In Troubled Waters

(Published in Zeitgeist, The New Indian Express, on 8th August, 2009)

There’s a breed of prudent, anti-social amphibians that wait for the monsoon to begin before taking up swimming pool memberships. This cuts out the presence of creatures of the dangerous height between the knees and chest – well, at least most of them. An even more infallible measure is to register during the Ladies’ Hour – every pool has one – which ensures an even smaller population of unlike-minded amphibians. But, like every foolproof plan, this one too, comes with loopholes.

Let’s begin with the creatures of the dangerous height between the knees and the chest. Some women, for whatever reason, seem unable to differentiate between the two sexes. They believe that, below a certain height, their sons qualify as ‘ladies’, and are entitled to use the Ladies’ division of everything, from the loo to the pool. So you get out of the dressing room and you find four to five rather different-looking specimens of nature running about the floor.

This inability to differentiate between sexes has caused a lot of embarrassment in the dressing room. Fortunately for myself, I’m one of those women who would warm the hearts of nuns and conservative spinsters and saffron parties. I simply do not subscribe to the ‘she’s-only-got-what-I’ve-got’ concept. I believe this came from intuitive congenital knowledge that one of the largest demographic groups that would hit on me, in future, would be lesbians. I would delay the school bus as a child by refusing to enter the changing room till everyone else had left. Then, I would make the mistress in charge stand guard outside the door just in case anyone were to attempt to outrage my modesty. After my schooldays, I took to carrying Velcro strips around to the various swimming pools I took up memberships in, and using glue to temporarily secure the curtained changing cubicles. Unfortunately, though, not quite every woman exercises this prudence. Thanks to which, many of these boys who pass off as ‘ladies’ have been prematurely educated in the female anatomy.

Then come the Limb-Grabbers. Now, most women are quite content to flap about in the shallow end, squeal and splash water at each other and their kids, and watch admiringly while you do laps. But now and then, the odd beginner gets inspired, and decides to brave the beyond-waist-deep water. With their concentration focused somewhere between keeping their swimming caps on and themselves afloat, they forget the basic tenet of swimming – do not swallow water. And after doling a lungful of water into their ingestive systems, they make a grab for the nearest limb they see, and decide to use it as the proverbial branch. So, at some point of your peaceful swim, you suddenly find yourself sucked under water, while a puffing and panting woman jumps on to your back and digs her hands into the crevices on your head. I’ve found the best way to deal with them is to tickle their feet and save my own life.

The least irritating, and yet the most damaging of these categories, are the Wannabe Yous. You see them watching you with a twinge of envy as you swim laps, and waiting for you when you step out of he pool.

“How many laps do you do?” the Wannabe You enquires.

“Fifty. I used to do a hundred.”

“Hmm,” the grey-haired Wannabe You will grunt, “I normally do sixty. Used to do a hundred and fifty.”

The Wannabe You will then watch as you remove your cap to reveal a black headful of hair, and goggles to reveal no crow’s feet.

“Comes with age,” the Wannabe You will add, with a touch of malice, “what hair dye do you use?”