Chapter 37: Childhood Memories
What?! My brain short-circuited. You've completely misunderstood, you dolt! I don't want to bathe with you! But then a more horrifying thought surfaced: did Parula used to bathe with him?
A series of memories, warm and sun-drenched, surfaced from the depths of Parula's mind, unbidden. Swimming together in the murky river during the long, hot summers. Jared gently washing Parula’s face with a cool cloth when she was sick. The two of them laughing, drenched to the bone, playing together in a sudden downpour. They were happy memories, memories of a simple, innocent bond. There was no romance in them, nothing untoward. It was the simple, unselfconscious affection of childhood friends, of a brother and a sister who had only each other in the world. Their "bathing" together was just swimming, just playing in the rain. The realization brought a strange sense of relief. He didn't see me as a girl, not in that way. He saw me as Parula, his childhood companion. His platonic, brotherly attitude was something I could accept, something that didn't threaten the fragile sense of self I was clinging to.
But the current situation didn't allow for such mental gymnastics. This was a public bathhouse, a place with rules, with clearly demarcated lines. I was in a girl's body. The path to the men's side was barred to me by a simple, insurmountable biological fact. It was time to make a decision. The other men entering the bathhouse were starting to give me strange, lingering looks.
Gritting my teeth, I nodded at Jared. "Alright. I'll go to that side. Whoever finishes first waits for the other in the main hall." Without waiting for a reply, I turned and walked towards the pink curtain. Who's afraid? I thought, a strange, defiant, and slightly manic bravado rising in me. In my old life, what wouldn't a lad have given for a legitimate excuse to enter the fabled women's locker room? And here I was, hesitating at the threshold. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a knife. To hell with it.
I pushed aside the heavy, damp curtain. A wave of heat and steam washed over me, warm and welcoming. Even the changing room was affected, the air thick and humid with the scent of soap and clean, hot water. The room was built of a smooth, light-colored wood, perhaps oak, scrubbed clean but perpetually damp. It was neither large nor luxurious; this was, after all, a bathhouse for the working poor. There were no frills, no decorations, just a raw, functional simplicity. Two rows of long benches lined the walls, and on them sat rows of simple, woven baskets. This must be what the woman at the counter had meant. There were no numbers, no locks. The baskets just sat there, open for all to see. I supposed the patrons here had few valuables to worry about, no mobile phones or wallets full of cards. And the changing room opened directly into the bathing area; anyone inside could see what was happening out here. Not much chance for a thief. Still, the design was shockingly insecure. There were no corners, no dividing walls. The entrance to the changing room, and the entrance to the baths beyond, were in a straight, unobstructed line. A man could simply pull aside the curtain at the entrance and have a clear view of everything within. The curtain, it seemed, would stop an honest man, but not a scoundrel. Then again, privacy was likely another luxury these poor folk couldn't afford. In Parula’s memories, girls bathed openly in the river or by the water tower all the time. A simple curtain was probably a step up.
And it seemed I was right. Several women were already in the changing room, and they paid me no mind as I entered, another small, scrawny girl in a long shirt. They disrobed with a casual, unselfconscious air, not even bothering with a towel, and walked, stark naked, into the bathing area beyond, their voices echoing off the tiled walls. And I, who in my past life might have found such a scene titillating, a fulfillment of a boyish fantasy, felt… nothing. Absolutely nothing. These were the women of the slums, and their bodies were maps of a hard life—of too much work, too little food, and too many childbirths. Skin was rough, figures were shapeless, either sagging with weary fat or worn down to sinew and bone. There was no beauty here, no allure, only a grim, weary reality that was almost off-putting. I averted my eyes after a single, sweeping glance. My old self's lurid fantasies died a quick, pathetic death in the face of this grim, unvarnished reality.
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