A bucket bath is all I have known my entire life. A heavy steel bucket under the metallic rusty handpump that made a creaky noise akin to a dying bird at my grandparents’ place, a sturdy blue plastic bucket at my parents, a light blue number here at my flat; buckets have been a constant presence, more practical than showerheads, less fancier way of texting somebody “i’m going to hop in the shower” to indicate that they can picture you naked now, soapy breasts et al.
One important signifier of physical strength was when I was able to pump up an entire bucket of water at the verandah handpump and then carry the steely beast to the bathroom at my naani’s house all by myself. Usually men would be absent from the house during daytime, so it also gave me the liberty to bathe in the verandah itself, and then rush with a towel wrapped around me to my suitcase. Once, a beautiful friend of my cousin, five years older than me, accidentally stumbled upon me naked, dripping and letting the sun dry my on the cusp of blooming body. He apologised and ducked out, but that exchange was enough to make my adolescent skin redden all over. I kept thinking about him that entire week of summer vacation, until I got bored of the thrill that sat under my belly, urging clueless me to do something.
At my parents house, my mother would urge me to take hot baths in the winter, and I have been very much against that notion, for comfort is something I am still undeserving of in my stupid little head. No fancy, literary way of saying that. I would still have to go ahead with her decision in the chilly Delhi mornings, rightly so, as the cold water was enough to put all my joints in a locked state, and nothing could warm me up. I have perpetually cold limbs, Maqbool has palms that sweat a lot, we work it out.
The mirror in the bathroom would fog up, and I would kiss it before getting dressed for school. I would also sit with my face in the bucket, blowing bubbles and pretending I was in a big swimming pool, the blueness of the bucket adding to the imagination working behind closed eyelids.
Recently I went to a swimming pool where I sat with my legs in the water while little kids splashed me. I half hoped they would pull me in, and I could feel the sense of abandon wash over me with a chlorinated scent attached to it as my work clothes would get drenched and I would have to come back all liquidy and cold on the drive back home. The entire duration I was there was spent thinking about this filmy scenario, along with Miranda Popkey’s Topics of Conversation and Aquamarine by Carol Anshaw — two books I read as a teenager.
I don’t know how to swim.
Yesterday I went for a long meandering walk with my coworker to the side of a dam. We saw a dead fish and I pictured my fate in the muddy water surrounding it, the future ever so fleeting in the waves. I was feeling particularly restless yesterday, getting emotional about my father and missing alcohol, until I got my period at night and had to miss work today.
I spent the entire day in pain, waking up only to make coffee and go on another walk in the evening that we had to cut short due to the sharp pain in my gut cutting me short of breath. We came back and went to the terrace instead, sitting under a small awning, sharing a cigarette and juice, until my legs decided it was time for me to keel over and die.
I came back and heated up water because I realised I was as much responsible for my pain as I was for my pleasure. Nobody was sitting inside of me, waiting around to fix the hurt and ache and pain. Nobody but every version of me that I had deprived of goodness and comfort because I decided to play god and declare myself undeserving of things.
As I squatted on the bathroom floor waiting for the blood to flow, I was reminded of my parents’ bathroom. I put my head in the bucket that had cold water, and waited for the swimming pool to come back. The blue of the bucket helped. I tied my hair up and poured some water in my lap, my thigh making a Y shape with my belly, and it brought me relief from the cramp. I poured water over my back slowly and gently and I tried to be as silent as possible so that I could hear the songs in the background that played by on my phone in the bedroom. I washed my face, my body, I contemplated shaving my legs but decided against it; winter means bear logic — hair is for protection against the chill, and it is totally normal to sleep all my free time away.
I wished that I had a mirror in my bathroom so that it could fog up and I could show myself how better I had gotten at kissing. Risking running into my flatmate in the hall, I ran out naked to my bedroom, successful.
I sat on my bed, clothed in fabrics that don’t rub against my skin the wrong way, listening to songs until I felt the need to do something about the beautiful boy who saw me naked that summer.
Except it is winter now, and a beautiful boy still exists, with sweaty palms in a city too cold to risk cold water baths.
Year end driving anybody else crazy or what?
Love,
Heera
the last two paintings/ illustrations are Manuele Fior and Yoko Nakajima respectively.
Reading this before lecture starts and it was the best decision ever to spend my time this way. Loved how beautifully you have written about your childhood and teenage nostalgia.
thank you for this