Dear Pakistan by Rosanne Hawke

Author:Rosanne Hawke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Pakistan;third culture;cross culture;Australian culture;Muslim culture;school years;teenagers
Publisher: Rhiza Press
Published: 2016-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

11

It was a wonder I could keep my eyes open the next day at school. In Pakistan too, families would have parties on the very day of the birthday whether people had to go to work next day or not. Everything stopped for celebrations. A whole week’s holiday could be taken for attending a family wedding.

I’d woken that morning with thoughts of Suneel. Dreams do that to me. Even if I don’t like a person much but dream about them being nice, I see them in an entirely different light the next day. Suneel was the only thing I could concentrate on. At least he was one of my assignments.

The jeep had finally come to a stop. I was glad, as I felt queasy from the lurching of the vehicle on the winding road and through narrow, mountain passes. Many times I’d heard water rushing close by; at other times, it’d seemed hundreds of feet below us. Now it was almost dawn. I could still hear running water as we left the jeep—with me clutching Suneel’s package—and made our way towards the square, wooden structures that I knew would make up Suneel’s grandmother’s village.

‘This is Suneel’s village,’ his mother said.

‘Suneel’s?’

‘Ji, not only did he grow up here, but even while his father still lives, he is the head of it, so to speak. One day he will rule this whole valley of Rumbur.’

‘How will he do that?’

‘Times are changing. It used to be birth alone that gave our family that right. Now there are elections. In the first election a few years ago, we were voted in to keep doing the work we have always done for our people. Who knows? Maybe this election will be the same. I hope so, for Suneel and his father understand these people. They are our people.’

I hoped so too, if that was what Suneel wanted.

We didn’t make it halfway to the houses set into the hillside before swarms of youngsters came hurtling down the slopes to welcome us with giggles, shy smiles and touches on our arms and hands. Suneel’s mother knew most of them by name and hugged them indiscriminately as we made our way slowly up the hill.

By the time we reached a house that looked like all the others with its wooden and unbaked mud brick layers, there were men and young girls smiling a welcome as we were guided onto a plank bridge that led to a verandah. I ducked my head as a giggling girl of my own age, in a long black dress embroidered with yellow and red thread, lifted the curtain over the door for me to enter.

Inside, preparations for breakfast had begun. There was a tandoori-like oven set into the middle of the floor and two older girls, also in black dresses, were making their own style of flat bread. There were no windows and the smoke from the fire made it difficult to see at first until I became used to the darkened room. I was led to an old woman sitting cross-legged on a stringed bed.

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