The Time Everyone Drowned

Two emaciated men sit on a makeshift raft piled high with the everyday bric-a-brac of village life, Ropes and pots and pans. A sad-eyed black-buffalo tied by yet another rope to the raft itself , comically bobs up and down in its wake. The raft is afloat on churning brown floodwaters in some nameless part of Pakistan.

In the background, a female anchorperson smoothly intones in a crisp British accent, Post-monsoon floods ravage parts of Pakistan, flooding is imminent in various urban areas.

At 4, im not particularly invested in the arcana of global developments. But, she is talking about a place called Pakistan.

Presumably MY Pakistan.

We have family in Pakistan.

The anchorperson makes no mention of Dada-abu and Dadi ami. Of Taya baba , or Tayi mama. Instead the camera pans to more shots of placid, semi-submerged buffalo as the anchorperson drones interminably on about flash-floods and refugees. Clearly these BBC folk have no sense of proportion at all.

Big, 4 year-old eyes watch rapt with horrified attention. Searching the small TV screen for a recognizable face, any recognizable face.

Maybe they too found a raft or at the very least, hitched a ride on some errant floating livestock.

But they had no buffalo. In fact, no one in our family had a buffalo.

Not one.

In the background parents clear up the remnants of our evening meal before tidying up the small dining area attached to the kitchen.

They don’t seem particularly concerned about the news.

Nor do the elder brother or sister engrossed as they are in their super hero scrap books and Crayolas.

My little mind boggles.

Dada abu, dadi. Taya baba, tayi mama, Are probably floating around on some hideous rickety little raft . IF they’re lucky enough to be alive and no one seems to care.

But the parental unit is entirely unconcerned about the possible demise of their family members. For them its all about bed-time. School-night, off you go, into bed, time to brush those teeth, school tomorrow missy.

I glare at them reproachfully but comply.

Surely at a time like this.Trivialities like oral hygiene could be dispensed with?

But wait, could there be more than one Pakistan? Maybe a smaller one, still sunny but nearer to the UK, adjacent to Spain perhaps. My teacher. Mrs Tracy talks a lot about the charms of sunny Spain. But blithely sinful, wearer-of-shorts and devourer-of-bacon-sandwiches that she is. Her testimony is suspect and probably flawed .

At 4 , I am a self-righteous little bigot.

It would be understandable why the BBC lady would be so concerned about her own European Pakistan and why the parents would be so blatantly unconcerned about a completely unrelated but eponymous country .

It would also account for the complete absence of important personalities from the BBC narrative. Like Dada-abu.

Surely Dada-abu would feature in any news about Pakistan.

Would a Dada-abu free Pakistan even qualify for the title?

Momentarily reassured that the news was about some other Pakistan , an incongruous monsoon-hit Spain adjacent state perhaps . I drift off to sleep.

When my mother drops me off at the school gate the next morning. I inquire in a hopeful whisper ‘Is there more than one Pakistan”

She laughs “Off course not silly” Then she saunters merrily away.

Cold so cold.

I spend the day in a stunned daze, By lunch time, I can’t hold the tears back.

Kind, brown-eyed Mrs Tracy approaches me.

“Is everything Ok dearie” she speaks in a thickly lilting Gaelic accent.

Eyes abrim. I look at her, as always knobbly pink knees and blue-veined legs are indecently visible below her sensible tartan skirt.

But still , shameless infidel and unapologetic-pig-eater though she is, she has demonstrated more humanity than my parents.

I melodramatically inform her that my entire family has drowned in the floods.

She looks at me, mildly nonplussed.

“Drowned, Dearie?”

“Drownded” I repeat .” All of them. DrownDED in the floods. They didn’t even have any buffalo to float on ”.

She frowns at my tear stained face . Puzzled.

“Wait, What dearie? I’m fairly sure I met yer ma only this mornin, she seemed in fine spirits”.

I can only sob incoherently.

Mrs. Tracy spends the next two hours attempting to make sense of my disjointed narrative.

Its home-time.

She asks my mother to come in and nervously asks her, if there’s any trouble at home or as she delicately puts it , back home?

Less than pleased over being delayed on her school run, my mother looks accusingly askance at my red-rimmed eyes.

To Mrs. Tracy , curtly “There is no trouble at home. At all”.

Mrs. Tracy, kind and thoughtful soul that she is, is unsure how to navigate the situation, without stepping on any toes, real or figurative.

Well back home, then, in Pakissstaan?

Ever vigilant for any instance of discrimination or racial prejudice, my mother shifts her gimlet gaze back to Mrs. Tracy.

“Why would you even ask ? Everyone back home is fine, I just talked to my mother this morning .”

Mrs. Tracy clears her throat nervously .

Fatema says, “erhmm… well Fatema seems to think that her grandparents, well …..your entire extended family actually, has drowned in the recent Monsoon floods because well….how should I put this? Because they had no buffalo...?”.

Her voice peters off on a question...unsure .Could the mention of buffalo be misconstrued as A slur or a form of cultural prejudice?

Then again, the buffalo had been an essential and oft-repeated part of my garbled narrative, The lack of cheerfully buoyant livestock in my families’ lives being the foremost cause of their premature deaths by drowning in my little head.

My mother is momentarily taken aback.

“What? Buffalo?”

She looks at me, slightly incredulous.

Then.

Understanding dawns.

I sink a little further in my seat.

Then she laughs out loud. A full-throated sound.

“Fatema will not be allowed to watch the evening news in future. “

On the way home. She explains that Pakistan is a vast country and although of central importance in my little life, our family , Dada and Dadi etc. live far far away from most news worthy events.

I am relieved but still insist that Dada-abu , buy a buffalo next time I talk to him.