I really looked up to her. I had to, she was six feet tall and the first Russian I had ever met. Tamila was my swimming instructor.
Her English vocabulary was...well, should I say, not as fluid as her Russian. I learnt this the hard way — at my very first lesson.
“Ok, now put your head in and breathe underwater.” Tamila said and I obediently followed (after all, I had ample experience in obedience right from kindergarten to grad school). As water filled my mouth and throat, I emerged wild, in panic and coughing like a total loser! Later, I found out that “breathe underwater” was another word for “exhale.”
By the end of lesson number one, I was ready to quit. After all, I was no fish, a beached whale perhaps. But I decided to give my swim teach one more chance.
By lesson two, I was convinced that Tamila was a former KGB agent who was in charge of the underwater torture chamber.
“No shake leg like lazy. Come on, swimin faster now!” Tamila also reminded me I was old (in my 40s), so I had to work harder.
By lesson three, Tamila was pushing us harder, teaching us breast stroke, free style, back stroke, dolphin and butterfly strokes! I was getting very good at drinking lavishly from the pool. I think I was getting almost my full quota of eight glasses! She would smile at me, after each drink, and tell me, “You thirsty, you drinkin outside the pool.”
By the end of lesson three, I experienced a miracle. I floated. I felt so proud. “Good,” said she. That was the first time I heard a compliment and before I could bask in its glory, she said, “Okay, now do breast stroke and try to keep your head out of the water.” An impossible task!
Everyday, Tamila pushed us, sometimes literary. She’d take me, fold me up and flip me. I hated the flip. The water left a nasty sting in my nose. “Love the water, play in it. Be a child.”
Then came the dive. I was a hopeless diver. “Your stomach touches the water first, it should be your hands.” That’s because I have a big tummy, I tried to be funny. She smiled and said, “Yes, but that’s no excuse.”
By lesson five I was swimming. By lesson seven, I was breathing outside the water. By lesson eight, I told her I was ready to swim in the deep. I did it, but when I reached the other end and stopped to rest at the ladder, my legs started shaking. “Never, never be afraid of water. People drown not because they can’t swim, but because they are afraid. And don’t swim like a crazy. Relax.” I was the first one in my class to swim in the deep and go solo. On the last day, that was lesson ten, Tamila paid me a compliment. After de-Russianizing it, this is what it sounded like: “You know, when I first saw you in class, I thought I can never teach you swimming. You are the oldest student I’ve ever had and you were totally uncomfortable in water. You could not even walk in it properly. But you are quite a sportswoman. I tell all my new students, if Sameen Khan in her old age can do it, you certainly can!” And surprisingly, it did not bother me at all.
I really looked up to her. I had to, she was six feet tall and the first Russian I had ever met. Tamila was my swimming instructor.
