Rakshasa

“Rakshasa!” is how even my mom calls me now. This ‘nickname’ was given and popularised by my elder brother 10 years back, when I was a brat who refused to learn to swim.

It all began one fateful day when dad decided swimming was one essential thing left out in the plethora of extra-curricular activities that I was in: tennis, modern dance, carnatic music, painting and sculpting. My brother Vipul, well-established (so he claimed!) swimmer (all because the guy who crossed the English channel was his senior in school; I know, the connection’s really weak, but I didn’t know this much then!) was given the charge of taking me to the pool and leaving me with the instructor. And so began trouble.

Swimming is no dangerous stuff; but I freaked out and wailed the moment water entered my ears. Our instructor, Thangadurai sir, though, was convinced that this was natural, and made sure my ears were well covered before I even stepped into the water. He began with teaching me to float.

Floating did go quite well, as water really didn’t enter my ears nor did I have to breathe with difficulty. But the moment sir decided I was ready to go the next stage, he had it. The first day I cried so much that he actually got terrified and asked my brother to take me home and console me.
After fake promises from my parents that I would no longer be taken to the pool, I slept that night, reassured.

But my parents had their own plan; “Vishal has to know to swim,” said dad. So my brother did take me to that fateful pool the next day despite my wailing all the way to the pool and even one attempt to jump off his cycle and run back home (like I knew the way! But that time I’d do anything to avoid the pool.). That day, sir was more considerate than usual and put me under ‘special’ training - I was to wait till all others in my ‘class’ finished and then I was taught by sir – special attention was given to me. That day went fine as not much water entered my ears though at the end of it I was shaking and thanking the Lord for making me come out of the pool alive.

Sir was encouraged by the lesser amount of fussing I had made that day. But he took the wrong step the next day – he made me go deeper into the water.
I was shocked. And outraged.
I screamed my head off, claiming sir was attempting to kill me. Sir tried telling me that he was teaching me how to save my life in case I was drowning, etc., but none of it worked. He became stubborn too. He refused to give in to all my tantrums and held on. When I realised he wasn’t going to let me out, I didn’t know what to do. I grabbed him by his hair and pulled at it ferociously, threatening him to let me out. After three minutes of struggle, I won. He pulled me out of the pool and told my brother it was impossible to teach me. And the moment he said that, my tear-stained face smiled. And my brother was enraged. He picked me up, scolding me all the way, and ultimately concluded that I was a rakshasa, a demon.
And the name has stuck because I still refuse to learn.

P.S.: Sigh, I don’t know how to swim, too. And I have never tried to learn, too. My class mates in university are surprised that I don’t know swimming though I come from ‘ a city on the coast’, but how’ll they know that swimming is the last thing my parents want me to do in the beach! But I guess I have to give it a thought now that water-related disasters are occuring often in Chennai!

God, I’ve hardly posted with this frequency in the recent past. Still ‘velai irundhum vetti’!