D-RATTTTT!!!!

"There” I told her, “You can sleep now”. She nodded through troubled eyes and hugged her body tight. I mentally shook my head in a never mind. I felt so superior for being non-girly and somehow the brave one around. Even more so when the next morning, her friend came knocking. Through sleep-groggy states I ask him how I could help him. The laash he said. Hindi for corpse. For a moment I thought she had committed suicide, since I had seen her depressed from the time she moved in. The laash  he said again. Then I understood. He had been summoned to move Lizzie baby. Poor thing died a violent death at the hands of a fearless woman. Or so I’d like you to believe.

I have had many comic encounters with animals I fear. Okay okay, I fear most animals, but I think I fear rats and bees the most. Well rats, I grew up around them. An old rambling house attracts its fair share of rats and bandicoots and mice and the long-snouted mouse we call the chachondari. Of all the various sizes the rodent comes in, it’s the mid-sized one that scares the living daylights out of me. Because it’s that mid-sized goon that is the most sprightly and bright-eyed. And it has this evil reckless look in its eyes that clearly tell you that it will stop at nothing.  Just nothing.

Yesterday was quite comical. There I was video-chatting with my three year old niece when Mr. Ratashooey decided to make its debut in our house. It hopped out from just beneath the computer desk and started running all about. Before you could blink, yours truly was screaming her head off and climbing upon any high surface available. Had this encounter happened by the mountain, I most certainly would have jumped to my death. But I must tell you, even in my panic-stricken state I couldn’t help but be amazed at how cartoon-like the rat was. I mean, the way it hopped, the way it ran at breakneck speed, its body undulating with each jump, and the way – well listen to this --- this was absolutely comical : when I screamed it actually shivered mid-air, just like the cartoon rats. Its big fat body froze for a split-second. The feminine claws paws whatever they may be high up in the air, tail defying gravity, and mostly all of it was sort of suspended in air. Its shiver actually corresponded to the rhythm of my scream. And I was so fascinated, I screamed again to make it dance to my tune. AND IT DID. And somehow it ran even faster, careened at breakneck speed by our floor mat and magically slipped its big fat body under our door and disappeared. And all this while I was screaming my head off, flailing my limbs about like it was actually upon me. My mom reacted in disgust. My dad came running from upstairs with a torch in his hand –- apparently the biggest weapon he had to scare away the intruder who he assumed was attacking me. What he thought that a torch would achieve – God only knows. After I calmed down, I had to face a niece who was pealing with laughter. The three year old mocks me with “mitthu khala is scared of a rat…..funny lady” and continued to give me a tut tut shake of her head until I managed to reinforce somehow that I was indeed the adult, and she was indeed the baby. But I know that the balance has now been changed forever.

But after yesterday’s incident, I feel a deep sympathy for the animal-challenged. I pride myself on being super comfortable around lizards and cockroaches. And I know so many are deathly afraid of them. Including the girl who took my place at a flat I was vacating. When she moved in, I slept on the couch outside. In the middle of the night, she shook me awake. Trembling in fear. I really thought something had gone wrong. “Lizard…..” she whispered. “Whaaa….?” I responded. “Lizard…” she whispered again – I suppose afraid that a louder tone might bring it charging right upon us. Then I understood. Lizzie baby, who had been a friend all along my tenure at that apartment, had spooked her. “Allright I said --- I’ll chase it.” And so I went inside the room. And there we enacted a mid-summer night’s drama. At 2. AM, I chased and sadly killed a lizard for her. That – after a massive frenzy in which the mattress went topsy turvy, the bed had moved from one end to another, her suitcase upside down, and a blood-splattered carcass. “There” I told her, “You can sleep now”. She nodded through troubled eyes and hugged her body tight. I mentally shook my head in a never mind. I felt so superior for being non-girly and somehow the brave one around. Even more so when the next morning, her friend came knocking. Through sleep-groggy states I ask him how I could help him. The laash he said. Hindi for corpse. For a moment I thought she had committed suicide, since I had seen her depressed from the time she moved in. The laash  he said again. Then I understood. He had been summoned to move Lizzie baby. Poor thing died a violent death at the hands of a fearless woman. Or so I’d like you to believe.

But my bravery is indeed limited to the little ones. There is one favourite encounter with a monkey that cracks me up even now. A long time ago I went tripping to the Cauvery riverside with a bunch of friends. Now those familiar with picnic spots around the Cauvery will know about the monkey menace as well. We were having a nice relaxing time by the riverside. At one point, all my friends decided to climb upon this fallen tree by the bank. The tree was actually horizontally hanging over the river. They all lined up on it while I prepared to click their photograph. I had to climb down the slippery bank to get close enough for a good shot. All our bags and hats were piled up on the ground high up behind me. Then I see all of them stretching their arms out. I thought it was a pose. But that was followed by shouts. I turn around to see a monkey trying to steal a bag. Things happened really quick. I made a meek attempt to shoo it. But it responded with a nasty growl and moved to jump at me. I almost crapped in my pants. Fear was thudding in my ears. I knew it was either him or me cos I was literally caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Rather a deep green river. And as the monkey moved to jump at me, the nastiest, most guttural growl escaped my throat. The animal inside me had been awoken. By a monkey.  It was like I was a cavewoman personified. Some gene inside me screamed "I am better than you monkey cos I EVOLVED!". What happened next was quite comical. The monkey just froze in its act of jumping upon me, dropped the bag and simply ran for its life. I stood there, amazed. Dazed. I had scared a monkey away. WOWIEEE. I had terrorized a monkey away and so nastily that no monkey troubled us after that!!! I had never felt more proud of being a human being. So superior. I was female of the man. On top of the ape gene stack.

But karma has a nice sense of humour. That monkey died, merged with lizzie baby, and came back in the form of a rat. That rat has the most evil red eyes. And a body that shakes as though its possessed.

It’s out to get me. I just know it.

Drat.

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Going Down Tone

People who have music in their souls can’t ever give it up. I feel all those auditioners who bray their souls on national television. I understand that intense burning desire to stand before a mike and let the world hear you. To feel the heat rushing out your nose like it’s funnelling through a high voltage hair dryer...

I am constantly amazed by the amount of musical talent in this world. I recently began watching X-factor India. Wah wah. Some of the contestants are just amazing. Truly gifted. But it’s the unmusical singers who offer true entertainment. And to be honest I see myself in a lot of them. Or at least the me that was. Hugely passionate about singing – but completely, completely tone deaf. And my family is worse. While they are not so passionate about singing (apart from my black and white movie song singing dad), tone deafness seems to be a genetic trait. So, take a tone deaf singer, put her with a tone deaf family, and there you have a superstar in the making for a tone deaf audience. But God was kind enough to provide me the realization of my musical abilities before I embarrassed myself on an X-factor stage.

It was in a modest classroom of 80 students. A teacher at the new high school I joined had taken a liking for me. As a favourite, she favoured me on many occasions. But unfortunately that backfired when she decided to hold a singing session in class. She asked for volunteers – and I jumped in excitement and she chose me first. And so I stood up and confidently opened my mouth – turns out to bray - raat kali ek khwaab me aayi. I didn’t realize it was not in fact music, but very sweet braying (cos hey I am not that bad, just not that good either) until I saw the is she kidding us? expressions of my classmates and the buried laughter from the boys. It didn’t sink in until Soumya took stage and sang the same song in the sweetest most musical voice I had heard until then. And then it sank in. Truly. God bless that day of self-realization.

I don’t sing so much now, but even until a couple of years back – I was hugely passionate about it. My life was a song. Literally. Even in the oddest of situations a song would run in my head in the most dramatic way. Whether it was a funeral or a wedding or just that unexpected shower of rain. There was always a song defining that moment. Articulating it with all the feeling it demanded. I was the antakshari queen. The picnic radio. That odd broken record that you would hear wafting through the AC vent in office. So passionate was I about singing – that I used to sing myself to sleep or rather just fall asleep singing. Hey when I was still like eleven okay? Anyhow, one of my favourite memories is of the time that my grandmother (who at that point we were terrified of) woke up one night and royally scolded my siblings for the loud TV volume. Turns out it was not the TV, it was me – sleep singing!!

See, people who have music in their souls can’t ever give it up. They can’t help but express themselves through it, in it, with it. I feel them. I feel all those auditioners who bray their souls on national television. I understand that intense burning desire to stand before a mike and let the world hear you. Let that voice escape through those vibrating prison bars inside the throat. To feel the heat rushing out your nose like it’s funnelling through a high voltage hair dryer. To scrunch your face up so intensely that one might not be too wrong in thinking that you want to squeeze the skin off your face. To sing with so much heart that you are in the danger of puking your intestines out. I know. I have been there – done that.

The high school experience didn’t deter me from taking on a stage again. A big one. In my first year pre-university I really wanted to go up on stage and sing. But I didn’t have the guts to do a solo – so I managed to get into a group. Now this group – was as singing challenged as I was. But we all shared that common confidence in ourselves. The song we chose was Nothing’s gonna change my love for you. Our practice session turned out to be intense girl talk in somebody’s maruti 800, and the makeup-friendly painting their faces. So engrossed were we with our ‘practicing’ that we lost track of time. So we ran to the auditorium, and after much begging we managed to get ourselves on stage. It was beautiful. That full auditorium. The panel of judges. Natasha Pinto who had so sweetly volunteered to play the piano for us. The holy light coming in from the audi doors. I’ll never forget that moment or what followed afterwards. 1.2.3. Iffff I HAAAADDD TO LIVVVVVVE MY LIFFFFE WITHOUT YOU…… Bray bray bray. Oh how magically we brayed. Bray bray bray. Me with the loudest voice and the nastiest cold (on top of that musically challengedness). We brayed so beautifully – Nat just looked at me and gave up the piano with a shrug. She couldn’t find the scale to fit in our musical genius. But I LOVED that moment in time. I sang like never ever. Like all those hopefuls on the music shows. I didn’t stop singing even when the rest of them did. I didn’t stop singing even when the judges started waving their hands, or the audience started laughing. I sang until I had completely let it all out. Because I just knew that this college would never let me get on stage again. Talent like mine threatened the very existence of the music community in that college. Had it been the age of the Internet –  they would have probably put me on every music blacklist possible.

These days my musical genius only wakes up when I wake up. I am now a certified bathroom singer. All of Cooke Town knows when I wake up. But I don’t know if they know whether its me or the neighbourhood rooster. My favourite song to murder these days is Tu Jaane Na.

Tu jaaaane naaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaa

aaaaaaa

aa-aa

a-a

And truly the bathroom is the best place to sing in. The acoustics are just am-azing. And I find that I actually sound good in there! I have decided that when I eventually do have kids – I am going to train them in bathroom singing. Tadap tadap ke from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, and I will always love you by Whitney Houston are great songs for constipation. You have to sing them with feeling. Put your heart and stomach into it.

And Aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Will alwaaaaayssss LOOOOVEEEeeee YOOUUUUUuuuuuuUUUUUUuuuUUUUUU

Of  course Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You will always remain my favourite cos it gave me my X-factor moment. If only we had camera phones in those days!

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Truth Upon Truth

There are two qualities that (if present in a person simultaneously) can be a recipe for disaster, comedy, and supreme embarrassment. Honesty and the urge to always be right. You will know people who walk around with these, or you yourself may be one. I am one such crack and trust me, there is no end to the troubles  I endure because of these two.

Take for instance my latest experience. I went shoe shopping. I liked something. And it cost just 550 rupees. The owner of the rather snazzy store was serving me. We went to the counter. I asked if I could pay by card. He said yes. I handed him card number one. Declined. I handed him card number two. Expired. Ok no problem. I fiddled with my cards trying to figure out which one to swipe next, but there was an intense silence in the room so I started to look for cash. Err, I couldn’t find anything. I started to look in wallet number two…nothing inside. Umm, getting to the point of awkward. The shop keeper was staring at my wallet. The assistant was staring at my wallet. I was staring at my wallet. My cousin was also staring at my wallet. Hoping that somehow I would manage to pull out five hundred and fifty rupees and be done with it. But unfortunately there was no bunny in the bag.

So my cousin offered to pay. I let her. You may have heard of how a lie upon lie screws things up. I'll now tell you about how truth upon truth messed things up. As we were making the payment, the shop keeper made a comment on why it’s better to use debit cards instead of credit cards, and yours truly who always has to be honest and always has to be right went on to correct him and share with him that those two cards were indeed debit cards. Then I realized how it sounded so I explained to him that I was trying to empty the accounts. Ok. Fine. But then I went on to tell him that I wanted to empty the accounts because the banks kept charging me for not maintaining the account balances. That was the point at which I realized I had shared too much, and that combined with the whole penniless scenario, sent this burst of rarely-felt mortification coursing through me, and I dragged my cousin and hurriedly walked off. He must have thought I was some poor woman down on her luck and someone else had to buy me the shoes to save me the embarrassment. What I failed to share with him was that those two accounts were my NRI accounts – which I was barely using these days since I had turned resident Indian again. I didn’t have cash in my wallet because all the TEN ATMs we visited that morning were down (some global failure). I didn’t bother to pull out any other card because everyone was staring at me and then my cousin offered to pay. And I let my cousin pay because she owed me money.

I could have saved myself some embarrassment if only I had kept my big mouth shut. But nooo I couldn’t just let the dude think that they were credit cards when indeed they were debit cards, could I? Stupid me who doesn’t know how to nod along. Something my mom has been trying to teach me since I was born, but she doesn’t understand that people like me are genetically wired to not nod along.

---

You know the other attribute in people like us? We always have to be right. We are the Rosses from Friends. We are the Teds from How I Met Your Mother. We will correct you at every given opportunity – not because we want to prove you wrong; but because we want everything to be right. We can’t help ourselves. I mean really. I can’t let you call a donut a vadae can I? And who can sit quietly if somebody keeps pronouncing  fiancé as fiyans or Dove in the south-indian Dow style? And really I can’t keep quiet if you keep referring to Gadafi as the Italian Prime Minister.  And it’s a great test of patience when the ‘elderly’ (50+)  from the family proclaim so confidently about how something works and refuse to accept that they are wrong. And you can’t let go because you can’t let them believe a lie. Particularly when they clearly talk of things they know not of. Like computers. Or mobile phones. Or just take the much familiar scenario:

Elderly person: “Why did you do it this way?!!”

Young person: “Because you told me to.”

Elderly: “No, I did not. What are you saying?”

Young person: “You told me to. Just then when I was explaining the procedure to you.”

Elderly: “No no no no no. You have gotten confused. I told you to do the other way. You are the one who wanted to do it this way.”

Young : “No I didn’t.”

Elderly: “Yes, you did.”

Young : “No I didn’t. “

Eldery: “YES YOU DID. “

Young: “How can I accept I did when I didn’t?”

Elderly: “Next time I’ll record and show it to you. Stop being so argumentative!”

Young : “Sure. Please record, then we can see that I didn’t.”

Elderly: “Y-E-S Y-O-U D-I-D”

Young : “Okay never mind. I did”

But I didn’t.

---

See, I am quite capable of lying through my teeth. I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I don't lie :p. But when your first instinct is to be honest, you try to make the lies you make up as close to the truth as possible. So much so that, you can't keep track of what's the truth and what's the lie and that is when you have dug yourself a nice pit of quicksand. And there's nothing more awkward than being caught in a lie.

And if you know us people – please dear God, never offer us a sales role in your company. We will probably sink it to the unknown gallows with our revelations of truth or our attempts at the much required ability to sell with half-truths. Either that or you will soon find us in the psychiatric wards of environmentally induced schizophrenia. We start believing that client number 1 is at the next table while we are lunching with client number 2. We keep looking over our shoulder. Are they here? Can they hear what I am saying? What if they catch me? We start thinking they have spies all over. I better be careful with what I convey, they may just find out somehow.

Honest people who always have to be right have lots of other problems too. Like they go in super detail while explaining things. Say for instance their description of a surgery will be so graphic, even the surgeon will want to throw up. Or will be so honest about their opinions that they end up offending others half the time. And even if they are not honest, their eyes will betray them.

“Do I look fat?”. Honest person: “Of course not”. Honest person’s eyes: “Is that even a question?”

“Who farted?”. Everyone looks at the glutton. Honest person looks at the glutton. Glutton looks at the glutton. But honest person blurts: “I did”.

---

Imagine such a stupidly honest person with the urge to always be right in a hostage scenario.

Criminal: “I am going to shoot you with my pistol.”

Rabia: “That’s not a pistol, it’s a rifle.”

Criminal: “Shut up you bitch.”

Rabia: “I am not a bitch, I am a woman. A bitch is a female dog.”

Criminal: “Are you trying to act smart with me??”

Rabia: “I am not acting. I am smart.”

Criminal: “Oh you are so smart eh.” Drags Rabia by the hair and shoves her face in the ground. “There can you smell your grave?”

Rabia: “No, but I can smell your socks, and they stink.”

Criminal: Pushes his rifle into Rabia’s back and goes “Now what do you smell smart ass PHD?”

Rabia: “I am not a PHD, I am a Masters.”

Criminal: Cries. “GOD. WOMEN”.

Rabia: “Yes. You men.”

Ka boom!

Criminal kills himself.

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The Loo-ey Earthquake

I could just imagine the news. I could just imagine the embarrassment I would feel in the grave - recalling those dead moments when a rescue worker found my body in the loo - with my pants down!!

Indonesia is hit by earthquakes on a regular basis. I knew that. I also knew that Singapore rests quite away from fault lines - unlikely to be ever hit by one. Sometimes you feel tremors from Indonesian earthquakes. If you are in and around the Central Business District area the tremors can be felt quite strong.

My first experience was about five years ago. I was having one of those days at work where I wished I could just go back home and snuggle under the comforter. Well, somehow I managed to get through the first half of the day. We had a hot summery lunch hour, and then I was back in my cubicle trying to make sense of the text on screen, but try as I might I just couldn't move my eyes or brain anymore. So I decided to take a break and go to the office-goer's sanctuary. That one place that is totally legit. Nobody can raise questions on why you are not at your desk and there. And your boss can't ever give you the "you could be making better use of your time" look. And so I went to the loo. After I was done, I was feeling so lethargic, I just didn't want to get up. I took a deep sigh. Hung my head. Trying to motivate myself to get up. Because that meant the end of the loo break. But I just sat there and sat there ... and sat there .... and my eyes turned all hazy ... my mind was all foggy and I felt myself falling backwards ... a heavy pull on my head ... my body gravitating to the ground ... a beautiful heavy pull ...

OMG I almost fell asleep on the pot!

But only not! Because I couldn't really straighten my world! Because the next moment I suddenly felt a THAD-THAD-THAD-THAD. Something was shaking the damn pot. Violently. And only then it hit me that this was an earthquake. OMG,a bloody EARTHQUAKE and I was on the pot!! God God God, I prayed. I tried to hurriedly get up and make myself decent and just get out of the damn loo. Because I sure as hell didn't want to die in there. Every movement and every moment seemed like an aeon. My hands fumbling with my clothes. Damn that lycra! THAD-THAD-THAD-THAD. Goddd, somebody help me open the damn door! My hands fumbled. I couldn't get that latch to open. God God God, If I have to die. It's fine. But please don't let me die in here, please don't let me die in here. I could just imagine the news. I could just imagine the embarrassment I would feel in the grave recalling those dead moments when a rescue worker found my body in the loo - with my pants down!! Please don't let me die in here Allah. Pleaseeee, it's THE LOO Allah! Why you want to kill me in the loo??? What did I ever do to deserve a death in the toilet??!

Ok so he answered my prayers. I didn't die in the loo. When I came out. All was calm. The afternoon was sultry as ever. I was expecting chaos. I was expecting helter-skelter. But nothing.

I went inside. My cubicle partner was sitting there normally. "Parijat" I called out. But he had his huge noise cancellation speakers on. (Which I mostly think he got to cancel out my uninvited chatter). "Parijat!" I knocked at his desk and waved my hand before him. He finally looked up, slid his headphones down, peered through his spectacles with a "yeah" and a silent unsaid "don't you know better than to disturb a techie busy coding?"

"Did you feel the earthquake?"

"Earthquake, what earthquake?"

"The one that just happened....?"

"No..." he shrugged casually and shook his head. Giving me a "was there really one or did you just imagine it?" smile.

"Ok...." I said and sat down. Then I felt so foolish about the loo drama, I had to hide my embarrassment from my own self. But there was an earthquake. But only in Indonesia, and only average tremors were felt in Singapore. And since most people were so used to it, they would barely feel the low-intensity ones.

But I did. That too in the DAMN LOO.

I moved into a new apartment on the 8th floor a few days after that. I was still squatting on the spare mattress in the living room. One day, I woke up to a swaying building, also realizing that I was late to work! I didn't panic this time. Just didn't know what I was supposed to do. Okay, okay, truth is I ran out. Barefoot. In my nightclothes - a bizarre combination of an Indian salwar bottom and a spaghetti top (imagine that in the newspapers!). Then I ran back. I thought I should get my handbag and passport. Then I looked out the window. Everybody and everything was calm. Just the taller buildings were swaying like tipsy coconut trees. I called my friend and now roomie Neha. And she went "Oh don't worry, it's just a light earthquake - there has been no evacuation so far. Go back to sleep". Turns out that the buildings are designed to sway so that they can dispel the tension. Else they'll crash. Well that was good to know.

I got used to the tremors over time. There was another one a couple of days later. But this time, I loved it. I felt like I was on the sea. Oh so nice and gentle and swayy .... rock-a-by-babie.... Mmmm it felt like a waterbed actually - cos I was still sleeping. At 8.30 AM. On a wednesday! EIGHT THIRTY?? Late again. Oops!

I tend to think that every time I was slack with office - God sent an earthquake. Since then, I have either been super nerdy about my job or fervently prayed to God when I was lazy. Of course I have added this one line to my permanent list of prayers. "Allah, please pleeeeassee don't let me die with my pants down!!"

And I never - never spend more time in the loo than required!

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Uncle Patrick and His Azure Speedo

I saw some kids splashing in the deep end. And nobody else around except some humans who were languishing in the Jacuzzi. Then suddenly a walrus burst out from the center of the pool. A white Chinese walrus with black swimming goggles. I reacted. I was expecting more like a sweet Chinese penguin.

In the eternal Singapore Summer of 2006, I decided to finally conquer the blue demon of mine. My fear of water. So, I got all excited and started looking out for instructors. Unfortunately given that I could only make time after I returned from work – finding an instructor became quite difficult. And then my friend’s aunt suggested I try Patrick – the swimming instructor for most of the kids in their condo (including theirs). I hesitated. I figured that it was very easy to teach kids. Kids are malleable. And strangely fearless. I was a brittle adult - hanging on to my dear fear of life. 

Anyhow I was convinced after a bit and then I called him. He agreed to take me on after he finished with his last child group class. I was happy he was going to give me a one-on-one for a group rate. Anyway I wasn’t going to join the kids. No sir. I wasn’t going to be the loser aunty who crashed in on the kids’ pool party.

Anyway. I went. All clothed in my muslim lady’s swim suit. A bright cobalt blue. Ah, now I know the instant image you guys have. Either a spandex nun’s habit or a deep sea divers’ outfit with a seamless head cap. Scccccraaaaatchhhh. Scratch that image off. Think 80s aerobic suits. Full tights and a lycra t-shirt. Not that strange it would be I thought – because a lot of instructors were donning full suits to prevent chlorine tans. But usually they would pick a sober black or navy blue. But aunty Rabia decided to pick the super-bright blue one. It was just this image I had of myself – all ethereal in a blue suit by the blue sea (a pool would do just as well). Except that I didn’t realize how thunder-striking it was to the eye.

So anyway, I land up at the pool. Internally super-nervous. But also light-headed with excitement. I saw some kids splashing in the deep end. And nobody else around except some humans who were languishing in the Jacuzzi. Then suddenly a walrus burst out from the center of the pool. A white Chinese walrus with black swimming goggles. I reacted. I was expecting more like a sweet Chinese penguin.


“You Raubia?” he walrussed.
me: Ahan
“Hi, I am Patrick”.
me: ummm … okay … if you say so.
“You got my 80 dollars?”
me: Yep I do. Quietly thinking to myself ‘I don’t know if they will be yours yet – Walrus … umm I mean - Patrick’

And then we chatted for a couple of minutes. He told me he was 35, an Electrical Engineer by day, and did this for fun and extra cash. Allright. I thought. He can’t be that bad. Seems like one of us. And anyway it was a trial run. Let me trial it out.

So I got into the water, and transformed into one of those kind of girls. You know – the kind who shriek and accompany it with a vertical shooting of the arms like gay magicians? I held on tightly to the rail. What’s that thing? That ladder to get into that pool? Ok that thing’s rail. So I held on and gay magicianed for a while, while Patrick briefed me on the minus one, zero, and one of swimming. And each time the water spooked me I would shriek and he would go “Don’t worry uncle Patrick is here”. He tried to stick to a suave “Pat”, but that didn’t work. And every time he said “Uncle Patrick” I would think “Oh man, that sounds soooo wrong”.

After about ten minutes, I was to take my first head dip into the pool. So I mustered all my courage and submerged my head. Suddenly my ears went “pluggggg”… I was blinking water … I turned my head … water . water..tiles..water..and hovering in the near horizon was something blue. Something very azure. Something very tiny and azure on something very white and Chinese. OMG. The walrus was wearing nothing but a speedo!!!! Then a brown Indian Muslim Walrus burst through the pool. Gasping. Gasspinggg. Gasssspinngggg.

I don’t know what I was expecting. But I wasn’t expecting an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny blue puckered bikini!!!

I sent a silent apology to God. Sorry Allah, I didn’t know. I was expecting male hijab. A pair of trunks decently strapped on to his legs. I tried my best. See, I am all swathed in blue lycra. Every inch of my normal self has it. Sorry Allah.
Once I was over thaaat fit. I was suddenly like. OMG, doesn’t he teach kids??? That is exactly why I was expecting him to be decently dressed. Sorry peoples. My muslim sensibilities aside – speedos on a kids swimming instructor just doesn’t cut it for me. It doesn’t. It’s WRONG. Especially on someone who says “Don’t worry Uncle Patrick is there.”

There was no way Uncle Patrick was gonna get more than 80 dollars from me. But, I really didn’t want to be impolite. Damning those manners hammered into me, I continued the last part of that lesson - which was floating. I was still so caught up with the whole speedo thing, I didn’t realize how scary floating was going to be until I was actually floating!! Then I prayed fervently to God. Pleaseeee God, please don’t let me sink, because I really don’t want Uncle Patrick to have to rescue me. No no, please let there be maximum distance between me and that blue speedo. That really cant be the last thing I see before I die!!

God was kind. Apparently I have so much buoyancy, it’s hard for me to sink. And I floated on my back, staring at the dark azure sky. I floated….oh..so….peacefully. Oblivious to all the nakedness around me.

Our session ended after that. But when the brown Indian walrus in the blue river rafter suit stepped out of the pool followed by the white Chinese walrus in the azure bikini – the kids stopped splashing around. Even the jacuzzi stirred to review the oddly-matching pair.

Uncle Patrick wasn't too bad, but I didnt see him again. And I never tried to find another instructor cos no one else could possibly float my goat better than the man in the azure speedo.
Uncle Patrick.

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