Mahatma in Finland
It was early December 1971: circa 27 B.G. (Before Google).
As someone recently out of college, and a trainee employee, I was at the junior-most attendee in management meetings, and expected to listen and learn. Being asked one day in one of those management meetings to visit and negotiate a complex contract with a Finnish company was the kind of surprise that brings a cosmic benefactor to mind. Yet to suffer reality knocks, I was full of braggadocio and I accepted the foreign assignment without hesitation. It was later, when the news broke, that my senior colleagues gleefully pointed out what misery awaited me — long journey, freezing temperatures, high risk of failure that would doom my career, and my ignorance of Europe. Talk of a nurturing support!
We were in Bombay — the ever-warm city, so I had no woollens. And it occurred to me that this could be a just one-off trip so a quick visit was undertaken to chor bazaar — that quaintly named street where shops sell everything old — from fake antiques to used clothing: often unused and discarded but very wearable. Among the piles of woollens that I rummaged through, I found a smart, almost new, Air Force officer’s woollen jacket (with no epaulettes) that fitted snugly. It was jauntily cut of good wool and just wearing it straightened my spine and added inches to my height. I felt battle ready.
At Tampere, the small Finnish airport I would land at, my host failed to show up, and I had to call up a taxi that would take at least a half hour to arrive. I stepped out of the heated Terminal to feel my ‘first real cold’. It was a mistake — a blizzard was blowing outside. Viking mythology has Hell freezing cold — not the inferno we know — and quite understandable too, I thought, as the bitter cold and the heavy snow around me sledge-hammered me and I shivered violently and my teeth clattered uncontrollably, despite my efforts at being stoic as the brave Nordic were in the myths. My eyes fell on the large neon sign at the airport entrance declaring the ambient temperature — in wicked glee, I thought. If Hell had fires they would be put out — it was minus 20 degrees outside.
The following morning Ted met me in the lobby. I had completed breakfast after struggling with my first boiled egg. Although we had never met, it was easy to spot me: I was the only dark skinned man in the lounge; he hailed me from a distance. He was a large bear of a man with a hug to go with it, and apologised for having mixed up my date of arrival.
Ted: “Welcome to Finland, Mahatma” (His Finnish tongue could not get around to pronouncing ‘Mahendra’, so he chose an easy name from history.)
I: “Thanks Ted. Yes fascinating country.”
Ted: “Good flight from Bombay? Sleep well?”
I: “Yes it was good. No snafus.”
Ted: “Take your coat and let’s go to the office”
I: “Coat? What do you mean? I am wearing one”
Ted: “No, not your jacket, your coat”.
I: “Oh! This is a jacket? It’s all I have.”
He pointed to his long overcoat worn over a ‘jacket.’ The chor bazaar salesman, who was my coat consultant, may not have been the right advisor for clothing for minus 20 C.
Ted insisted we go to a department store first: “I don’t want the Mahatma to die on me the first day.” For a big man he had a childlike smile.
I looked at the merchandise on display all at sea, but Ted suggested a three-layered coat. The layering was clever: you could zip off each layer as the weather warmed — that was the theory; and valid for a European dweller — we had only a warm and a wet season in Bombay.
Ted’s office was lovely: large and warm. Huge windows gave me my first real glimpse of a town in deep throes of a European winter. I was mesmerized at the street-scene: the earth blanketed with fresh powdery snow, kids in colourful clothing throwing snowballs, steeply pitched roofs shedding their excess overnight snow in slow-motion sneaky drifts, and babies gambolling under watchful eyes of young mothers: it was an animated Christmas card.
Ted was a gracious host — he saw me shiver and turned up the heat in the office and ordered a jug of hot coffee and some Finnish cakes. We dived into our discussions and after a couple of hours he suggested it would be nice to bring in other colleagues into the discussions and conclude the contract. ‘Let’s go to the club,’ he invited.
At the swanky club we downed a quick Slivovic each (a new drink new for me) –‘For your health, Mahatma,’ and we headed for the sauna. He threw over his shoulder: ‘The Sauna is good in this weather; it will warm you and we can discuss business in a relaxed surrounding.’ I was anxious about time so asked him if we wouldn’t be better off finishing the meeting first before relaxing, and he said, ‘Don’t worry, Mahatma, we have plenty of time!’
In the locker room we shed our clothes and wrapped large Turkish towels around us and made our way to the sauna. Ted chose a vacant corner in the sauna. It was an immaculate place with smooth slatted benches and a fresh natural smell; which I learnt was from green birch branches used by some occupants to smack themselves for better circulation. How much better could the blood circulate without boiling, when the temperature was already 70–80 centigrade?
As I looked around taking it all in, Ted took off his towel and spread it on the slats to make a fabric seat. His nonchalant nakedness was a ‘where-do-you-look’ situation for me. I had never been in a sauna (nor publicly naked) so I wasn’t sure if I was to take off my towel too. My deep-rooted Indian reluctance of public nudity won: I decided to keep my towel firmly on; I even tightened the knot. Even draped in a towel I felt hugely exposed.
Soon the door opened and three young women walked in and headed for us with broad smiles. They were very good looking, with blonde hair and tall athletic bodies. Wrapped in fluffy pink robes they looked to me surreal= as if the heat had made me hallucinate. As several eyes turned to them, they seemed fragile and mesmerizing; innocent deer caught in the headlights at night. Ted, still seated, waved his hand nonchalantly and introduced them — this is Katrina the finance manager, this is Lena logistics and Helena the export manager. So this was Ted’s ‘business meeting’! A new panic set in about sauna conventions –does one keep sitting as Ted or rise for the ladies? I stood up carefully and shook hands; the free hand grasping the towel knot.
They said hellos with lovely smiles — I may have been in love by then — and we shook hands. With a flourish they took off their robes and folded them as Ted had done, and sat beside us. Lena and Helena sat either side of me their outer thighs and legs touching mine. I tried but could not shrink my body to create a gap. Their unclad state and close proximity made me sweat that much more: the sauna had become an oven. Never having seen a naked woman or having touched one, my blood was going hysterical. I dimly recalled a sign outside: ‘Mixed Sauna’ but it had meant nothing to this novice.
Thankfully, no one glanced down at my towel. In all this tumult my brain had begun to wander aimlessly: how would everyone take notes? I would be lying if I said I had not taken a quick scan as they disrobed; but modesty and upbringing prevailed and I did not embarrass myself.
We began our discussions in earnest and once we were into the minutiae of the contract, I stopped being aware of all the bare flesh around me. Au natuerel became natural. The girls were witty, laughed at my defensive humour, and had a sharp business eye so that each concession was hard fought. For me it was a hard baptism — an unexpected situation thrown at me, perhaps to railroad me. Sweat dripped all the while and droplets glistened on their breasts and faces.
Business finally over, it was time for small talk. The girls were full of curiosity — I suppose Ted had given a build up.
Lena: “Mahatma, are you related to Gandhi?” she rhymed it with Sandy.
I: “Heavens, no. That’s my nickname given by Ted here. He couldn’t pronounce Mahendra.”
Lena: “Oh. What does Maahendra mean?”
I: “I believe it’s one of the Indian Gods. My parents had delusions.” I laughed wryly, but the humour was subtle for a non-native English speaker.
Questions followed: on spicy food, vegetarianism, religion and arranged marriage. The last item had them totally flummoxed — marriage before falling in love, the dependence on astral calculations and — even more astonishing for them — the apparent success of such arrangements. Ted who had been silent until then, with his eyes closed, piped in, “I see you have no wedding ring.” Clearly a provocation to say something that might draw a giggle or two — that Ted was a foxy fellow. I demurred, “ I am too young to think of marriage.”
Helena seemed to have thought of something and boxed me playfully on my arm and said: “Mahatma, I have been meaning to ask a personal question, I hope you don’t mind.”
I: “No, no, go ahead.”
Helena: “Do Indians always wear a towel in the sauna?”
So here it was — THE question. It must have been nagging them all the while. I saw a sly smile on Ted’s face. I was the only one with a towel on. And, looking back, I was the only one uncomfortable with the nudity.
I replied: “Well, actually it’s like this. In December we Hindus have to fast. And the rituals involve complete abstinence, including not showing our naked bodies”
Lena the youngest chipped in: “Does it mean no sex also?”
I: “Yes. No sex also”
Lena: “That must be very hard.”
I: “We don’t mind.”
Katrina, the one sitting across, the eldest had been pensive for some time.
She reached across and slapped my knee splattering some sweat drops.
Katrina: “You are a phoney, Mahendra. This excuse is BS. There is no such religious month. You are just shy. And, lying through your teeth. You are such a babe!”
For a moment I was afraid she would reach out and pinch my cheek.
Everyone laughed.
Ted rose and said; let’s go, so we all trooped out; I leading, while the girls stopped to put on their robes. At the door something snagged and my towel came undone and fell with a plop to the floor.