Water class - 9/10/08

I go to my hilarious old-lady water aerobics class in Nariman Point at 9 am, rattling down Marine Drive in a black and yellow taxi with holes in the floor. They are large enough so that I can see the pavement blurring by between my feet.

The water class! Behind a huge construction site just beyond the government buildings, there is a raised pool and 50 ladies unenthusiastically but dutifully going through gentle exercises under the watchful eye of Deepali, our deep-voiced general of an instructor.

Are gym teachers—female ones anyway—the same the world over? Deepali is a tall, padded 30 year old with long red fingernails, lots of jewelry, wrap-around sunglasses and an oversized polo shirt. She yells and yells and is all booming enthusiasm and good humor.

The ladies wear double layers of swimsuits with little shorts or full-body wetsuits and swim caps even though they never, ever submerge. Most of them can’t swim. They’re incredibly friendly, this slow-moving, huffing mass of curiosity: They have daughters, brothers, cousins in New Jersey, San Francisco, Nevada. What am I doing here? How do I find the food? Am I going to the Soonawalla clinic? Spice is not good for pregnancies.

Of course I am, everyone goes to the Soonawalla clinic, of course I like the food, but yes, I am careful about spicy food, now in my seventh month.

My conversations are the same, the same, always, but lately, they have been comforting rather than frustrating, this passing, casual concern for mothers in a strange country.