Dear Pakistan

by Rosanne Hawke

  Elly was pleased I was in a good mood. Her eyes shone hope like they do when she thinks I’m going to spend time with her. How could I tell her I had heaps of homework?

  I wasn’t the only one in a good mood that night. Dad had finally found a job. No more standing in lines at the social security office for him. To celebrate he bought a pizza, one of the double deals— Coke, garlic bread, the lot.

  ‘So, what’s the job, Dad?’ I was on my second piece of pizza. Elly and Andrew had most probably lost count. In all fairness, they were still growing. Since I wasn’t sure if I’d stopped or not, I didn’t take too many chances when it came to pizza and Coke.

  Dad was all smiles. He was starting to get his bounce back. ‘It’s with the Department of Immigration. They have a refugee association and need aid workers to help refugees settle in the area. I’ll be working with the Afghan sector. There are more coming into the northern suburbs now and they need a lot of TLC after what they’ve been through in Afghanistan. Especially the ones who have been in detention.’

  It sounded exciting work and poor me had to go to school every day. ‘I wish I could come with you.’

  ‘Perhaps you could. We can visit families on weekends. Everyone will need help with their English and there are sure to be kids.’

  ‘You were an aid worker in Pakistan too, Daddy,’ piped up Elly.

  ‘Yep, they call it “social worker” here.’ I knew Dad would be in his element. He’d had a way with languages; he was fluent in Urdu and Dari and understood bits of others as well. As Mum pointed out, it would have been his languages that got him the job, as the social workers were usually chosen from their own cultural group.

  There was a lot to think about that night. Just before I’d left Mr Bolden, he’d said that I could see a little further than the average sixteen-year-old, that it was my differences that made me ‘me’, and maybe I should be accepting of them rather than worrying about them too much. But I wondered, lying there somewhere between waking and dreaming, how did one do that?

  12

  Would you believe it? I now had a new friend at school. I had taken Blake’s advice and tried to think of someone to take me to town. Mum used to say first impressions were often the right ones so I picked Sara, fully expecting her to say ‘no’ after the nose pin episode. She accepted. I don’t know who was the more surprised about the whole thing—her or me.

  Sara didn’t talk as much as me so it left me plenty of scope for being myself. I could never get a word in sideways with Kate and Debra, not that their conversations were remotely uplifting. Actually, they were a lot like eating a pomegranate: once you’d peeled away all the four letter words and slang, it only left the seeds, not much for the digestive juices to get excited about.

  ‘Why did you ask me to take you to town?’ Sara asked on the train, emphasis on the ‘me’. I’d already gritted my teeth and outlined the ‘I need you’ bit.

  ‘I wanted to get to know you better. I did on the first day too, honest. I’m so sorry I upset you with the nose pin story. I shouldn’t have kept on and on. It was a bad day all round.’

  ‘Was it really like that?’

  ‘The pin?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Sure it was. Worse, really. Then there was the ten days after when the silver wire had to be changed for the stud.’ I checked her face; her colour was still good, so I continued. ‘The only other trouble we had was when Dad bought me the tiny diamond and neither Mum nor I could get it in. We did in the end, though, and I vowed never to take it out again.’ I went quiet after that. There were times it still hurt that I couldn’t wear it anymore.

  ‘I am sorry, you know.’ Sara was looking so sympathetic that I knew I had another friend. Where was she four months ago? I grinned. ‘Was I such a pain at the beginning of the year?’

  The slight movement of her head was almost a nod, like a sneeze that got stifled. Then she said, ‘I thought I’d like you since you were so different from Kate and that mob, but I didn’t know what to say to you. Especially after the pin. I’ve never been anywhere. It takes a big effort for me to even remember there’s a world out there at all. I knew I’d sound dumb and you knew so much.’

  Without meaning to, she made it sound as if I’d been so full of myself. I tried to think back. How many times had I said ‘when I was in Pakistan’ with a superior air just because I was trying to make myself feel better? Some of the boys still ribbed me on that one in a singsong voice. Then there were the times (and still were) when I knew a better way to do something. Did it show? What about the times in conversations when I’d attacked the media or told someone off for being racist?

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For being difficult to get along with. I wouldn’t have liked it if someone came over to Pakistan while we were there and told us we were doing everything wrong. I think I was just trying to see where I fitted in. I still am.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re difficult, especially not now I know you. Just ask me anything and I’ll help in any way I can.’

  Now Sara was my constant companion. She told me things and stopped me before I stumbled into gaping holes. Like the time Debra made a snide comment about a couple of guys holding hands at the bus stop. I was still stupid enough at that point to ask what she meant. All I got were ill-disguised giggles and snorts and ‘where have you been, Jaime Richards?’

  Sara leaned closer. ‘Leave it. They’re gay.’

  I was rocked into silence and checked the guys out from under my eyelashes. Really, I would never have noticed. All the guys in Pakistan walked around like that, holding hands, arms around each other and they weren’t necessarily gay. It was just their custom. In a place where fraternising between opposite sexes was forbidden in public, affection was sure to appear elsewhere.

  I sneaked a look at Kate. She and Debra were pink with withheld mirth and scorn. Sara’s face was like a blank sheet. I couldn’t help thinking that the tolerant laws of this country were at odds with the way people really thought. Just as Kate had pointed out to me months ago about Danny and discrimination, most issues at street level were like a steaming compost heap, yet no one seemed to notice the heat.

  I asked Dad about it that night. He said it was like that in Pakistan too, especially during the time after September 11 and the recent bomb attacks. ‘Each time the government made a decision and publicised their alliance with the West. Yet what happened at street level, Jaime?’ I remembered the tension, the riots, the processions of the men in the bazaars, the deep regret that it had ever happened.

  ‘Well, during the drone and missile attacks, the people sided with the Taliban.’

  ‘Yes, though not all, Jaime. Most of the non-extremists realised the government’s way was best at the time, even though it meant siding with the West.’

  I nodded, deep in thought. Dad made it seem normal. All the same, I didn’t like Pakistan put on the same level as something happening here. There wasn’t any comparison, was there?

  I went to prise Andrew off the computer to type up more of my story about Suneel. It was getting harder to find time for it. We only had one computer and I didn’t have an iPad yet like other kids at school.

  Fortunately, he was in the kitchen making supplementary food: four pieces of toast and Vegemite. I hated Vegemite.

  The first day in the tiny village was passing well. I was taking more of the rice and meat sauce with the flat bread and eating it with my fingers. There was a huge plate of walnuts and oranges on the floor in front of us. I’d found someone else who spoke some English. Her name was Rushda.

  ‘You do like here?’ she asked.

  My mouth was full so I inclined my head and she continued. ‘We wish to build school in this valley. Children are mistreated in government school.’

  I wondered why but I still had a mouthful and couldn’t ask.

&
nbsp; ‘You can teach English?’ she asked when I finished chewing.

  ‘Ji.’ I grinned. It was embarrassing trying to hold a conversation and eating at the same time. I hadn’t thought about teaching, with two years of high school still to go, but teaching English to people who didn’t know any at all sounded fun.

  I wondered what she was on about. ‘Do you want help with your homework?’

  ‘Nay, I finish school. We marry at fifteen. I think I fifteen.’ She giggled. I thought it interesting she didn’t know how old she was. She certainly looked fifteen or older. ‘Our boys go in university. Suneel went to Islamabad for study.’ So that was how he had that worldly air and perfect English with an accent that sounded like Imran Khan’s when he was interviewed on TV.

  Rushda peeled an orange for me. Then she cracked nuts and handed me some. I protested. I knew I was the guest, but they didn’t have to do everything for me.

  ‘It okay. I do for you. I your friend. I help you. For always.’

  The ‘always’ got to me. She made it sound as though we wouldn’t just be writing letters over the years. How could she be always with me?

  ‘Come.’ She stood up then. ‘We go to river.’

  I followed her out, wondering who would wash the cooking pots. Outside, the sun was dazzling after the dark of the windowless room. She guided me down the wooden plank and we made our way through the trees towards the river.

  ‘This is a beautiful place, Rushda.’

  ‘Ji,’ was all she said, but she looked pleased.

  She must have been a clever girl in school to learn English as well as she had. I wondered if she was the one they’d chosen for Suneel.

  ‘Here,’ she said, as we reached the rocks by the river. ‘We sit here, we watch.’ Not far away many other girls our age were washing clothes, banging stubborn stains on the rocks to cleanse them, then washing and rinsing in the running water.

  ‘Do you drink from this water?’ I asked, watching one girl with her sandals off, dragging in a contrary goat.

  Rushda waved upstream. ‘From there. Suneel say not here. He learn much in city. He very intelligent, young but good man.’ She sounded as if she wanted to convince me but she needn’t have made the effort. I’d already noticed.

  Watching the goat reminded me of the first time I saw him. ‘Rushda, does Suneel like goats? Does he look after them?’

  The look she cast me could have scorched a bush in winter. ‘Never. Suneel, son of khan.’

  ‘I saw him in a goat field one day.’

  ‘Maybe he tell goat boy work to do. Goat boys very stupid.’

  I grinned. ‘Shall we help wash the clothes?’ I stood but she pulled me down so quickly I winced.

  ‘Nay.’ She looked unusually tense. ‘We sit here. You enjoy. You not happy?’

  As I nodded, she relaxed. She took a wooden comb from under a rock then and started undoing some of my plaits and combing them gently so that I almost fell asleep.

  13

  It was Friday night. Danny and his family were finally coming over for dinner. Mum was one of those mothers who invited your friends over (especially boys) in the effort to bring everything into the light of day so nothing can lurk behind the skirting boards. Though in my case there was nothing to lurk. Danny was just my friend.

  Mum was in a bit of a whirl worrying whether Greek people would like what she’d cooked. I’d given up explaining how Danny was Australian; she still referred to him as ‘Jaime’s nice Greek friend from school.’ After I’d helped as much as I could there was plenty of time to spare, so I crept into Andrew’s room to type up more of Suneel’s story.

  Little things were starting to concern me. I’d been a guest in a village before and knew good treatment was given to guests, but I was sure there were things said and done that weren’t necessary.

  Take the charpai beds for instance. There were only two in the whole house. The grandmother had one and I presumed the mother of the girls in the house would have the other. They brought in one for Suneel’s mother but they motioned me onto the one beside his grandmother. The lady of the house was smiling but I felt uncomfortable climbing into a bed when I knew a woman thirty years my senior would sleep on the floor.

  When I remonstrated with Suneel’s mother, she just waved her hand as she made the cryptic statement: ‘It is expected. Do not argue.’

  All the girls slept in the room. The men settled out on the verandah. I watched the girls’ headdresses and sandals come off, but each one lay down in their dresses and beads.

  ‘Rushda, why do some girls have headdresses like mine and yours, and some have larger ones with more shells?’

  ‘They are for married girls.’

  I stared at one headdress as a young married girl took it off and hung it on the wall. It had an elaborate V-shaped shell design and a red pompom tuft on top.

  Rushda settled herself on a mat as close to my bed as she could manage. If I had to get out of bed in the middle of the night, I couldn’t hope to miss stepping on her. As I put my head on the pillow, I had the disconcerting thought that this was probably the very reason she was there.

  I leaned over the edge. ‘Rushda,’ I whispered.

  ‘Ji, bibi.’ The term of respect unnerved me so that at first I couldn’t go on. I’d only ever heard it used to address people much older than oneself or of higher rank. ‘Rushda?’

  ‘Ji?’ she replied again and I suddenly realised the eternal patience in her tone was that of a servant, one chosen to serve, and one proud to be chosen.

  An idea came to my mind—I was surprised that I hadn’t thought of it before—an idea that at once frightened me yet filled me with intense excitement and joy.

  ‘Rushda, why am I here?’

  ‘Do you not know?’

  ‘No.’ I held my breath. Maybe I did know.

  ‘Have you not looked in your gift from Suneel?’

  It was under my pillow. I knew it was a shell headdress but I hadn’t taken it out since the girls had given me one already and I didn’t want to offend. I took it out now. It was different from my other one; I hadn’t realised. It had a triangular shape, the woollen tuft on top, many more shells, many more than I had even seen on the married girls’ headdresses that they wore when they went out. There were beads and coloured stones set into the top and front piece. It was the headdress of a princess.

  ‘Why me? I’m not Kalasha. Why me?’

  ‘It is Suneel’s wish.’

  ‘He doesn’t know me.’

  ‘It is not custom to know bride. Besides, it is his wish. The mother of Suneel was like you.’

  Suneel’s mother? I looked over at the older woman on the bed beside me. She was nothing like me.

  What could Rushda mean?

  ‘Jaime! Quick!’ Mum was in panic mode. I only had time to hit the save key. When Mum yelled like that it usually meant the roasting pan was falling out of one hand while she was trying to stir the gravy with the other. I rushed out to the kitchen, meaning to do more of Suneel’s story later.

  Later never came, for as soon as I rescued the roasting pan, the doorbell rang and the house was immediately full of happy, laughing people. Only Danny, his mum and dad, and two of his little sisters came, but his parents were as large as life, just as Dad was beginning to be again, so that our house seemed much smaller than it was.

  In no time we were all squashed around our oval table and Mum’s roast was disappearing off the serving plates at a speed equal to Elly’s and Andrew’s usual track record.

  Dad and Mr Dimitriadis were in the middle of one of those jokes where you can’t remember who started it, when I felt a feather-touch on my foot. I looked up, fully expecting Elly to be grinning, pretending she hadn’t done it when Danny winked at me. I quickly shovelled peas onto my fork, but not before I noticed Elly’s gaping mouth as she stared at Danny. She ha
d hardly touched her dinner. I suppose Danny would look to Elly like a hero out of one of her books—what she’d call ‘drop dead gorgeous’. I sneaked another look at him myself. I guess there was good reason to have a second look, especially with him grinning at me like that. I winked back. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to be going out with Danny.

  The evening raced on: dessert, coffee, Greek biscuits that Mrs Dimitriadis had brought, more coffee. Andrew got tired of it after a while and invited Danny into his room to see his latest computer game. Elly had long since taken the little girls into her room to see the baby mice. Danny waved as he followed Andrew. We’d had just as much fun from opposite sides of the room, saying nothing, as we’d ever had together at school talking through lunch.

  It wasn’t until I saw Andrew come out into the kitchen for drinks that I remembered I’d left my story on the screen. I hadn’t had time to go back and exit. Suddenly I felt as though I’d left my diary open on the billboard at the bus stop in giant print. What if Andrew had read it? I excused myself from the conversation with Mrs Dimitriadis and practically ran to Andrew’s room.

  Danny was sitting at the computer. It looked as if he were playing a game, his fingers hovering over the scrolling keys, his head bent forward in interest. I heaved a sigh of relief. But it was short-lived. He swung around on the swivel chair to face me; behind him I could see the screen. Suneel’s name jumped out at me, naked and accusing for leaving him there. Danny had actually scrolled back right through my story, my private work, my life. I rushed forward and closed the document.

  ‘How dare you! Read my stuff like that!’

  ‘You left it there.’

  ‘It was an accident. You should have seen straight away it was private.’

  ‘I’m glad I saw it.’ He stood up then; his eyes were darker than usual and had lost their shine. ‘I knew there had to be another guy, maybe not here, over there, but this,’ he glanced at the screen, ‘it’s too hard playing second fiddle to a country, some dream, a guy who’s not even real. He’s not, is he?’