Swimming Lessons
In the pool, all are equal. Everyone is as barefaced as you; faces no longer obscured by makeup, streaked and dyed hair trussed into swimming caps. You’d envied them their branded clothes, but here, even the most expensive swimsuit can’t absolve them of their imperfections, can stop stomachs and breasts and bellies from bulging out or hide patches of skin left unwaxed. In the pool, all are as ugly as you. You’re grateful for it as you climb down into the pool, trying to remember—for the sixth time—if you’d scoured the soles of your feet clean after changing. You decide not to do the kicking drill; imagine your dirty feet slapping against the water, for everyone to see. No, you’ll wait in a corner, rubbing your feet against the wall, until Rameesha joins you.
You still can’t believe running into Rameesha in the sports center that day. She was signing up for swimming classes too. Why, you’d said, you’re already so slim! She’d giggled, she was pleased, she liked what you said. You signed up for the same time slot together. So what if you would have to take a different van, a longer route home? This was your chance.
The swimming instructor blows her whistle and dives into the pool. She’s stocky—so brave, wearing a swimsuit that doesn’t hide those thighs, those stretch marks. She tells the class to float on their backs. This you master right away. The instructor praises you, and you, flushed with warmth, wish Rameesha was here to see your triumph. You look around to see if anyone else witnessed it, but the other girls are all here with their friends, splashing each other and laughing. You orient yourself into position again, but water rushes into your nose, your mouth, and you surface spluttering. Nobody sees. Where is Rameesha?
The class is doing their drills, grasping the side of the pool and kicking furiously, when Rameesha arrives. She splashes in beside you. “Sorry,” she says, “I was talking to them,” and jerks her head towards the changing rooms. A bevy of girls is coming towards the pool. It’s them.
The water feels like ice. You’d heard them in class, talking behind you, as you’d squirmed in your chair, trying to avoid the professor’s eyes. They’d said they would be taking the weekend slot so why are they here now? You tell Rameesha that you will watch her practice, but she ignores you, her eyes tracking the girls as they lower themselves into the pool. “Yeah, okay, sure,” she says and paddles over to the girls before you can say something. You have to follow her. You give your swimsuit one final tug and inch towards the group, your steps leaden. You don’t know where to look; you don’t dare make eye contact, but you can’t help staring at them, their bodies. Flashy logos embellish their swimsuits, and their caps match too. Even the most lurid colors look sophisticated on them. Their swimsuits grant them grace; just like their clothes did. Is there anything that money can’t buy them?
What follows is a conversation that you can only listen to. They laugh and joke and splash each other as if they are old friends. You try to get Rameesha’s attention, say something, win her back, but she bats away your arm, telling a story meant for them alone. Everyone likes Rameesha. Nobody acknowledges you as you stand there on tiptoes. You wish you could just founce into the water like a jellyfish, slam your heels down and disappear. But you can still salvage this.
They are talking about the admission test, comparing notes on their coaching centers. You didn’t know Rameesha had gone to one. You thought Rameesha was like you, didn’t need one, couldn’t afford one. You wait for the right moment to enter the conversation. If you say the right thing, they might like you too.
“I thought the essay question was so weird,” you say, the English heavy on your tongue, hoping you didn’t enunciate the “d” too heavily.
This gets their attention. A girl wearing a pink swimsuit laughs and says, “Tumse ho gaya? Do you even know that much English?” Silence. Rameesha snorts and the others start laughing. Your cheeks burn and you look towards Rameesha, willing her to say something. The instructor blows her whistle and all the girls paddle towards her, leaving you alone, their laughter still ringing in your ears.
* * *
You leave early. Nobody notices and you don’t try to signal Rameesha. Instead you wait for everyone to paddle off to the deep end and climb out. Class has still twenty minutes to go, but you know you will never come back again. Instead, you slip into the nearest shower stall. Your swimsuit weighs you down; you have to wrench it off your body. You wish you could stuff it down the drain.
The scalding water seems punishment enough. You wish you had a loofah to scrub yourself clean of today, this class, but instead you rake your nails down your body, leaving scratches behind. You reach for the shampoo but you knock it over, the bottle emptying rapidly, the shampoo swiveling down the drain.
You bend down and try to collect the liquid in your hand. As you stand up, a bra catches your eye. There are clothes hung inside the shower stall. The bra is gray, expensive, finely tailored—the kind you wouldn’t mind the straps showing through your kameez. You finger the tag, it’s imported, of course. A local brand could never be so satiny-soft, the lace so delicate. You just know it’s Pink Swimsuit’s—the kameez hanging behind it is the one she was wearing in class today. You hold the bra against your wet body. There is no mirror in the shower stall, but it lends an elegance to your body, adding curves and sensuousness. Wet spots appear in the bra as you clutch it closer to your chest.
You wrap the bra around your breasts. It’s too big, even if you use the first hook. You so desperately want to see. So you fumble with your phone until the camera shows you—your fingers are wet and what if the phone gets water inside it? You don’t care and focus on the image of you: you look like a model. The bra envelops your breasts, making them seem fuller, your stomach thinner. Your body seems redeemed. Why should they have everything? You hook the bra and reach for your kameez.
* * *
Outside, away from the steam and damp of the showers, the bra itches. It’s loose, your breasts are diminished by it, and you have to keep adjusting your dupatta to make sure nobody sees the gray of the bra clearly outlined against your thin yellow kameez, branding you as a criminal.
You hurry towards your van’s pickup point, but as you cross the road, you remember the canteen wala owes you money. You fidget as he counts out the cash. You look around; it is 5pm, the class would be heading into the shower rooms. Something perverse and bitter twists inside as you imagine the situation, her reaching for the bra only to find it isn’t there. Would she panic? Would she doubt herself and think she left it somewhere else? Will she charge out of the stall and throw a tantrum? For once she won’t get what she wants. You adjust your dupatta.
As you stuff the money into your purse, one of the girls flags you down. You remember her, she was the one who laughed longest, her laugh ugly and nasal. Anger spikes within you and you keep your face placid. They need to think that you’re as stupid as they believe.
“Did you see a gray bra in the corner-wall shower stall?”
You shake your head and adjust your dupatta again. Is the gray showing? Of all the days to wear this kameez.
She stares at you but then she moves away.
The bra straps keep falling off your shoulders as you jog towards the parking lot. Fear makes you stumble; what if they find out you took it? You squint at your van, a gray pinprick amidst the trees—could you endure it for the ride home? You remember the reception has a bathroom and turn toward it.
As the door latches shut, you rip the bra from your body. Crumpled in your palms, it looks different now. In the translucent light, the gray is faded, no longer regal. The stitching at the end is fraying, what you thought was damp are stains. You are ready to hurl it into the bin, rearrange soiled pads over it, but you linger, rubbing your thumb over the pattern in the lace. Why should she have everything? The van horn blares. You stare at the grouty, once-golden tiles and your fingers curl deeper into the bra. Gently, you fold the bra like the girls in the lingerie shop would. It curves into itself, a shell puffed-out. The van horn blares. You put on your own bra, almost grateful for the way it adheres to your body, and adjust your dupatta. The horn blares again.
* * *
The van trundles on. You gaze out the window, letting the breeze dry your hair. You hooked your own too tight. There will be red welts once you get home. It doesn’t matter. From tomorrow, you’ll only wear the gray one. You’ll grow into it.
Maeda Ali (@bhusspakoray) is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. Her work has appeared in The Ogilvie and Winter Tangerine.