Dear Pakistan Read online

  ‘Then there isn’t much difference between us.’ She looked pleased. I knew there was an ocean of difference, yet talking to her like that, I felt closer to her than I did to any of the Australian kids at school. Even Danny I’d never told I believed in God. Maybe it was private for a Westerner but a Muslim will always talk about it. It’s their life, how they think and many of their daily customs are tied up in their beliefs.

  ‘I’m so glad I met you,’ I burst out suddenly. ‘Australians are so different from Pakistanis.’

  ‘But you are Australian,’ she said gently. ‘You are home.’

  ‘I know.’ I must have sounded miserable, for she looked sympathetic and moved closer. She was only a couple of years older than me, but just then, she seemed as wise and ancient as a tribal grandmother.

  ‘Yasmeen, you wouldn’t call yourself Australian, I suppose? Haven’t taken out citizenship?’

  She shook her head. ‘I may not stay here. It has already been arranged that I will marry my cousin in Lahore. If he decides to come here to live, then I will return. Daddy still has property there and we send money back to our relatives. Besides, I would never change my religion.’

  At first I didn’t see the connection between my question and her last statement until I remembered that in Pakistan, being Muslim was practically synonymous with being Pakistani. Pakistani Christians were rarely respected and to change from Islam was often seen to be the same as changing one’s nationality, politics and identity. Changing one’s faith there can be punishable by death.

  I spoke tentatively, ‘Here, you can believe what you want. At least I was told that.’

  ‘Ji, one can. But we still have our system here. The mosque, our friends, the Pakistani community. The imam keeps a strict eye on us here just as they do in Pakistan.’ Then she added hastily, ‘This is good, of course. I want to be a good Muslim, to pray five times a day, study, be charitable, keep the fast.’

  ‘What about Rosina?’ I was interested in her. She was more my age. ‘Does she think that too?’

  Yasmeen took such a while in answering that I thought she’d ignored me until she shook her head. ‘Nay, she finds it difficult to be a good Muslim. She rebels against my parents’ wishes in dress, she won’t speak Urdu with them, does not say her prayers or go to the mosque with us. I think she has friends at school that do not understand her—’ (I could well believe it) ‘—and so to fit in she goes their way.’

  Poor Yasmeen sounded weary as she continued, ‘We can’t have it both ways, it seems. I never had a close Australian friend but that was the sacrifice I had to make. You are the first Australian girl I’ve met who understands me. Even likes me?’ This last was a question and I knew, without hearing, the hope and yearning behind it.

  I grinned and reached over to hug her. ‘Of course I do. You don’t know what it’s done for me to meet you. This is the happiest I’ve felt since I’ve come back.’

  ‘But you’re mistaken. I do know,’ she answered. I bit back another grin. She’d taken my colloquial English literally.

  The rest of the afternoon sped by with a sumptuous afternoon tea and reminiscences of Lahore in the winter and Murree, the Himalayan holiday resort, in the summer. It turned out we had been in both places at the same time on a few occasions but with all those millions, who’d have known?

  Shehzad came out as I was saying goodbye. He’d been doing homework in his room, although, judging by the sounds of heavy metal that surged under the door, it was hard to imagine much work being done. Mrs Rasheed loaded me with salaams for all my family, glass bracelets from Lahore for Mum and Elly, and extra shami kebabs for Dad and Andrew.

  ‘Ask your abu to come and visit my husband,’ she urged. ‘He gets home later.’ I nodded, thinking how it might do Dad good.

  ‘Catch ya later. It was cool meeting you,’ Shehzad shot after me in his total Australian accent. Nothing like Yasmeen’s. Was it that he was younger? Or did the religion make that much difference? He sure didn’t look as if he was interested in mosques yet he still had that Pakistani politeness. He didn’t try to shake my hand, nor did he look at me the way I’d seen some Australian boys do, as if they knew what colour bra I had on.

  Dear Pakistan,

  I felt like I was back with you today. Even Shehzad’s Australian accent didn’t spoil the effect; he still looked Pakistani. Yasmeen’s invited me to her cousin’s first birthday—a big deal, as you know.

  Elly’s watching Neighbours and Dad’s been gruff and grumpy again with everyone, including Mum. He’s sure changed. He used to be so much fun. Mum says it will pass and that we all have to be patient and not expect too much of ourselves and each other. I suppose I should talk to him, but I don’t feel like asking him how he feels. I’m sure it’d be too depressing. Besides, my story about Suneel beckons me. Mr Bolden is one of those super-conscientious teachers. He wants to see weekly drafts.

  Back at Dreamland Hotel (‘Dreamland’ was a definite overstatement but good old Mum had brought flea powder and clean sheets), I was telling Mum about Suneel, when Dad came in from talking to the proprietor.

  ‘We can’t stay as long as we thought. These little villages get rather hot at election times apparently. We’ve been advised to leave the valley.’

  ‘When?’ I held my breath. There was afternoon tea at Suneel’s tomorrow.

  Fortunately, Dad was never overly cautious. ‘I think the day after tomorrow will be time enough.’

  I heaved a sigh of relief. He mistook the reason for it and ruffled my hair. ‘Don’t worry, sunshine. Things seem calm in the bazaar at the moment.’

  I smiled up at him. I wasn’t worried. He always had an uncanny knack of gauging an atmosphere so that he mostly kept out of trouble, getting into just enough to keep life exciting. How were we to know that this time he would misjudge the situation completely?

  7

  Danny was waiting for me when I arrived at school on Monday. I told him all about the Rasheeds. He seemed interested enough or maybe I was so full of myself that I didn’t notice anything else. Except Kate, of course, as she and Debra walked past. Kate’s eyebrows were perched so high they looked as if they’d fly right off her face. But I wasn’t going to let her disapproval spoil my day. Besides, if all the girls thought like Kate, wouldn’t Danny be in need of a friend?

  All through maths, though, it wasn’t Danny I was thinking of. I kept wondering what was going to happen in my story at Suneel’s house. I mean, if he sounded educated and so must have been rich, how come he was in the goat field? I felt more secure in his world. I could imagine him understanding me like Yasmeen.

  I couldn’t help myself; I flipped over to the back of my graph exercise book and began writing furiously:

  Suneel’s house was set back from the bazaar. We had to climb a small rise to reach the huge wrought iron gate. A button pushed on the outside obviously moved servants to action inside as within a few moments, we were being ushered into a spacious central courtyard, the effect of which left vivid images on my mind: lush, rich, green, jungle. Cool-looking servants in white shalwar qameezes were bringing refreshments on trays as Suneel and an older woman came forward to greet us.

  ‘Good afternoon. How pleasant to meet you,’ she said in flawless English that sounded like a travel documentary. She was older than I’d expected Suneel’s mother to be. As it turned out, she …

  ‘Jaime! What do you think you’re doing? This is a maths lesson, not a time to catch up on homework.’ Mr Williams’ eyes under bristly black brows watched me all through the rest of the lesson; at least, I imagined they did. There was a hot spot right on top of my head.

  I couldn’t help what went on inside, though. Even in trigonometry, I used the measurements to work out how far Suneel’s house was from the bazaar and at what angle one would need to leave his house to get to the river without being shot.

  Lunchtime found me in th
e library. Danny had basketball practice, anyway. I suppose I could have gone to watch. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough to be friends with the girls in my class but I didn’t feel like hearing more of Kate’s advice. All the girls around her seemed to think like her. Sara and her friends never went near me after that first day. There were others who I knew weren’t my type who usually sniggered when I walked past.

  I couldn’t tell if it was my braids (no one else wore them) or my school shoes, which I liked when Mum bought them but didn’t know they weren’t ‘in’ this year at school. I wondered who had decided they weren’t ‘in’. Someone like Debra, I guessed. Things like that didn’t matter in Pakistan. Most people were glad to have shoes at all and I’d had the best ones anyway. Mum’s Pakistani friends would hope Mum thought of them whenever I grew out of my clothes.

  The quietest spot in the library was in the back corner, still in full view of the librarian and some other tables, but quiet enough not to be bothered. Wrong. I’d just started on the afternoon tea conversation at Suneel’s. He’d actually sat down with us (under Elly’s adoring gaze; I hoped mine was more controlled) and he hadn’t whisked Dad and Andrew off to the men’s quarters as so often happened in Pakistani households, when a shadow fell across my page.

  ‘Hi! Jaime, isn’t it?’

  I looked up and froze. It was so unlike me and even now I can’t explain it. The owner of the voice was Blake Townsend.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ He pulled out a chair, knowing I wouldn’t object. He had the confidence that came from never having been refused anything. I bet his mother gave him orange juice in his cot if he even whimpered. Blake Townsend was the major topic of all Kate’s conversations. Even if she were talking about the weather, it got around to Blake somehow: ‘Blake’d look really hot in a Bonds muscle top on a day like this.’

  ‘So weren’t you a princess in some remote country?’ His tone made him sound interested but I knew it wouldn’t last long. Danny had made me feel warm with those same words. Now I just felt scared. It must have been because Blake was blond. I wasn’t used to blond. He was also big, with one of those square jaws you only read about, and he was brown because he wanted to be, not because he was born with it and couldn’t do anything about it. Besides all that, he was too close. For the first time I wished I hadn’t worn braids that day. I wished my dress was a bit shorter. I wished I could say something smart.

  ‘I always make it my business to meet new students. Sorry I’m a bit late.’ I was wondering why he said that when my glance took in the student council badge on his blazer. It was his second time in Year 12; that probably made him the head rep in the school. He couldn’t be too bad if everyone had voted for him.

  I tried to smile as if I were relaxed. ‘You took me by surprise,

  I was engrossed.’ I pointed to my book as explanation. He leaned forward as though to read it but I didn’t hand it over.

  ‘You like writing?’

  I nodded. ‘It makes me feel better.’

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Why should you need to feel better? You look like you’ve got it together.’

  It was my turn to be surprised. Even Danny hadn’t come out with something like that. ‘What do you mean?’ I was starting to feel a bit warm. I hoped it didn’t show.

  ‘Well, you’re different and it seems like you don’t mind being different. Most of the girls at school are trying to be like someone in the media whether it suits them or not.’

  That was laughable, when he looked exactly like he’d stepped out of a Coke ad. Maybe it was natural for him though. Most probably he was born looking like that so why should anyone else resent it? Maybe it’s only trying to be something other than yourself that’s wrong. I decided to come clean about the media bit.

  ‘I never grew up with the Australian media. That’s why it has no hold over me. I don’t understand it. So, you see, I’m not really special at all. And I’m not a princess.’

  He looked as though he was going to answer when our attention was taken by a nearby group of noisy kids banging their bags down and pulling out chairs. A guy called to Blake amid the librarian’s inadequate shushes. That was when I noticed the glances thrown my way. I steeled myself for the usual amused smirk and held my breath waiting for Blake to disappear in embarrassment, but it didn’t happen. The guys stared at me appreciatively, as if I were a pizza with the lot. The girls’ glances were definitely envious.

  I suddenly realised what Kate was on about. I hadn’t seen it before, not when I was with Danny. Did being seen with Blake make so much difference? Why should it? He didn’t even seem aware of the effect he was having. I’d seen both sides. He’d only ever seen one, I bet. He’d always received admiring glances so he wouldn’t know what it was like not to have them.

  Blake did leave after a while, but he left me feeling more confused than before. If he thought I was OK because I was different, why did I only get the respect from the kids when I was with him? Could he accept me because he was older and saw through all that peer pressure stuff Mum used to talk about? Did that mean only older guys would appreciate me? Or maybe guys like Danny, brought up in a different cultural background, who didn’t know the ‘right’ way of doing things? Did it matter? Surely not everyone was part of the ‘in’ group.

  I felt as if I was in a lonely hole again. And it wasn’t exactly a topic I could talk to Danny about.

  Dear Pakistan,

  I got an anonymous note today. It read, ‘You’re cool, Jaime Richards, but you can do better than Danny Dimitriadis’. I knew it wouldn’t have been Blake’s work. It didn’t seem his style. I was so annoyed. I mean, who says I’m going out with Danny anyway? You only have to spend time with a guy here and everyone thinks you’re ‘together’ (that’s the word for it at school). But I guess it doesn’t do to tell you all this. You wouldn’t understand anyway; you most probably think I’m immoral, believing in arranged marriages as you do.

  Besides it’s too hard to work out so I won’t think about it anymore. It’s much more fun being at Suneel’s.

  After the refreshments, the servants had brought sweet, milky tea just like Shuhilla used to make at home on holidays. Elly had just started on the pakoras and samosas (simultaneously) when we heard the rat-a-tat of an assault rifle. Gunshots were often heard but not like this with sounds of jeep tyres squealing and engines being revved up, interspersed with shouts of anger.

  Just as Suneel and his father rose there was a banging on the gate and a man almost fell into the courtyard.

  ‘Sahib, Sahib …’ I didn’t understand the garbled story of the distraught man but Suneel’s tense face as he slipped the man some money gave me an idea of the importance of the situation. Even then, I was more excited than scared. With a quick apology flung back at us, Suneel’s father stalked outside, shouting orders and testing the safety catch on the rifle a servant had handed to him. Men appeared from every corner and ran down the alleyway ahead of him towards the bazaar.

  Suneel turned back to us, smiling mechanically, the perfect host. I felt sorry for I could tell he’d rather be in the action with his father.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dad asked. ‘Can I help?’ He half stood, looking hopeful.

  ‘It will be all right now,’ Suneel replied, his voice like ironed silk. ‘A man has got into an argument over politics and decided to make his point plain. It happens sometimes.’ He made his face smile but he didn’t seem amused.

  ‘My husband will see to it,’ Suneel’s mother broke in, her voice as smooth as her son’s. ‘He is the khan. They will stop fighting and do what he says.’ The way they kept reassuring us should have warned me but I didn’t take in the danger of the situation. All I could think was that Suneel’s father was the khan! I looked with renewed interest at Suneel. That made him a kind of prince.

  My father was standing now. ‘I think we had better leave.’

  Suneel mot
ioned him down. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but until the riot is stopped you cannot go back to the hotel.’ He glanced at Mum and the rest of us. ‘Some of our people do not think carefully when their temper is up. They have no restraint.’

  Dad sighed in equally ill-concealed restraint. He wanted to go and look, I could tell. I grinned at him. He and I were much alike.

  Mum was wearing her worried frown. Dad always said she thought too much. She turned to Suneel’s mother. ‘Are you in politics? Does it involve you other than putting down a riot?’

  The other woman smiled briefly. ‘My husband stands for election in this area. But for many, the election is only about the government.’

  ‘Do you support the new one?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Ji.’

  ‘And many don’t, do they?’

  I’d noticed by the strained look on Andrew’s face that he was following her argument and coming to some conclusion of his own.

  Mum continued, ‘Then the riot may not stay confined to the bazaar?’

  Andrew nodded slightly to himself.

  Suneel sat down then and spoke slowly, his voice firm, like heavy-duty denim this time. ‘Please do not worry. There will be no further trouble.’

  I don’t think any of us, even Elly, were fooled by the ‘please’. It was not an appeal. Mum stayed quiet then, but pulled Elly closer to her, rocking her as one would a baby in a thunderstorm.

  8

  Danny had just selected another song on his iPod. Despite my life resolve of trying to accept people as they came, I was still impressed at how well set up he was. He had his own music system in his room. There was a ‘spare room now TV theatre’ for all the kids and he could take any food he wanted from the kitchen cupboards or fridge when he felt like it. Mum would kill Andrew if he didn’t ask first.

  I was even learning to notice the clothes he wore on the weekends. They were nice, and on the back pocket of his jeans was one of the labels Debra dropped into conversations.