Grandma’s Massage

Musings

By Dr. Rajagopal Soondron

Being the second child in a joint family of some eighteen persons, I was privileged to witness all the innocent “tribulations” the younger members of our extended family underwent. One in particular remains most memorable to me, the onlooker.

On many late afternoons, my grandmother, sitting on a low bench under the verandah or on the pavement outside, would happily beckon to one of the younger kids. They would be laid bare and supine across her stretched legs, head hanging lower. With some glee, I could already guess the drama to come; some of the more hyperactive boys would try to slide away, but they were too feeble to escape the elder’s grasp.

“Perhaps the kids’ initial protests were merely the result of a fear of discomfort while wishing to be elsewhere. But the elder’s massages were a family tradition, and the children had no say. Perhaps these tactile stimulations were modifying our reactions — triggering a gradual sentimental attachment to our elder relative while concurrently inducing the feeling that we were physically separate entities…”

The old lady, a no-nonsense woman, was all set to indulge in a memorable massage, ready to scold those kids emitting whining guttural sounds. Soon, grandma’s palms, soaked in coconut oil, would move vigorously to and fro on the tot’s limbs before shifting to the abdomen and back. Her enthusiasm emulated that of young ladies at the roche cari, grinding masala spices for the evening curry. However, a lighter, jovial mood would light her face as the soft tissues demanded.

With mixed feelings about not being at the receiving end, I would finally decide to enjoy the séance as the little kid wriggled with a mild tremulousness in their voice. Knowing protests were futile, they would finally yield to the fun of being rolled by the old mater. As time went by, most tots discovered that grandma’s treatment was far from unpleasant. With a touch of envy, I would not have been unwilling to submit myself to an encore — if only I were not already “too old” at five.

Perhaps the kids’ initial protests were merely the result of a fear of discomfort while wishing to be elsewhere. But the elder’s massages were a family tradition, and the children had no say. Perhaps these tactile stimulations were modifying our reactions — triggering a gradual sentimental attachment to our elder relative while concurrently inducing the feeling that we were physically separate entities. Did this reinforce their sense of self, acquired from the age of eighteen months when they passed the “mirror image” test? Perhaps. Still, the tots grew to enjoy those manipulations and dermal contacts. Years later, they would dream about those ticklish childhood adventures spent at grandma’s knees — a memory that lingers through the years.

As for the onlooker, regretting that younger siblings had displaced him from grandma’s “school,” it soon dawned on him that this intimate relationship had come to an end — perhaps the fragile bones of the old mater’s legs could no longer bear the weight. At five, I was already sorely missing that care.

The Encore!

And lo! Life seemed to have heard the secret longing of a young boy, manifesting in a circuitous way.

First came a viral infection like influenza. Downed by fever and body aches, I was driven to bed feeling that life was cruel. Then, “heavenly inspired,” I started to pray secretly that news of my tragedy would reach my aunties and my other grandmother residing nearby. My prayers were answered. Hope spiralled to a new height in the evening as I heard the aged relative’s soft voice inside the house, already tinged with despair and pity at learning of her grandson’s ailment.

I unconsciously played the “death wish” role as the old mater tried to extract a vocal reaction from me. I temporarily played deaf; she was full of tender words, saddened to see her grandson so stricken by nature. I did my best to sympathize with her diagnosis by uttering long, plaintive groans. She would touch my head, caressing my hair to gauge the fever. Through half-closed eyes, I spied on her, hoping she had brought her vial of Thermogene.

Soon, the long-awaited magic would start as the pungent fragrance of that unforgettable ointment invaded the small godon room. She would rub that thick, viscous medication onto my limbs, massaging the aching muscles with her puny, gentle hands. Secretly, I enjoyed it — it revived a dormant longing — but vocally, I continued whining sickly moans to motivate my Good Samaritan to keep at it.

Occasionally, she would enquire if I had had enough, but once more I played deaf and dumb. She would oblige and continue until her own old sinews whispered that enough was enough. Finally, she would mutter soft words, cursing the flu for visiting her darling boy, before covering me gently with a blanket. My heart jumped with glee as she promised to visit again the following day. I prayed her wish would materialize for many more days, spinning the hope that classes would be missed — much to the despair of my dad.

In the 1950s, we kids could conspire with life to make the dream of a sick boy come true!

The Avatars

For some elders, the tacit feeling was that this intimate contact between old and young reinforced religious beliefs — that the birth of these children was destined from the beginning of time. Perhaps a grandmother would see in a child an avatar of a long-lost ancestor returning to the family fold, all part of karma.

Decades later, we grown-ups appreciate that these past massages induced our developing brains to reinforce not only our body image but also our social, emotional, and psychological relationships — a wonderful tactile heritage handed down through generations.

It is all so different from the modern massages by Indian professionals in Moka, where the hyperactive mind is no longer restful or blank. In those modern settings, the protective aura of the old mater is always missing.

Mauritius Times ePaper Friday 3 April 2026