The Internet Personified: What I Think About When I'm Swimming
Brief thoughts from two (and a half!) weeks of morning splashing about
Hi!
I’m still in Bangalore, by the way, still in K’s mum’s flat, still dog-sitting. Said dog has become a lot less stressed out and a lot more dog-like, which means our work here is almost done. Actually, mine really is, I leave on Friday morning back to Delhi, because I am speaking at the Times Lit Fest at the India Habitat Centre on Saturday afternoon, from 3.15 to 4.15 pm, so please come if you have a spare hour and want to listen. I’m talking about short stories, but it’s a large panel, from what I can tell, and large panels means that my lines will probably be few and far between. But, it’s a good time to tell you that if you are a) curious and b) have Kindle Unlimited, then my collection of short stories Before, And Then After is available FOR FREE on the programme. Be sure to leave me a review if you liked it though, because I am getting paid exactly N-O-T-H-I-N-G for being on it. (Something something will come out in royalties something) (They are very good short stories and include all sorts of plots, like a prostitute’s cat who is also a prostitute, a bestie who comes back from the dead and a mermaid’s life among other, less fantasy-y things.)
While I am looking forward to going home as I always do at the end of a trip, I’m a little sad that this marks the end of my three weeks of swimming! Which has been so great, you guys. This is the first time in a long time (maybe since school) that I’ve done regular exercise every day, and I feel… good. Like a person who (gasp) likes regular exercise. I’m now going to go on about it like that same person who annoys you at parties by drinking juice (JUICE!) and refusing all offers of either chips or cigarettes (like seriously why come to a party at all?) and telling you all about her workout. Except I’m still your girl, I’ve still got you, I haven’t made any other lifestyle changes, I am also steadily making my way through K’s mother’s collection of nice wine, and I am eating almost as much as the fat fluffy white dog currently hoping that the cook will give her a snack if she looks pleading enough.
The pool here is heated to a just below bathtub temperature, slightly tepid, like I imagine blood would feel. I’d like it a little warmer, but then I have hot scalding showers on all but the worst summer days. The temperature makes it easy to go in all at once instead of inching in, toe by toe, goosebump by goosebump.
I always have a hard time buying bathing suits, but I am pleased with the one I have right now. I bought it at Marks & Spenser’s, that haven for the top-heavy woman, and the nice thing about them is that they sell their bikinis as separates, so you can have a small bum and big boobs or vice versa and still find something to fit you. Mine is a very boring black two piece, but it has a high waist, which I like, and is modest enough (I hate the word “modest” hate being modest, but what to do when showing your skin is a revolutionary act and sometimes you are tired of being revolutionary and just want to go home without any fuss) to wear to any public pool or beach. I mean, it’s still basically a bra up top but people (men) will gawp at your top no matter what you have on as swimwear, so might as well be comfortable.
Because we always go down between 9.30 and 10.30 on a weekday morning, we usually have the pool to ourselves. Sometimes there’ll be someone on the treadmill in the window overlooking the pool, but otherwise we are unobserved. Except once there was this man, probably in his 50s, who spent his entire time in the pool just walking. Back and forth, and back and forth, like he was going for a morning walk or something. I couldn’t stop looking at him to see if he was still doing it, but don’t worry, I did it very discreetly, like a hippo, with just my eyes and my ears above the water.
I don’t just splish around either, I do a steady 200 to 300 metre swim every morning, which I also thought did not sound like much, but it feels like a lot. I am proud of myself, which makes me also proud of my body, which is an odd feeling. I mean, I haven’t lost any weight, I know this because there is also a handy scale in the house so I weigh myself every day, just to see what’s up. I know women are conditioned to see their bodies as flawed no matter what they look like so it’s nice to feel like, “This is cool, I don’t need to lose weight, I am just happy to move for moving’s sake.” (This is not to say I would not be thrilled if I was suddenly as thin as I was in my twenties, but I want it to happen overnight without any work from me, as if there was this Weight Fairy, like a Tooth Fairy, who came around and took whatever extra weight you didn’t want and left you money under your pillow for it.) (This is also a great time to shout out to my pal Ameya and her pal Pallavi who are doing a very fun podcast about fat female bodies and living called Fat. So? Here’s a link to the Instagram page which has details about where you can listen to the first two episodes.)
The thing with swimming is that you are kind of alone with your thoughts. Unlike hula hooping (which I do to music or videos) or walking (which you can do with a podcast or an audiobook), with swimming, the only entertainment you have is pushing yourself backwards and forwards through the water. I taught myself to swim—sorta. I’ve never had any formal training, swimming was always just swimming not Swimming like it was for other people. I vaguely remember my grandfather attaching a rope around my stomach and walking around a large water tank while I swam in it, but I could swim before that, right? How did I stay afloat otherwise? And I have no memory of struggling to stay on the surface, of being afraid I’d drown, except in the middle I may not have known how to swim because I used to be terrified of the old Liril ad, the girl splashing in the waterfall, because I was afraid she’d ask me to swim with her with that conviction that children sometimes have. (So bad was my fear of this lady and also the Onida devil that I’d have to physically get up and leave the room whenever these ads came on.) (Listen, if you’re too young to remember these ads, you’ll just have to Google them. I have a birthday coming up next month and Youth is Triggering.) What happened in the years between Being Scared of Liril Girl and being in the water with a rope around my waist? I have no idea, but I’ve always swum the way I do, a dog paddle mixed with a back stroke, I’ve always been able to float on my back like I’m sleeping on the water. What’s been fun this time is getting a bit better at my own unscientific strokes. Being able to move through the water more efficiently, and I feel myself getting faster, which is great, I can use the water like a floor to do a semi-push up to move more rapidly, a move I’m calling The Caterpillar. I also have the Manatee, where I put my legs together and use my feet as flippers. (HARD! I have not quite mastered this.)
And then I get out and put on my fake silk robe, which I bought in Hong Kong, because I was staying with a friend and she had this robe and I thought it was so elegant, except I never asked her where she got it, and then I was in the tourist area buying presents and I saw the robe and I was like, “Amazing!” Mine is blue, hers was red, I think. It’s a very useful robe, especially when you’re travelling, because it packs up very small and can be used for all sorts of occasions, like when your nightie is in the wash and you need to walk around the house.
Another fun thing I did in Bangalore was spend a lot of time with my cousins (one by blood, and the other his wife, which makes her my first cousin by marriage). He’s doing something quite fun, turning Indian history (of the South, which he’s fascinated by) into short, animated videos. So far, he has two up: about the Cholas and about a brown monk who changed Japanese culture, so please go watch them. They’re about 12 to 15 minutes long and full of information. I learned a lot, and I’m not just telling you because he’s my cousin, it’s just a cool project, I thought.
Meanwhile, I was quoted in this depressing (but accurate) article about the state of Indian publishing. Nothing new from me, if you’ve heard all my rants, but worth a read anyhow.
Link List!
(Are you a writer or a journalist with a great story you think that no one read? Are you just a fan of reading links yourself? SEND ME LINKS. I like stories about crime, animals, trends that connect to our funny modern age and also sometimes psychology.)
I mean, I don’t see how you could’ve missed the story about Delhi’s jungle prince but if you read ONE article I recommend this week, read this one.
Since I have a birthday coming up (BIRTHDAY!) (CAN YOU TELL I’M A SAGITTARIUS?) (ISN’T IT AMAZING THAT WE CAN ALL TALK ABOUT ASTROLOGY AGAIN WITHOUT PRETENDING TO BE TOO COOL FOR IT?) I feel personally attacked by this piece saying birth weeks are not a thing. What about birth months? WHAT ABOUT BIRTH YEARS?
Beautiful illustrated piece on how to make plans and how to cancel them if you’re a loner.
Several great tips on living your most sustainable life.
A man’s son got raped and killed himself, a few years later, he found himself fighting for a dog that had been raped as well. An excellent investigative piece.
What’s going to happen to Kolkata’s book market?
Psycho, Alfred Hitchcock and the first movie to introduce the idea of a spoiler alert.
And finally, this Greta Thunberg time travel story has blown my mind. (via Broadsheet)
Have a great week!
xx
m
since my internet is too slow to load gifs this week, here, have one of my favourite paintings, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.
Where am I? The Internet Personified! A mostly weekly collection of things I did/thought/read/saw that week.
Who are you? Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan, writer of internet words (and other things) author of seven books (support me by buying a book!) and general city-potter-er.
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