Swimming Times.

Let’s first look at the scene in the ‘fifties. The time is between 3 and 5 in the afternoon. The venue is the well-known public “bath” in a city in Maharashtra. A few young housewives have assembled to learn the secrets of swimming from a ‘Parsi Bai’. They stand at the edge of the pool clad in an unusual attire - a calf length a sari-petticoat below and a gent’s bush-shirt on top. Both garments are faded but made out of tough cotton. The mangal-sutra is neatly pinned to the collar. The bangles clink collectively as the group positions itself according to the  command given: hands above, bodies bent, nerves alert. At the signal ‘go’ they take off and dive into the pool, petticoats ballooning, giving a fleeting glimpse of the most modest undergarments, bloomers of thick cotton, firmly tied at the waist. Once in the water, there is a flurry of colour and motion as cloth meets wave and gracefully flows along with the steady movements of the swimmers. Well-oiled hair tightly knotted in buns form glistening black buoys that bob in the shiny water.  Encouraged by the changing social climate and swayed by great thinkers like Karve, these participants belong to progressive families that have generously permitted their daughters-in-law to take to a hitherto masculine sport.

Move on to the ‘sixties, same place, same time of the day. There are several faces and they seem to all be from middle class homes. The upper classes have switched over to the pools in the private clubs. One of the two oldsters are in sari-petticoats, the rest in frilly, tailor-made  costumes worn over printed cotton frocks to protect their modesty. Plaits are concealed inside a thick, tight-fitting bonnets. Along with the Parsi Bai there are now two or three Hindu ladies too, their ‘gandha’  smeared all over their faces by the water. In fact, very few have their bindis intact on their foreheads.

In the ‘seventies, the teachers are smarter. They don’t dip their heads lest their skins get wrinkled. As it is, the hot sun takes its toll. The pool is very crowded now, and the uniform of this decade is an imported, backless, one piece costume, with no frills or fancies, but a stripe or two for better effect. Heads with short haircuts are uncovered, but the longer styles are wrapped in rubber caps held in place by straps at the chin. There is a filter-plant gushing aerated chlorinated water into the pool. The females are of all ages, but the timing is such that the majority are still housewives. They do sorties, length and breadth-wise, whilst coaches bark orders to those smartly diving off the boards. There is hectic activity in the pool and games and splashes galore. One stranger enters in a bikini. She walks through the sudden, un-expected silence and jumps into their midst, ignoring their titters and remarks.

This is the ‘eighties. Little nymphets in revealing, body hugging costumes swim around like fish. It is the holiday season and there are toddlers in their pretty, plastic tubes and armbands, floating merrily; teenagers showing off their statistics to advantage in strapless gear; young women in halter bikinis; some conservative mothers in one-piece suits, all sleek and modern. Caps are fluffy and soft and resemble anything… bouquets of flowers, wigs even spiky hemispheres. There are fancy divers, girls warming up for a race, special coaching classes at the deep end, and the actions are more exuberant and free of inhibitions than ever before.

An overweight matron, desperate to shed some kilograms, waddles in, flesh oozing out of the elastic swimsuit. She spreads her bath-towel wherever she can on her body, trying to conceal as much as possible. She balances herself on the puny ladder as the edge of the pool and eases her bulk into the water. Whispered asides include: “Why can’t jumbo sweat it out in the privacy of her bedroom?” and “heavens, where will all the displaced water go now?”.

Times change, some things don’t.

                                                                      (Indian Express, 12 Dec, 1985)