Whenever we get more than enough waiting time at the boarding gates in airports, what do we usually do? Get immersed in our phones — endless screen time or catching up with someone on chat. Or just doze off for a quick nap. Especially if you’re surrounded by tired travel companions reluctant to chat after a hectic but lovely trip across one of the world’s most beautiful islands — Tasmania, the scenic jewel of the Australian continent.
Mind you, you can’t expect two generations younger than you to entertain a guy nearing 70 whose oxygen is lecturing. I was in such a piquant situation despite having eight others with me. How to kill the waiting time?
I happened to glance at a massage chair — curiously, not longingly — and my daughter immediately interpreted that curiosity as dire need. She insisted I give it a try. I was reluctant. She said, “You must. Your body needs a solid shake-up.” We had time. She had money. I had no escape.
I told her I’d seen similar chairs at our very own Shamshabad RGIA — mera mahaan Hyderabad — and remained sceptical of their effectiveness. She was soon joined by my son-in-law (SIL), and between the two of them, I was diplomatically coerced into submitting myself for a 15-minute, no-human-involved, computer-aided massage, which commenced the moment AUD 5 vanished from her mobile via digital payment.
My SIL positioned me on the plush contraption that would now play with my body like a pre-programmed, non-consensual roller coaster. Once the hidden machinery sprang to life — kneading from top to toe, including the posterior — I briefly felt my Indian barber was far less intrusive. At least his action — that signature thapki on the neck or crackling knuckle jab on the skull — was a two-minute bonus, a complimentary relaxation trick to ensure client loyalty.
But since this chair wasn’t a living being, I let it continue its assault without any outward embarrassment.
As the chair worked through its settings, I began to realise: I needed this. Every single minute of it. Perhaps my daughter had read my body better than I had. After all, I’d just finished an 800 km road trip across Tasmania in a ten-seater van over five days, through a temperature range of -4°C to a high of just 10°C — and most of the time, it felt even colder. My aging bones had been stewing in scenic suffering.
The massage chair had features for longer durations, too, but by the time the 15th minute rolled in, I was grateful that all body parts remained intact. Surprisingly, it felt less villainous than a visit to Puttur bone setters or those Old City masseuses who leave you in suspense, cured or carted off to emergency.
Of course, India still trumps most things. Our traditional methods and roadside experts often outperform the world’s most sophisticated tech. That’s why we proudly call this nation Incredible India — and we mean it.
But I never imagined a cold, metallic machine could give me such methodical, mechanical satisfaction — and value for money. Not a second less, not a second more. It delivered on its promise, without compromise, embarrassment, or the awkwardness of human touch.
What amazed me most was how this chair could adjust itself to different shapes, sizes, and — presumably — genders. Who knows? Some well-heeled fliers might just try this chair at the airport, get hooked, and have it delivered home before their flight even lands. Five dollars for a test run — it might just be the most brilliant silent salesman.
In fact, why fly off to Thailand and risk teasing from friends when you can buy one of these chairs for ₹3 to 4.5 lakhs and get massaged in peace, minus the gossip?
I certainly didn’t expect the two innocent words “Massage Chair” to trigger a 1,000-word blog. But here we are. All under the sky — and all thanks to a chair that made me believe 15 minutes and five dollars could be worth something.
Let me know if you’d like a crisper version for publication or if you’d like to make it even more humorous or satirical.
