Perth for 9 months, Karachi for 3

When I was told I would be leaving Karachi for Perth at the age of 9, all I remember was anger and fear. Anger that the connection and shared experiences with friends and family were a zero sum game. All I had gained till the age of 9 would vanish into thin air, and I was scared those types of connections and shared experiences couldn’t and wouldn’t be cultivated in a different country and culture. 

Fast forward 5 years and I found myself the shameless benefactor of the ‘best of both worlds’. The initial anger and fear had morphed into happiness and confidence. One of the primary reasons my parents had moved my sister and I to Australia was for our education. In Pakistan, even though we studied at one of the finest private schools in the country, equipped with the Cambridge education system and a strong global brand, the curriculum and pedagogical approach left us wanting. Rote learning and ‘paper nikalwao’ (get the test questions in advance from a tuition teacher) were the standard approach to our studies. The same teachers who would teach us, would provide after school tuition on the same subject. Talk about a conflict of interest. Sadly, as bright as the kids were, and as practical as the system was, it wore students down and only prepared them for the content of their exams.

Upon arriving in Australia, I found that rote learning didn’t exist. In year 9 history, we were learning about the world wars. The dates were secondary and the analysis of outcomes and repercussions were the main focus, a far cry from how I was taught history in my Karachi school. It took me a few years to unlearn how I had studied in the past, and it was a matter of time until I started developing critical thinking and problem solving. It meant that when on holiday, I found the conversations with my friends back in Pakistan stifling and redundant. Everyone only wanted to know what had to be studied and who was the best teacher for the job. Thank God my parents had the foresight to shift us elsewhere.

9 months of the year I would learn skills that would hold me in good stead in the future in my Australian school and the other 3 months were our summer holidays. The local kids started off their summers with boundless energy: cricket camps, slushies from the 7/11 and afternoons in the parks. What else can one want for 3 months right? I got bored of the same routine,  even thought it was a lot of fun initially. So, as my Australian friends spent their entire summers rinsing and repeating, after the first month I was back in Pakistan for the rest of the holidays.

Our Aussie summer was Karachi’s winter and it’s safe to say all 20 million Karachiites would attest to it being the best time of the year. Having navigated the rainy monsoons and the sweltering heat, we would take out our sweaters and sit out in our gardens all times of the day. 

Upon arriving in Karachi, my father, mother, sister and I would return back to our old home. Our cook, who had been bored shitless for 9 months of the year, would jump into action. Our favourite biryanis, kormas and kheers would be served. Each one of our favourite dishes was on offer for the first meal back, the most fitting of homecomings. After we had eaten, we would plonk ourselves on our beds. The same room I spent the first 9 years of my life was mine again for the next 75 days. As my eyes would assess the landscape, I would remember where my toys were kept, where I would get oil massages on my scalp from my Nani, and where I would coax my maid into providing shoulder massages after I had a (supposedly) hell of a day in class 3. The memories would come flooding back and it was always comforting to know that the anger and fear I initially experienced, was never fully realized. These memories became firmly etched in my mind as our parents brought us back every year.

Day 2 was at Nani’s house. I remembered her home as well as I remembered my own. Built on a large 1000 square yard plot before I was born, she had a massive garden that was well looked after, where I would chase my Nani’s labradors and play football and cricket with abandon. Her garden was built perfectly for a cricket pitch with a long runup from where the plants started, all the way to a flowerpot which was our bowling crease. Behind the batsmen was the driveway where many a catch was caught and dropped. Her garden was also perfect for 1 vs 1, 2 vs 2 or even 4 vs 4 football and all of these permutations were utilized handsomely over the years by my friends and family.  

Nani’s garden was one thing, but her kitchen was another. Since time immemorial I remember turning up after school to her place and plonking myself on her finely embroidered straw seats. Just like our home cook, Nani knew our favourites, and whoever’s birthday it was or whoever had done well at school, was duly notified through the menu. The first meal back at Nani’s place when I returned from Australia was always the best, too.

Day 3 was when I reunited with my school friends, who were like family. I would head into the school yard as the bell rang, where all the mothers and the help were waiting for the kids. One by one, as the kids shuffled out, I got waves, hugs and smiles depending on who it was and how close I was to them. They would start their winter holidays soon and I’d attend their after school events as an initiation for the winter ahead. My close friends would circle around me, slapping my back and sharing french fries lathered in masala and soft drinks filled in plastic bags. The rest of the winter was a blur of fun and excitement with my friends. 

I have countless memories of my Pakistani winters with my school friends. As they would complain about their rigid education system, I would be grateful for my Australian one. As many of my Australian friends would spend the summer in the same manner year after year, either in boredom or oblivion, I made the most of my winters in Pakistan. It was truly the best of both worlds.

*Nani: ‘Maternal grandma’ in Urdu

- Edited by Ava Senaratne