18. Children of the Indus

​I have been three times to visit the fishing community on the Indus banks near Larkana, so I will tell this story in three parts.

​Part 1. The ancient Indus, yet a new world for me.

For the first part of the story I must think back more than a year ago and pull the details out of the already dusty recesses of my memory. It was at the very beginning of January in 2015, during my first trip to Sindh. The landscape of my adoptive home, which is so rich in color and variety, especially around Larkana, was still fresh and new in my eyes. The Sindhi landscape still warms my heart and will always delight my soul, but there is a tug of nostalgia in me for that brief time when it was still completely new. And all was a surprise. What a precious feeling that is -- the complete newness of love. And though I will never be able to discover Sindh completely anew like that again, I hope I will always be able to remember that feeling.

On that particular afternoon, I had already been dazzled by several new sights about and around Larkana, and I was feeling ready to head back home. But Papa Saeed had one more location in mind, just before sunset. We were riding in his Jeep, which is the vehicle Papa loves best, because it frees him of the shackles of having to drive on the real, paved roads of town (which roads, it must be said, are paved very poorly in many cases anyway). Our drive on that afternoon took us first onto a very sandy passage that still nonetheless resembled a road, but then soon down a steep hill that seemed not much more solid than a sand dune. Once down that stretch, the Jeep proceeded to bump and jostle its way across a rocky terrain that eventually opened up on the vast expanse of the Indus river bank. ​

The nomadic settlement.

And what a view it is from there: the river Indus stretching wide but placid, its waters almost still, such that you might not even notice which direction the river was flowing. And alongside that peaceful giant of a river stretched a wide beach, not of sand, but of gentle silty dust, which at water’s edge becomes a grey slippery mud.

Farther back from the river, where the terrain changes into a more typical mix of rocks and low plants, there arises a chain of huts, all ramshackle and bending low under the pressure of sunlight and the harshness of reality. These are the homes of the nomadic fishing community, who live in this majestic natural setting but in conditions of abject poverty. I cannot hazard a guess as to whether the beauty of the river and sky can possibly console these fisherfolk amid the starkness of their deprivation.

The people who live here captured my interest at once, and we (Papa and I) seemed to be just as interesting to them. The menfolk usually linger in the background, rarely approaching, but the women (generally older ones) come forth readily to offer their greetings, and the children burst towards us in great curiosity and enthusiasm. The women are always kind, but they seemed a bit wary of us at first. Although the Sangi home is only a few miles from this settlement, it would appear that even Papa is an alien from another planet descending upon them, so different is their way of life. But Papa greets them as equals, addressing each woman as “adi” (respected sister). And if they seem surprised to be given such respect, he insists to them that “we are all Sindhis, aren’t we!” ​

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The beautiful faces that greeted us that day.

A bit of wariness is of course understandable, from people of such poverty, when they see a well-dressed doctor and his strangely white daughter and her armed guard, all barreling fearlessly over their terrain in a Jeep, even if it is our old and somewhat rusted one. I’m sure I would be quite wary if I were in their position. But that emotion never lasts long in them -- Sindhi hospitality and warmth is strong in their hearts, and they quickly warm to us, especially once they see that we are just visitors and curious ourselves. And the children, in any case, are never wary. They rush to surround us with their bright faces, and delight in showing us their nets and fishes and anything else they might have on hand.

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The strange prisoners.

My attention was drawn to the still waters of the river, and especially to a few strange and still displays moored in them. There were a pair of wooden Indus boats, which are always a poetic image, especially when they float there, empty and waiting. But more surreal was the line of strange birds, all perched on a slender and uneven branch, which was raised by similar but vertical pegs to hover a foot or so above the water. The birds sit there in great solemnity, uttering no sound, and rarely moving at all. At first I had thought that they had simply paused there for a rest in the midst of their regular soarings, but looking more closely I realized that they were tied to the spot. I was even more unsettled to learn that they had been blinded, though I could not understand the reason that was explained to me at the time. I later learned that they are held there for the purpose of luring other birds to the spot to be caught. And thus, as sometimes happens, a scene that appears magical upon first glance turns rather darker upon inspection.

Baji is at the center, grinning directly at the camera.

But I could hardly brood on that notion when surrounded by such bright children, who circled around us with increasing excitement.

​One particular girl, probably eight or nine years old, caught my attention somehow. Though she had no dazzling beauty, she stood out from the crowd because of her honest, open demeanor, a special friendliness, and, it seemed to me, a noticeable intelligence in her eyes. She was especially plainly dressed. All the children wear the clothes of the poor, of course, but some of the girls nonetheless glow with bright colors and their own natural glamour. But this girl made no effort at glamour; she wore her dupatta tightly around her forehead in the manner of a kerchief. But I haven’t fully described her what drew me to her. Perhaps you, dear reader, will recognize the feeling of being in the presence of someone who seems especially real to you. Something about a personality that stands out against others. It wasn’t the feeling of having known her for a long time -- I didn’t feel like I knew her at all. But I felt nonetheless like she was someone worth knowing, someone worth getting to know.

I asked her name -- that was one of the few full sentences of Sindhi that I could already muster at that time -- “tunhjo naalo chhaa aahey?” But I was surprised, and thought perhaps that I had misspoken, when she responded simply: “Baji.” Baji is a word commonly used for “sister” (usually, an elder or respected sister) -- could this really be her name?  “Tunhnjo naalo Baji aa?” I repeated somewhat haltingly. She nodded with her simple smile, and the other children confirmed that, yes, this was Baji. And I was satisfied that at least this was the name she goes by -- though surely she must have some other proper name as well. But to this day I only know her as Baji.

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Pics taken just before we left on that day. Baji is near me in all of them (wearing the striped dupatta). You can see her vibrant expressions, as well as those of the other children, who surrounded me with such genuine and infectious joy.

I don’t remember much more from that first visit to the Indus fisherfolk. The rest has blurred into a general impression of the calm river, the laughing children, the sky and the soft sand. And I gave a special farewell to Baji before we returned to our Jeep to climb back up the dunes towards the city.

Part 2. Royal throne of fishing nets

I was dressed more like a Sindhi woman this time.

My second visit to the fisherfolk, in November 2015, was one of the loveliest of all my experiences in Sindh.  I wrote it up for my Facebook page at the time, and since the feelings of the day will be freshest in that telling, I will copy that text here, but I am expanding it to fill in some details that I omitted at the time.

​We arrived this time in early afternoon, and the sun was very bright overhead. I was eager to see the sweet children of the fishing community again -- particularly my favorite little girl, Baji. As soon as we were out of the Jeep and among the children, I scanned the group for Baji, and didn’t see her among them. We asked for her, and there was some confusion as to her whereabouts -- she was on the other side of the river, by some reports, or she was inside, or busy with something. These answers could not all be true, so we kept asking. And so the message that Baji was being summoned by these foreign visitors began to travel more quickly among the fisher folk, and eventually it had its effect: and we saw on the horizon that Baji herself was running along to join us.

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Distraught Baji

But Baji's face revealed an emotion quite unlike the joyful confidence that I had expected. She appeared distraught and worried. Although she didn’t seem to be crying, she was almost gasping with some sort of tumultuous emotion.

I gave her a hug, which she accepted gently, but her mood remained troubled, and this troubled me even more. I tried to find out from Papa what might be worrying little Baji. He did not seem to make much of it. “ACTUALLY SWEET EM,” he said, “SHE IS VERY EMOTIONAL TO SEE YOU AGAIN.”

“It is not the emotion that I might have hoped for,” I said, but I’m not sure Papa heard me. 

There was an especially large group of excited children circling round us this time, inviting us to walk with them along the riverbank. I reached for Baji’s hand, and felt some relief that she was willing to offer it; another girl took my other hand, and the whole bright and bubbling group of us began our stroll. The children were so buoyant with energy that I hardly noticed when Baji began to sink back a bit into the crowd.    ​

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​Our path at first followed along the higher bank, where the mud had hardened into firm ground. At one point, though, Papa asked if I wanted to go down closer to a particular boat, where a couple of young boys were beckoning to us. Unable to resist, I started down the hill, towards where the ground was looser and muddier. These boats were very close to the shore, though, and there was some hay laid down on the mud that looked like it might possibly support me in my last steps toward the boat. I proceeded cautiously, but in vain: my right foot sank deep into the soft clay mud, immersing my shoe entirely.

At this point I thought: I've come this far, so might as well go the remaining few steps without shoes. I left both my shoes sticking right there in the mud, and carefully trod the rest of the way toward the little boat. The grinning boys were waiting for me there, and I sat with them for a sunny moment. I was a bit worried about ruining my nice new suit (a present from Ammi Saeeda which I was wearing for the first time), but surely this was worth it.

As I got back up off the boat, the children took me by the hand and helped me not to get too muddy on my return walk. One of them took my shoes for me, which I would have only further muddied by putting them on my feet.

I walked barefoot with the children back up the hill, and I am thankful for that short walk, because it was a sensation I had never before experienced. My feet expected the familiar grainy feeling of beach sand, interspersed with tiny rocky hazards. But this was nothing like ocean sand: it was infinitely more gentle. Even that firmer terrain where the mud has mostly dried into a clay, the texture is fine and silky and a bit spongy to the step. My feet are unusually tender and uncallused, not used to any prolonged barefootedness, so I was expecting this walk to be uncomfortable if not painful for me. But it was quite the opposite: feeling the banks of Sindhu beneath my steps was purely delightful.

We were led to a place where some fishing nets were spread on the ground, which we used like a rug. There was a great beauty in those strong fishing nets, the beauty of sturdy simplicity, and I was as honored to sit on them as I would be on the finest royal carpet. There was tea prepared for us, I was told, to my great delight.

But before we drank it, the children tended to my muddy feet. And this was the truly remarkable event of the day. One or two of them brought a metal pitcher full of water, which they slowly poured over my feet until the mud had been washed away. Another child took my muddied shoes and rinsed them off in the Indus. They tended me with such love and simplicity -- I am unable to find words to describe this feeling of communion. One might assume, seeing the photos out of context, that they were serving me as one high above their station, or that I had demanded such service, but that was not the situation at all. I wouldn’t have even thought to ask for such gentle service as they provided, nor did I wish them to feel in any way inferior to me. And they did not treat me as an outsider whom they were forced to serve, but more like a respected elder sister or aunt they had always known and loved, as one of their own.

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a favorite memory.

with a happier Baji.

Once my feet were clean, I was handed a cup of tea, which was as rich and delicious as always here in Sindh. I asked Baji to come sit next to me, which she did, and I was deeply relieved that she seemed to have overcome her earlier fit of distress.  A small boy brought us a vat half-filled with water and various shining fish that he had caught that morning, just to show us his fine work. And the children were circled all around us, and their small forms also provided us a kind of dappled shade against the bright sunlight. And their sparkling laughter had the same kind of dappled effect upon my ears: somehow their laughter seemed more musical than most, with a bright range of tones like a fine Javanese gamelan. I asked Papa to take a quick video to capture that sound, though (as so often happens) the laughter had diminished by the time he heard me and started the camera rolling. As a result, much of the laughter you hear on the video is that of Papa himself, hoping to urge the children into a repeat performance of their previous chuckles. But you can get a sense of those sounds if you listen closely between Papa’s prompting guffaws.

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This was the kind of moment that cannot last long, by its very nature.... inevitably we were soon up again and getting back into the Jeep.... but all those sensations still live in me: the velvety springiness of the riverbank, the texture of the fishing nets, the glint of the newly caught fish, the silvery laughter of the beautiful fisher children.

​Part 3: A mystery unraveled

My third visit to the Indus fisher folk was the least joyful of the three, given that it lacks the surprise and newness of the first visit and the almost mystical exhilaration of the second. But it was probably the most important visit nonetheless; the visit in which I learned the most about the people, and particularly about little Baji.

​This was during my most recent visit, in April 2016. The riverbank was the last of our stops on that day’s photo outing, timed to coincide roughly with sunset. There were three of us: myself, Papa Saeed, and our guard, who was new to us but served us very dutifully throughout my stay. His name is Abdul Khalique Bhutto, but we liked to call him “Bhutto Sahib.” (There is nothing odd about this, since it is his name, after all. But I should explain for Western readers who might not realize that the phrase “Bhutto Sahib” will always inevitably bring to mind the great former prime minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. And given that my guard Bhutto Sahib is also quite a young man, there is something vaguely amusing about this.)  The three of us had previously been roaming around other parts of the riverside, where the Indus waters were somewhat more actively rushing than I had otherwise seen.

my shady perch

But despite all that interesting scenery, I was eager to visit with the fisher children again, and of course, especially Baji. I had not forgotten her unusual behavior the previous time, and I hoped to find that it had simply been a matter of that day; perhaps something else had been bothering her, and this time she would be her normal self again. I pondered this as we paused at a roadside establishment overlooking the fishing village. I can’t call it a cafe, as it was hardly more than a shack, and it could not even provide us the Coca-cola with which its sign had lured us. But we were comfortable for that moment sipping bright orange Fanta from enormous bottles (no small sizes were to be found) under the shade of the thatched roof. The temperature at the time was the hottest I had experienced in Larkana, about 42*C (108*F), but I tolerated it pretty well, as long as I had frequent access to shade. (I was lucky, however, that I returned to the US when I did, because just a few weeks later my Larkanian family was having to endure temperatures up to 53*C -- an astonishing 127*F -- and such will be their lot for much of the rest of the long Sindhi summer.) 

​In any case -- at that moment I was perched on a wooden pallet in our chosen roadside shack, enjoying the shade and the breeze above the river Indus. The long highway and massive bridge stretched quietly behind me. Traffic on that route is steady but sparse, and the vehicles you can see are as likely to be camels as trucks. Before me stretched the dusty road from which we would soon descend, in our Jeep, to the community below. From above, the nomadic settlement seemed peaceful, rather organized, almost like a proper village, despite its light and shabby materials. A gentle glowing light was falling on those drooping roofs in anticipation of sunset.

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The settlement viewed from above.

Welcoming smiles on dear faces.

As soon as we three had gotten our fill of Fanta from the huge bottles, we got back into the Jeep to descend and greet our fishing friends below. By this time I had grown used to the way our vehicle tolerates the steep descent into the quasi-sand dunes, and the bumps along the rocky path to our destination, and yet I was a bit panicked by the particular route along the shoals that Papa chose on this occasion. I didn’t mind the proximity to water as much as the precarious angle that the Jeep assumed -- leaning heavily to the left, the passenger’s side, making me feel that I would be the first to tumble into the river if the vehicle lost its balance. Thankfully we remained upright until we’d reached a spot where we could park.

​And by now, the fishers have learned to recognize that green Jeep from a distance. This time we were greeted warmly and without any reserve from the womenfolk, and the children once again bubbled with excitement. And I was pleased to be able to communicate a bit more with everyone -- though my Sindhi is still atrocious, I could maintain a certain level of light chatting without great trouble. And I myself was able to ask them this time, “Baji kithey aa?” (Where is Baji?)
​
They had perhaps been anticipating the question, and the same flutter of inquiry started buzzing between them as the previous time, as they conferred to figure out where she was. And again I tried to follow along with what they were saying, picking out only bits and pieces, though certainly more than the last time. “Baji pareshan aahey,” one of the children told me -- “Baji is upset.” My eyes widened and I asked “chho?” (why?) but the child shrugged, and then said something that I couldn’t quite understand.

Around this time, Papa’s phone rang, and it was apparently a rather important phone call, which drew him away from the crowd of people. I learned later that it was his assistant at the clinic, calling to update him on the many patients who were waiting for his evening arrival. This meant that I was on my own with my weak Sindhi to try to communicate with my fisher friends. Bhutto sahib can speak some English, but when I looked toward him I saw that he was also on his phone (though still paying attention to my surroundings, of course), and in any case he would not be able to provide the linguistic help I needed.

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the scene that day. Bhutto sb is on the phone.

​
​As I was waiting for Baji to appear, one of the kindly women was sitting with me and trying to tell me about her, but I was understanding very little. The one thing I did understand from her was, “Baji does not have a mother.” I was sorry to hear this, but somehow not surprised. Baji did somehow seem more like an orphan than the other children, in some inexplicable way. But -- could this be the reason why Baji was upset? Now, at this moment? The other things the woman said would probably have helped me understand the whole situation, if only my Sindhi were strong enough.  

After a few more minutes, Baji herself did appear, at the arm of another one of the older women, leading her towards me. I could tell from a distance that she was once again in distress -- this time even more than before. I greeted her with a hug, which she didn’t refuse, but also could not really share. In this moment I wanted nothing more than to calm her, but without understanding the problem, I was helpless. I looked at her as gently and sympathetically as I could and asked, “Baaji, chho khush na aaheen? Maslo chhaa aahey?” (Baji, why are you not happy? What is the problem?)

But Baji was not able to answer, still gasping and crying strange, dry tears. I looked to her companions, young and old, and asked the same question. They were all looking on with kindly and untroubled faces. One of the older women did offer the answer, though I couldn’t understand it fully. I caught some of the words she was saying -- “she -- thinks -- take --” but I could not make sense of the whole thought. Desperate for a translation, I looked over the heads of the children to where Papa was standing, some distance away. He was quite absorbed in that phone call, however, and did not hear me trying to call for his assistance. The kindly woman repeated her explanation, but I still did not catch on. 

I sat down on a sort of a bench and urged Baji to sit next to me, and I tried to treat her in the most friendly and least frightening way I know how. But I was utterly baffled. This bold, bright girl who had captured my attention that first time -- how could she now be reduced to sobs at my return visits?

I continued to try to soothe her with my broken Sindhi. One of the other young girls then said to me, “Hooa tawhanji boli na samjhandi.” (--She will not understand your language.)

And I was even more puzzled -- wasn’t I trying to speak to Baji in her own language? Was the girl suggesting that there was some reason why Baji specifically could not understand me, even though the others could? Surely that made no sense.

“Par'a -- chho?” I said in desperation. “Sindhi aahey, na? Maan haaney Sindhi ggaalhayan thee.” (But why? This is Sindhi, isn’t it? I’m speaking Sindhi now.)

“Accha, Sindhi!” said the other girl, seeming content with my response. But I knew that there must still be something that I had not understood. I looked down at Baji, who was becoming calm, though her mood was far from that bright one that had first impressed me. The gears of my own mind were spinning frantically to try to understand what was happening here, and coming up with nothing.

​So I let the children lead me on another walk along the riverside. I kept Baji’s hand in mine, determined to make her happy before I left. But she was quiet. The other children chattered with their normal energy, and I heard at least one of them again say that bizarre statement that I had heard before: “She won’t understand your language.”

where we walked.

Baji partly consoled.

At some point along this walk, Papa caught up with us, having ended his call. Understandably, most of his thoughts were still in the clinic, with the patients he would soon be seeing. Another fraction of his attention was being absorbed by the bright and buoyant children all around. So there wasn’t much left of Papa’s attention left to explain to me in the kind of depth that I was needing about what was bothering Baji. But I did ask him this question, and after repeating myself once or twice, he asked the same of the others standing nearby. Again I heard the same response I had heard once before, the words I couldn’t quite put together.

And Papa did translate for me: “She thinks you are coming here to take her away.”

And the whole mystery would be unraveled from that simple explanation, though I was too flustered in the moment to see the depth of it.

I was utterly surprised by this idea, so much that I could hardly give it its due. It seemed simply absurd to me. Coming to take her away?

“Baji Baji, sachi naahey,” I tried to say to her, “maan eeain na kandem.” (It’s not true; I will not do that.) But by this point my linguistic skills were highly fatigued, as well as my emotions, and I did not know if she knew what I was talking about.

I wanted to say clearly in Sindhi, “I will never take you away from here,” but I couldn’t manage it -- future constructions are difficult, especially with the complications of a direct object and a location and a compound verb phrase -- I’m still not sure I can manage that whole sentence. (“Maan tokhey kaddahin na kanee eendem, hetan khan…” ? Sindhi friends are welcome to help me with that.)

Suffice it to say that I did not manage to say it clearly. But I also wasn’t yet giving the idea its full weight. It still seemed to me impossible that this could really be what was upsetting Baji. But that was merely because it had not occurred to me before, and the very newness of the idea was keeping me from completely grasping what I should do.

In any case, Baji was looking much less upset by this point, and almost even smiling. “Asaan dost’a aahiyoon, ha na?” I asked her. (We are friends, right?) And she nodded.

“Ain toon khush aaheen? Pareshan na aheen?” (And you are happy? You’re not upset?) She managed another nod and a smile. And I gave her a better hug at this point.

It was clear that Papa needed to get going, and that patients were awaiting him. I was still not fully satisfied that I had communicated well with dear Baji, but I knew that the time for this visit was up. So I said my farewells to all of them.

And to Baji I also said, “Maan wari eendem” (-- I will come again). And I now wish I had not said that -- but only later did I realize why.

As we drove away, I asked Papa if Baji could really have thought I was planning to take her. It still did not seem a logical explanation to me.

“WELL YOU SEE EM,” he replied. “YES. SHE MIGHT THINK THAT. WHEN A FOREIGN LADY MAKES REPEAT VISITS AND WANTS TO SEE HER SPECIFICALLY. SHE MIGHT THINK YOU WANT TO ADOPT HER.”

I tried to let this sink in. “But surely she has no other reason to think so? Wouldn’t the others reassure her that this wasn’t true?”

Papa shrugged. Soon our conversation drifted to other topics, and before long I was again dropped off at the gate of our house in the city.

But my mind was not settled. I could not rid myself of the feeling that I had done something wrong -- not intentionally of course, but something that I still wanted to fix. There is much that I still don’t understand, but gradually over the following days, more pieces of the puzzle were settling in place.

“She won’t understand your language,” the children had said to me. I had thought they meant my Sindhi wasn’t good enough for Baji to understand. But they were not talking about my Sindhi at all -- they meant English, my own language. They meant, “where you’re going to take her, she won’t be able to communicate.” If I had understood it at the time, I could have made things clear. Instead, my answer about speaking Sindhi could only have muddled things further -- making it seem like I was taking her to some place where people speak Sindhi. If only I could have explained that I was not taking her anywhere!

And when the other woman had told me that Baji does not have a mother -- this too feels like quite a different statement, coming from someone who might expect me to be adopting the girl.

And then I began to regret also my last words to Baji, “I will come again.” I meant only that I would continue to visit her, as a friend, and that these visits would always be the same as they had been. And I meant that this was not the last time I’d ever see her, and hoped that she would expect me next time without any distress. But to her ears, I fear that those few words might have had a very different sound. “Maan wari eendem” -- to her, that might have sounded like, “I will try again to take you.”

And I replayed both of my last two visits in my mind, trying to understand what Baji must have been feeling, if she really did expect me to take her with me. Her sobs and her gasps now made sense. She may have been imagining that this could be the last time she would see her home and her loved ones. She was expecting to be torn away from the only world she had ever known. Has she ever even seen a world apart from that riverbank? A child could certainly be forgiven for believing that those vast, calm waters and their stretch of blue sky were the entire universe in themselves. And she was facing the prospect of leaving her entire cosmos and plunging into the unknown.

I am sure that it has been a relief to Baji when I leave without taking her. But I also wonder if perhaps there is a small part of her that actually wants to be adopted by someone like me. After all, she does not have a mother of her own. And she must know that she is poor, and extremely poor, even if she doesn’t have much to compare to. I am not rich at all, but in comparison to Baji’s community, life with me would seem luxurious to the extreme. And even if Baji doesn’t have even the slightest desire to leave her home, she must certainly be curious about what it would be like to be given a different life. And she must have at least pondered it on her own, in between my visits. I fear that she is still pondering it now, to her own distress, since I did not manage to dispel the notion on my last visit.

And that is the end of this story as it stands right now. The mystery is resolved, though emotional harmony is not entirely restored. Perhaps a future visit will settle the matter fully, and the waters between us will be as calm as the Indus underneath Baji’s blue tent of a sky.

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