Dear Pakistan Page 3

  It wasn’t just that he was fairer than the average Pakistani (Alexander children they call the fair Northerners, after Alexander the Great). Nor was it the scar that ran down his right cheek, but an aura about him as if there were secrets he never told.

  Maybe he didn’t even know.

  5

  At school on Monday, I thought I’d ask Kate Sample and Debra what they’d meant about Danny. It had got around that I’d gone to his place on the weekend. I’d found another similarity to Pakistan: everyone knew everyone else’s business there too. Actually, Kate brought it up herself.

  ‘I hear you went to Danny’s house.’ No ‘Oh, how nice, did you have a good time?’, but ‘I hear you went’.

  ‘So?’ I must have looked annoyed for she explained herself.

  ‘I’m just trying to help because you’re new. You know, it wouldn’t do to get too involved with him.’

  I bristled, more with curiosity than annoyance at that point. What on earth was she about to say? She sounded like some old-fashioned nursemaid in an ancient movie and the image didn’t suit her at all.

  ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not racist at all, but he is Greek and you’re not.’

  I almost said her perceptual prowess was rather good, but thought better of making an enemy of her. ‘What’s that got to do with being friends?’ I said instead.

  ‘Being friends is fine, I guess, but they have different ways. Coming from another country you mightn’t understand.’

  Now since I knew Danny was more Australian than I was at that point, for her to talk like that to me sounded so prejudiced when she was only going by what I looked like. And I told her so.

  ‘Kate, I can’t believe you just said that. I thought Australia had anti-discrimination laws. I was told this is a multicultural country.’

  She was a bit taken aback but she didn’t let up. ‘That’s just for work and stuff. You know, same amount of work, same pay, no preference for jobs or bullying. That’s only on the surface. Antidiscrimination laws can’t tell you to be friends with people that you have nothing in common with.’

  ‘But Danny’s Australian.’ Good thing I’d worked that one out for myself on the weekend.

  ‘That’s what he thinks. He’s New Australian. There’s a difference.’

  I felt stubborn on Danny’s behalf. ‘He doesn’t think so.’

  Kate just stared at me then. It was strange. She actually looked sympathetic at first, then it changed to the frustrated way you’d look at a lamb that didn’t need to be slaughtered but had followed the others up the ramp anyway.

  ‘If you must know, Jaime, it’s because of that he’s always so determined to get an Anglo girl—any Anglo girl. One day, he’ll have to marry someone his family picks out and in the meantime, he’ll do it with as many girls as he can. He’s just using you. You should get interested in boys like Blake Townsend. His family won’t be arranging a marriage for him.’

  She practically flounced off to join Debra while I tried to find Danny. I was more confused than ever. No rules on the surface but there were some, after all. I didn’t believe a word of what Kate said about Danny. I mean, it could have been true that he wanted an Australian girl, and I understood that, but I didn’t agree with her reasons. Danny would never use me; we were friends.

  I didn’t manage to talk to Danny about it that day. He was on the court playing basketball most of lunchtime. Maybe he thought, since he could see me on the weekends, we wouldn’t need to spend so much time together at school. It hurt a bit, as without meaning to, I kept remembering Kate’s words, and I couldn’t help wondering if Danny was disappointed with me in some way.

  All the way home I worried over it in my mind like a pup with an old slipper and was totally unprepared when I opened our side door. My brother was crying! It was a sound I hadn’t heard in years, not since he fell off a tonga—a horse-drawn cab—when he was ten. I rushed in, my own problems forgotten. He was sitting on the stool in the middle of the kitchen with Mum on her haunches dabbing Dettol on his legs. His left eye looked as if a rotten avocado had been pushed into it.

  ‘What happened?’

  Andrew stopped sobbing instantly. I wish guys wouldn’t do that; they think only their mothers can ever hear them cry. Mum answered for him; she looked a bit tear-stained herself. ‘He was beaten up.’

  I raised my eyebrows at Andrew, expecting an explanation. I mean, he’s so quiet! How could he ever get into a fight? It was definitely a first for the Richards’ household. Andrew ignored me. He’d obviously said to Mum all he was going to say—bet that wasn’t much, either.

  ‘He wouldn’t give up his Nikes.’ Mum sighed. ‘They took them anyway.’

  ‘His sneakers? What sort of country is this? People aren’t starving like they are in Pakistan and even they wouldn’t beat up a kid for their shoes.’ Take them when you weren’t looking, but not fight you for them.

  Andrew gave me one of those smiles as though nothing’s funny but it’s better than crying again. ‘This isn’t Pakistan, Jaime. Anyway it wasn’t the shoes. They said they’d get me for having everything right all the time and because I talked weird.’

  Even Mum looked surprised at this long speech. ‘So it was kids from school then?’

  ‘Only one, and he didn’t do anything—tried to stop them.

  He had his friends with him from another school.’

  ‘He must have told them about you,’ Mum murmured.

  I was speechless; not a common occurrence. Andrew and I had bought Nikes in Singapore on the way home. We didn’t understand how special they were at the time. Now, at the price they were in Australia, we’d never be able to replace them. Dad still didn’t have a job. I stood there staring at Andrew.

  Did he feel like I was beginning to feel? Maybe worse—that we weren’t safe anymore? Good grief, kids that beat you up because you worked hard at school! Andrew was a perfectionist but why should it bother anyone else? I hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but sometimes even walking down the street here I could feel strange, especially if someone came toward me with an off-the-planet hairstyle or wore clothes I wasn’t used to. I’d feel like shrinking into the next shopfront.

  Now I imagined Mum not letting us out. I didn’t feel like helping, so I went outside to find Elly. Her uncomplicated way of looking at life could be refreshing at times. She was sailing paper creations on the fishpond, while Basil looked on with a still-life, interested set to his ears. I watched her for a moment. She looked so peaceful; life seemed simpler when I was around her. My eyes got all misted up then. What if something happened to Elly?

  That was when I made a snap decision, something Dad used to be able to do. He used to say in Pakistan that if you were scared of anything, meet it head on, then it won’t seem so bad. It seemed strange to think of Dad saying that now, but he took enormous risks when we were in Pakistan. He was even jailed overnight for lighting fire crackers. How was he to know no loud noises were allowed at election time? Yet he always came through and was ready for the next adventure. And he wasn’t the only one: I’d had adventures too.

  ‘Elly, do you want to go down the street again?’ Sure, I was scared, but I kept seeing Dad as he used to be. I didn’t want to be like he was now.

  Elly’s eyes were wary. ‘Do you think it’s OK, Jammie?’

  ‘You saw Andrew, did you?’ She nodded.

  ‘Then we’ll ask Mum.’

  Mum wasn’t pleased but I think her head was too full of whether she should take Andrew to the doctor to worry about us right then. And lightning never strikes twice in the same place, I reminded her.

  ‘Only be an hour,’ she said. For once her ‘cool’ was ruffled. That was how I understood ‘cool’.

  We didn’t go near the Teddy Bear Shop this time. I’m not that much of a fear-facer. But we had a thickshake at Wendy’s
. I didn’t ask for it cheaper and we sat on one of those garden-like benches in the mall, both sipping it at the same time through thick pink straws.

  As we sat there, Elly contentedly slurping, I watched the people, some taking their time, others hurrying as if a deadline depended on it. In Pakistan, no one hurried. It was rude to rush or show emotion of any kind, especially for a girl, as it was thought to draw attention. No respectable girl drew attention to herself in Pakistan.

  I was idly thinking how many types of jeans there were and that just the act of wearing them didn’t mean you had the right ones on. I knew I was wearing the wrong ones. But I decided not to be too concerned. What could I do anyway? They could stuff their cool labels. What did it matter? Did the best jeans get the best guys, the best marks at school, a place in heaven? Some girls at school, Debra for instance, acted as though Levi jeans saved your soul.

  Just then I saw a flash of bright, flowing material. It looked so out-of-place among all the blue jeans and black shorts and T-shirts. I stood up to get a better look, and sure enough, there was a Middle-Eastern-looking girl, with long dark hair to the shoulders, baggy pants and long top, a scarf fluttering a little as she made her way down the mall. It only took a second to act.

  ‘Stay here, Elly. I’ll be right back.’ I forgot all my training and ran down the path after the girl as if my life depended on it.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  What if she’d become so Australian she ignored me? She’d most probably been told not to talk to strangers. She stopped, surprise making her mouth open slightly. At that moment, she reminded me so much of Ayesha, I could hardly speak. I tried to smile reassuringly. ‘Excuse me, but are you from Pakistan or India?’ She looked Pakistani but one had to be sure. Indians could get upset being taken for Pakistanis and vice versa.

  Her voice was pure music: ‘I am from Pakistan, ji. Why do you ask?’ I was so glad I had a long top on over my jeans. I had been toying with the idea of trying on a skirt before we went but I still couldn’t find the courage for that.

  ‘I’ve lived in Pakistan most of my life. It’s so lovely to meet you.’ I couldn’t go on. It really did feel so good that tears were welling in my eyes; that aching sensation started up behind my throat. I felt embarrassed and she turned her head away as if she knew. Then I asked her for what my mother had told me not to give if anyone asked me.

  ‘Could you give me your phone number and may I ring you? Maybe we could meet?’

  She actually smiled and said ji. But Easterners are like that, not as private as Australians. She wrote a number on a piece of paper from her bag. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Of course.’ And would you know it, I couldn’t remember the last two numbers. ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t been back long. I’m still not used to everything.’ I gave up on that line of thought. ‘My name is Jaime.’

  ‘Mine is Yasmeen. What did they call you in Pakistan?’

  ‘Jameela.’ Oh, someone at last who understood where I’d come from! Even Danny didn’t know about my other name.

  ‘What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.’

  I grinned. I knew it was the Eastern way to be polite. Besides, just being white in Pakistan got me called beautiful. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had a huge conk for a nose or cauliflower ears. It was being fair that mattered there.

  I practically floated home on a cloud. Nor could I remember a thing that Elly chattered on about. Mum was pleased for me. It’s a hard sensation to describe. I suddenly realised that I’d been feeling so down because everything I knew had been left behind. It had been like looking out a window into a dark landscape. Now, I’d seen a glimmer of light—as if I’d found a bit of Pakistan here—the ‘something familiar’ I’d been trying to find that Mum had said not to look for. God was good. He’d sent me Yasmeen. Mum went on about there never being Pakistanis living in Salisbury; they usually settled in the Eastern suburbs. I was barely listening. All I could think about was seeing Yasmeen again!

  Dear Pakistan,

  I haven’t time to write much. You don’t mind do you? There are four assignments due in a couple of days and three of them are for external assessment. So they have to be good. Meeting Yasmeen has put an entirely new perspective on things. Schoolwork pales into insignificance, so does Danny even. I’ve got much more feel for my English assignment:

  There were only five days until election time. The bazaar in Chitral was no different from any other and as I walked down with my father peering into the little lean-to shops and dingy stalls, I could sense a tension in the small groups of men discussing and gesticulating together. My father could be embarrassing when he’d talk with the men and forget I was with him. He got that excited glint in his eye and I began to panic, as we were too far away from the hotel for me to respectably walk back by myself. Women must have a male relative with them in remote mountain places.

  ‘So you think a new government can make a change?’ He started in with Urdu to the group of men close by. They stopped in surprise for only a moment, then continued their argument, my father included.

  I looked around for something to take my attention; it was immodest to show interest in the men’s conversation. That was when I noticed him, the same guy I saw in the goat field the day before. He was buying something in a rug shop behind me. I could hear him talking to the shopkeeper, haggling over the price of a piece of tribal jewellery. He spoke in the way of the educated, using the national language, Urdu, with an English word scattered here and there. I used to think the rich did this to impress but from him it sounded so natural as if he didn’t know the local tongue.

  ‘Suneel,’ the other man was saying in Chitrali. I lost the rest because I couldn’t understand, but the young man broke in with, ‘Old man’ (a respectful title in Pakistan). ‘I know I’ll never find another one to match it, but the price is too high.’

  He walked out then, in the timeless fashion of bargaining. Unfortunately, I was in his way. He bumped into me and apologised profusely, holding his arm across his chest in abject humility. The shopkeeper was right behind him. I could tell he was badgering Suneel to buy. ‘Nay,’ Suneel replied. ‘It is too expensive.’ He walked past me. By the noise from the shopkeeper I could tell he was giving in. Suneel turned back and bought the item for a cheaper price than even Dad would have got it for.

  Just then, Dad turned to me, also apologising for leaving me on the road, when he noticed Suneel emerging from the shop. My father had an insatiable desire to start conversations. In no time, we’d been invited to have afternoon tea at Suneel’s house the following day. For once, I wasn’t cross with Dad for stretching our social calendar to its limit. Close up, Suneel had looked even more interesting.

  6

  It was the weekend at last! Because of all the homework, I had to choose whether to see Danny or Yasmeen. I think it’s only people who don’t care about passing who have a social life in Years 11 and 12. Danny took it well and said, ‘That’s cool.’ He had a lot of work to hand in on Monday anyway, and there I was, finally at Yasmeen’s house dressed in one of my favourite shalwar qameezes.

  She’d just opened the door, a teenage boy hovering behind her, and instantly I was seeing Suneel again, just as I saw him in the goat field. Except Suneel had brown hair and his eyes were green like the water off a tropical island in travel magazines, not dark like everyone else’s. I’d often wondered about that.

  Suddenly I realised I must have been staring. Yasmeen was giggling slightly in the way a Pakistani shows embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured, hoping I wasn’t turning pink. ‘Your brother reminded me of someone.’

  ‘He is handsome, is he not?’ Yasmeen giggled again.

  I half smiled to be polite, knowing it was better not to show too much interest. He came forward to meet me. Like all younger brothers, he’d probably been hanging around all afternoon waiting for a glimpse of his big sister�
��s new friend. Yasmeen introduced us, ‘This is Shehzad.’

  Close up, I lost interest. He was nothing like Suneel. His eyes were dark brown and he had a little too much personality and looked as if he knew it. When he spoke, his voice startled me into looking up at him again. It sounded like it should have come from a blond, bronze surfie. Even Danny’s accent wasn’t quite so Australian.

  Yasmeen soon whisked me off through the house to her room. Her mother had Bollywood songs playing and was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, making pakoras and shami kebabs for afternoon tea. It would have been easy to get embarrassed by all the trouble they went to for me if I hadn’t been used to that easy hospitality in Pakistan.

  In Yasmeen’s room the first thing she did was take some material from her cupboard and say it was a gift. ‘I bought it in Lahore,’ she said proudly and I knew it was the best she had. She even offered to sew it into a shalwar qameez for me. I was so excited as at the time, when I couldn’t work out what clothes would look good with what, I resorted to wearing the Pakistani national dress. I knew how to wear it and no one could say it didn’t match or was the wrong label.

  I loved the atmosphere of Yasmeen’s house. The excitement I’d felt in local homes in Pakistan, visiting with my mother, I felt there with Yasmeen. Her mother greeted me in English, then spoke to Yasmeen in Urdu. She was impressed when I understood. Yasmeen told me her mother had no Australian friends despite their repeated efforts to offer the lady next door curries and Pakistani delicacies.

  Yasmeen’s father was a doctor at the government hospital. There was a younger sister too, Rosina, but Yasmeen didn’t say much about her. Not long after we settled ourselves on the floor in Yasmeen’s room, she asked me if I was a Muslim.

  ‘No,’ I replied simply, knowing this wouldn’t offend her. ‘I believe in one God though, like you.’