In a world full of stand-and-stare, I finally got the opportunity to learn swimming.
It wasn’t an obvious time to start. I took the plunge after two Caesarean-section surgeries, now in my thirties, along with a full-time job and two jumpy kids with infinite energy reserves. I owe this milestone to my husband, who has always carved out time and space for my sudden whims. While on maternity leave with my younger child, the quiet routine of domesticity had slowly drained the zeal out of the professional in me. I was out of shape and, metaphorically, out of ideas to stay afloat.
Then one night, right before catching some Zs, I turned to him and asked, “How about I learn swimming?”
Without missing a beat, he reworked our daily routine to fit my lessons in. Three months later, I’m splishing and splashing like an overjoyed kid, returning home physically exhausted yet completely relaxed.
Unexpectedly, the best part of this new habit isn’t the exercise—it’s the post-swim conversations with my father.
A retired doctor in his sixties, my father now lives a quiet life managing the family home after marrying off his two children, who live in different cities earning their bread. His days are disciplined and tidy, but our daily calls take him eons back to the 1970s, when he was just a high school boy in Tohana, a small town in Haryana.
With exhilaration in his otherwise calm tone, he tells me about his youthful swimming expertise — how diving off an almost 30-foot bridge into the rushing Bhakra canal was once an absolute cakewalk.
{{/usCountry}}With exhilaration in his otherwise calm tone, he tells me about his youthful swimming expertise — how diving off an almost 30-foot bridge into the rushing Bhakra canal was once an absolute cakewalk.
{{/usCountry}}It was an era when children were brought up with limited resources but unlimited imagination. Thanks to our grandparents, for setting benchmark when it comes to parenting, everyday resourcefulness, and social bonds.
Dad described how he and his friends would soak their cotton pyjamas, inflate them manually, tie off the ends, and voilà—a DIY floatation device was ready. Back then, the Bhakra canal was so pristine that he could see straight to the bottom and dive down to retrieve coins, lost keys, and stray buttons.
If a pyjama-float ever deflated, they turned to nature. They would gather the air-filled fruits of calotropis—a wild weed locally known as aak ke phal—fill a bag with them, tie it to their backs, and tread water without a care in the world. That was his everyday routine until he left Tohana to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor at Post Graduate Institute of Medical Sciences (PGIMS), Rohtak.
Today, as I listen to his stories, I don’t just hear my father. I hear a high school boy happily reminiscing, untying the knot on one of his life’s most cherished treasures: The memories of a carefree childhood.
The writer is an assistant professor of English at Government College for Women, Karnal, and can be reached at alpana193@gmail.com