Near-death

            When recounting a near-death experience, the words ‘blacked-out’ and ‘paralysed with fear’ tend to creep into the tale. Mine was a little different.

            Vague memories of water and a blue and pink swimming costume wade to the front of my mind whenever this incident is brought up, but most of it lies in a chasm with the other experiences a three-year-old has.

            It took place in a farm near the border of Balochistan, near the coast. The place was a three our drive from Karachi, and owned by my father’s friend. This was not the first time we went there, nor would it be the last. Regular visits continued till 2009, after which trips became less frequent and Karachi’s security was failing, confining us to the city, and so the farm fell into disrepair.

            The image that comes to mind when the word ‘farm’ is said is one from William Carlos William’s poem, ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’, but this was a different sort of farm. Upon these wide acres stood row after row of palm trees, and in the very centre was the concrete farmhouse. Two stories high, the bottom housed the cars, and ascending a flight of steep stairs, there the fateful moment occurred.

            Our group was a conglomeration of families, and occasionally, others would be invited too. As a child, my only concern was whether they had children; therefore I did not pay much attention to the couple that was joining us that day.

            Jumping out of the car as soon as it came to a halt in front of the old structure, I raced up the narrow stairs, leaving the adults to deal with the bags and boxes in the trunk. Above, the pool was yet to be filled, so we children skipped into the dry space, shrieking as water began spouting out, courtesy of some adult who had the foresight to turn the tap on.

            Lunch was the first order of business. As the mothers opened boxes of sandwiches on the table, the fathers were left to the task of extracting us from our fun. Water lapped around our ankles as we stepped out of the pool.

            Hastily scarfing down my food, I was eager to run right back into the pool, but the rule of waiting thirty minutes after eating stuck firmly with my mother, and so we all played on the other side of the ‘L’ shaped farmhouse, next to the food table.

            Years seemed to pass before the women announced that we could finally go swimming. A cacophony rose as children clambered into swimming costumes and fathers inflated armbands and brought kickboards and other floatation devices for those of us who did not know how to swim.

            Dressed for the pool, I did not wait for someone to slide the armbands over my small hands and all the way up to my shoulder before blowing air into them. When everyone remained preoccupied with dealing with the other seven or so children, I meandered over to the pool.

From what I knew, the water was still up to my ankles. Even as my small feet were submerged on the very first step of the pool, this child’s mind thought nothing of it. More and more of me went underwater as I descended. By the fourth or fifth step, only the very top of my curly head could be seen, but no one was there to see.

No one except for the one-time visitor to this place in my childhood who I had barely registered simply due to the fact that he had no children for me to be fascinated with. A lucky coincidence aligned his going downstairs to the car to fetch something with my fatal shenanigans.

Not much of this is recollected, but as I was told, he saw a small figure, unable to float, just bobbing near the surface. Disregarding the knowledge that his phone and wallet were in his pocket, he jumped in and pulled me out. The splash caught the attention of the oblivious others. While I remained unfazed by what may have transpired had Fate not intervened, my parents thanked my saviour profusely.

Said saviour and his wife returned to London soon after, and so, when this tale was regaled to me, I had no face to put to this hero. Eleven years later passed before I finally met this mysterious man. In London, at the age of fourteen, I was finally able to thank the person who saved my life.