the paper, pulling it through and up, tucking it in the string.

Then she instructed me to sit on the chair, and she would start with my head massage. Sitting on a chair that felt like I was auditioning for Antarctica's Next Top Model, I pondered the absence of heated towels and ambient lighting. Instead, I found myself bare and cold, with a piece of paper valiantly attempting to preserve my modesty. The marble floor was freezing cold, and the air conditioning was relentless. I longed for the familiar cocoon of warmth that accompanied my customary massages.

“Is there a towel or blanket for me?” I asked meekly.

“No”, she chuckled, “FULL hot oil body massage”.

And with that, a thin but constant stream of warm liquid oil was poured onto the crown of my head, a sensory experience overshadowed by my discomfort in this frigid, sterile treatment room. The fragrant, albeit bitter-smelling oil soaked my hair, and the massage commenced.

She started rubbing the oil around in my head and tap-tapping my head, which felt quite nice, and I may have been able to enjoy it, except I was too fixated on whether I could stretch out my leg far enough to grab the thong of hotel slipper and pull it towards me to at least get my feet off that cold marble. Alas, they were too far away. More head tap-tapping.

I decided to try and relax and set some mood lighting - that is, close my eyes as the overhead lights were still glaring in our white treatment room and recall, dear reader, I was still naked, not having to see myself in this predicament was a gift.

After about 15 minutes, she gave a couple extra taps on my temples and indicated my head was done, and it was time to get on the table and lie on my back. At least I would now be relieved to have my feet off the cold marble. Except I was now closer to the air conditioning vent positioned directly above the massage table, blowing my strategically placed piece of tissue paper here, there and everywhere.

I decided to speak up and mention that I was still freezing - she seemed rather surprised - literally my toes were like ice cubes, she touched them and then placed a towel on top of me so she could leave the room (giving me my modesty) and went to have the temperature adjusted.

When she returned, I didn’t notice any discernible difference in the temperature, but her focus had shifted to the full-body massage part of the treatment.

She removed the towel and spread my legs so I looked like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I had to keep my eyes closed, I couldn’t look, I can’t imagine the sight, I felt like I was splayed out to be hung and quartered as she kept spreading my legs apart, with the white paper waving in the wind of the air conditioner like a silent symbol of my surrender.

Then, with gusto, she got started. First, the right leg, liberally pouring more hot oil from my toes to my hips, warming my feet a bit. Then, wrapping her little hands around as much calf she pushed down with all of her weight — there wasn’t much of it — and she started to thrust from my toes to my hip. Up the leg and back down, up again and back down, some pounding and intermittently more hot oil. After that, she guided my leg so that my foot was flat on the table with my knee up and continued to focus on my ankle and knee. Then, she repeated the process on the left side. I felt like a human slip and slide.

All the while, the hot, oily parts were warm, but the rest of me was still cold.

My legs must have been complete as the massage continued with the pouring of hot oil onto my stomach. It collected in my belly button, which my masseuse found amusing for some reason, and she started to giggle. Perhaps she’s used to “outies,” I thought to myself. Then, more rubbing, this time my stomach, moving her hands so deeply, I felt she was moving around the Chinese stir fry and rice I had about two hours earlier. I could feel the baby corn and bell peppers being pushed around in my belly from left to right, up and down. Then she moved up to my chest and then to my arms. She finished with some nice moves on my hands, twirling my wrists and wiggling my fingers and some strategic tap-tapping on my palms, that I almost relaxed, and then, she lightly slapped the recessed pool of oil on my belly and said, “Done, now you turn over”.

I turned over cautiously, feeling like an eel in the massage oil's slippery aftermath, worried I would slide right off the table.

She started again with my right leg, calf, hamstring, and buttocks. But first, she had to adjust my piece of paper; remember, it was tucked back between my legs. I’m quite certain at this point, it was firmly wedged between my butt cheeks, but she was folding it out of her way. I want to think that she made some sort of origami decoration, and my naked body spread out in the bright lights of her massage room had an origami crane sitting in the valley of my bum.

Then back to the “to and fro,” up and down, some feet tap-tapping and poking, which was ok because it kept them warm, preventing full rigour mortis. Then, to the left side, up my back to the neck.

At which point she declared she was going to massage my face. I seriously felt I had been there for 3 hours, and not one part of me was relaxed. I was rigid with cold. I was alive under the bright lights of the morgue table.

I firmly asked, “Well, if you are just doing my face, can I have the towel on me to stay warm?”.

This was very unusual, but she placated me. The towel she offered was short, so if it was on my toes it only went to my thighs, if I put it on my chest it draped to my hips. I positioned it halfway.

But the facial massage was quite nice. She used a less pungent-smelling oil. I couldn’t quite tell the scent as the other oil was so predominant, but I regretfully thought this was the hour treatment I was hoping for and how lovely it could have been.

Then, she stopped. “You are done. Did you like?”.

“Yes, very nice, thank you now what do I do?”. As I couldn't imagine putting my clothes on, my body dripped in stinky oil. She started to use my towel, which kept me warm and gave me some dignity to mop up the wet patches. Then she guided me off the table, and standing before her in all my oiliness, she tied the towel around my waist, put me in a hotel waffle bathrobe, placed my feet in hotel spa slippers and handed me my bag of clothes.

She opened the door and had me sit in the reception waiting area to sign my paperwork and drink some hot pink liquid with “medicinal properties.” At this point, who was I to argue, and I drank up. When leaving, I was instructed not to shower for at least 15 minutes.

Upon returning to my room, I immediately started the shower to begin the process of de-oiling. I swear that oil had leached through my pores beneath my skin. After my prolonged shower, I dried off and was about to get dressed, but still, the scent of oil was lingering on my skin, so I returned to the shower once again.

If I’m in your company and you need a good laugh, hand me a glass of wine (one will suffice), and then I'll gladly act out the absurdity of my Indian massage escapade. Because, in the end, life's most memorable stories are often the ones we didn't see coming.

So, here's to the adventure that was—an odyssey through cold marble floors, impromptu origami artistry, and the lingering fragrance of mysterious oils. Beyond an awkward massage's bizarre twists and turns, there's a valuable lesson in embracing the unfamiliar, finding humour in discomfort, and, perhaps most importantly, cherishing the great stories that emerge from life's detours.

Cheers, dear reader, to the joy found in the most unexpected corners of our journey and the pursuit of "Mind Care" in the most unexpected ways.