Chapter 39: The Pool, Again

The pool at midnight. Again.

Not the monsoon pool of Chapter 21 — the May pool. The pool that exists when Mumbai's heat has reached the temperature at which rational thought: evaporates, and the only rational act remaining is: submersion. The pool that Vandana proposes at 11 PM via the group chat that has replaced the original group chat (the original having been: retired after Cheryl left, because a group chat without Cheryl is: a different group chat, and different things deserve: different names. The new chat is called "Doosri Innings" — Jaya's title, Jaya's copyright, Jaya's: gift to us).

The message: "Pool. Midnight. Non-negotiable. Bring: nothing. The water provides."

I arrive at 11:50. The gym is closed — Rohit has given Vandana the key, because Rohit gives Vandana everything Vandana asks for, the giving being: not weakness but wisdom, because saying no to Vandana is: possible but exhausting, and Rohit has chosen: conservation of energy.

The pool is: lit. Not by the overhead lights (those are off; the fluorescents would destroy the: mood) but by the underwater lights — the blue-green lights that turn the water into: something other than water. Something luminous. Something that exists between: the real and the remembered, the way dreams exist between: experience and imagination.

Vandana is already in. Floating. The Vandana-float — on her back, arms extended, the posture of a woman who has surrendered to the water and who is: being held. The water holding Vandana the way the floor held Sunaina after Vikram. The holding that requires: nothing from the held. Only: presence.

"Get in," she says.

I get in. The water is: perfect. Not cold (the May heat has warmed it), not warm (the night has cooled it). The temperature that exists for approximately: three hours in May and that is: the body's temperature, the temperature where you can't tell where your skin ends and the water: begins. The dissolution. The becoming-water that the pool produces at midnight in May when the body is: tired and the mind is: quiet and the world outside the pool is: asleep.

Jaya arrives. In her swimsuit — the same black swimsuit that she bought after the monsoon swim, the swimsuit that she never expected to buy because Jaya doesn't swim, except that Jaya now: swims, because the monsoon pool taught her that water is: not the enemy of words but the: space between them.

Aditi arrives. Sunaina arrives. Two women and two women and me — five women in a pool at midnight, which is: three fewer than the monsoon swim (Cheryl in Connecticut, Kamini in Jaipur, and the empty space that is: felt but not named).

"I miss Cheryl," Aditi says. The saying that the group does — the naming of absence, which is: not morbid but necessary. Necessary because Cheryl's absence is: real, and pretending it isn't is: the kind of lie that this group doesn't: tell.

"Cheryl is FaceTiming us in —" Vandana checks her phone, which is sitting on the pool edge, the phone being: waterproof because Vandana's phone is always waterproof because "water is: my element and my element requires: technology" — "three minutes."

Three minutes later: Cheryl's face on the screen. Propped on the pool edge. The face of a woman in Connecticut at 1:30 PM (the time difference being: nine and a half hours, which is: the exact distance between Mumbai midnight and Connecticut afternoon, the distance that FaceTime collapses into: pixels).

"You're swimming without me," Cheryl says. Her voice — the Cheryl-voice that carries Doug's ghost and Connecticut's autumn and the particular indignation of a woman who is: missing the pool.

"We're swimming with you," Vandana corrects. "You're: here. On screen. Which counts."

"It doesn't count."

"It counts. Modern intimacy includes: screens. We've discussed this."

"Modern intimacy is: a poor substitute for actual water."

"Then come back."

"I can't come back. The baby is: three months old. The baby needs: grandma. And grandma is: the baby's favourite person, which is: correct, because grandmas are: always the favourite person."

The baby. Cheryl's granddaughter. Named: Meera. Not after Chetan's Meera — after Doug's mother, who was also: Meera, because the world produces Meeras the way Mumbai produces: auto-rickshaws, and each Meera is: different and each Meera is: beloved.

"Show us the baby," Aditi demands. Aditi has been demanding baby content since the birth because Aditi's relationship with babies is: obsessive despite her refusal to have one, the obsession being: the specific love of a woman who wants to love children without: producing them.

Cheryl angles the phone. The baby appears. Three months old. The face of: possibility. The face that doesn't yet know that the world contains: loss and divorce and theek hai and midnight pools and friendships that span nine-and-a-half-hour time differences. The face that knows only: warmth and milk and grandma's arms and the Hawaiian shirt that grandma wears and that the baby grabs with: tiny hands.

"She grabs the shirt," Cheryl says. "Doug's shirt. She grabs it and she holds on. Like she knows."

"She knows," Sunaina says. From the water. The yoga teacher's voice — quiet, certain, the voice that says things that are: either wisdom or faith and that the distinction doesn't: matter. "Children know. Before language. Before understanding. They know: who held them. And Doug holds her through: the shirt."

The silence after Sunaina's words is: the silence of five women in a pool and one woman on a screen and one baby in Connecticut all: pausing. The pause that wisdom produces — not the pause of thinking but the pause of: absorbing. The words entering the body the way water enters: everything.

We float. Five women floating in a pool at midnight while a phone screen shows a woman in Connecticut holding a baby in a Hawaiian shirt. The floating that is: not exercise but ceremony. The ceremony that this group performs when the group needs: renewal. The renewal that water provides — not spiritual (I don't do spiritual; spiritual is Sunaina's territory) but physical. The water renewing the body the way sleep renews the mind. The water saying: you have been carrying things. Put them down. I'll hold them. I'll hold: you.

I float and I think about: the year. Not the calendar year — the year of my life in Mumbai. Fifteen months. The months that produced: everything. And I think about what Cheryl said at her farewell — "the story always continues" — and I think: yes. The story continues. The story is: continuing right now, in this pool, at midnight, with these women, with this water.

"Vandana," I say.

"Hmm?"

"How's Sanjay?"

"Sanjay is: sleeping. In our bed. In our apartment. Where he belongs. He snores. He's always snored. The snoring was: the thing I missed most. Not the conversation. Not the sex. The snoring. The sound that says: someone is here. Someone is: breathing beside you. The snoring that is: the ugliest sound and the most beautiful sound, simultaneously."

"That's: the most romantic thing you've ever said."

"Don't tell anyone. My reputation requires: superficiality."

Jaya laughs. The Jaya-laugh — rare, precious, the laugh of a published author floating in a pool at midnight who is: lighter than she was a year ago, the lightness that comes from putting your words into the world and having the world say: thank you.

"What's everyone's best moment?" Jaya asks. "Of the year. One moment. The single best moment."

"Garba," Vandana says. Immediately. No hesitation. "The sixth night. The dancing. Preeti ma'am in white. All of us in the circle. That was: the moment."

"Jai saying yes," I say. "At the gym exhibition. When he looked at his photographs on the wall and he said: yes. That was: the moment when I understood that casual acquaintances can become: catalysts."

"The floor," Sunaina says. "When I told Mar about Vikram. About the floor that held me. Telling that story was: the first time I'd told it in years. And telling it was: the practice working."

"My book launch," Jaya says. "Obviously. The seventy people. The laughter. The: acknowledgements."

"Cheryl?" Vandana angles the phone toward the pool. "Best moment?"

From Connecticut, the pause. The pause of a woman choosing between: many good moments. And then:

"The vada pav. After Garba. Standing in the lobby. Sweating. Eating vada pav. Surrounded by: all of you. That's: my moment."

"Aditi?"

"Saying no. To Vikrant. Chapter 11. The moment I said no and the no was: mine. Not my mother's. Not culture's. Mine."

Five moments. Five women. Five definitions of: the best. And the best being: not the dramatic (not the Abby Awards, not the MoMA exhibition) but the: human. The garba. The acknowledgement. The vada pav. The floor. The: no.

"Mine too," I say. "All of them. All of your bests are: my bests. Because your moments happened because of: this. This group. This pool. This midnight."

We float. The phone screen glows on the edge. Cheryl's face. The baby asleep now — asleep in grandma's arms in a Hawaiian shirt in Connecticut while five women float in a pool in Bandra at midnight and the city of Mumbai sleeps around us and the world turns and the water: holds.