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The Indian head massage. A dying art. A little pain, a lot of bliss. And one that deserves far more respect than it gets.
Why is it that the champi man is always the lowest in the barbershop pecking order? It’s usually the apprentice, the helper, or the fellow no one trusts with a scissor. The one who can draw joy out of a scalp is made to wait quietly till the “serious work” of haircuts and shaves is done.
Maybe it is because we think of champi as an afterthought. The haircut is the “main event.” The massage is messy. It leaves you looking like you have walked through a storm. So, it’s given to the newest boy. Yet behavioral scientists will tell you this is the bit you actually remember. Which might explain why the art is slowly dying.
A champi is not just service. It is an art form. Honest, messy, sometimes surprisingly strong. Not the “luxury” versions in salons with vanilla-scented oils. Not the rushed airport kiosks. The real deal! Vigorous, unapologetic, almost combative. An acquired taste.
It is a craft learnt only by apprenticing under someone who knows it well. Passed hand to hand. Which is why no two champis feel the same. Each man has his quirks. His own way of making you wince and sigh together. You keep trying till you find the one who gets it right for you.
Sadly, the good ones are getting rarer.
What Makes a Great Champi
The Basics
- No long nails, no rough hands.
- Use fingertips and thumbs, not the heel of the palm.
- Fingers must keep moving. This is massage, not drilling.
- Nail the TENS: temples, eyes, neck, shoulders. One wrong move and you’re done, one right move and you’re floating.
- Don’t skip arms and back. That swing over the shoulder, fingertip to underarm? Non-negotiable. Same with the quick back rub at the end.
The Pressure
Just above medium, never brutal. Pain is part of the deal but not torture! As one champi master told me when I yelped, “Arre Baba, no pain no gain. You want a softy? Go play with a teddy bear.”
The Extras
- The “clap-clap” on the head, hands folded in prayer? Some like it. I don’t.
- Oil matters. Coconut is standard, olive if you feel fancy. Heated just right. Too hot and it burns, too cold and it feels pointless.
- Skip the fancy scented oils. They hide poor technique.
So why is it fading?
The fact is that nobody seems to care. We want quick fixes. Even when we do sit for one, we are glued to our phones. The one time to forget the world and feel worries ebb away, we waste scrolling.
And the masters? The Qadir bhais of UP or the Jha jis of Bihar, each from their own proud gharanas, rarely train apprentices anymore. Why would they? They themselves can barely manage a couple of good champis a day, mood permitting. The younger lot do not want to put in years to learn.
So the craft is waning.
Yet a good champi, for me, remains one of life’s purest, simplest joys. The tingling scalp, the floating head, the strangely numb toes. Small miracles at the hands of someone who knows what they are doing.
So next time you find a good one, spare a thought for the man tood behind you. That’s the one who had once stood quietly in the corner, waiting and ignored. Thank him for not giving up. For carrying forward a tradition nobody else seems to notice.
And maybe, just maybe, tip him like he is the star of the show.
Because he is!
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