“Happy floods!”

It was raining hard. So hard that the visibility had lessened to 50% normal. Our car zoomed past puddles, making waves and spraying water on already drenched people on foot and into rolled down car windows. Sorry, we muttered.

With my camera ready I was looking forward to shooting some heart wrenching scenes of Thatta camp cities on the first day of Eid. ‘Damn this rain! It will ruin everything.’

Two hours down the road we reached HANDS Thatta office. Inside the meeting room we were briefed about the situation there, how the organization was managing the catastrophe, the donations, the rations given, the victims; almost everything was discussed. I was impatient. I wanted to shoot.

The teams had been working tirelessly they said and at times for 24 hours at a stretch. There were 300 camp cities across Sindh, they added, giving shelter, food and health care to 65000 people. I was awed,  my impatience gone. What have I been doing?

The rain had turned the earth into jello. Slipping and sliding with feet dipping into mud, covering my new flipflops. The pictures and the videos that were bombarded at us, online and on TV channels,  of the pathetic situation and the enormity of the disaster, had prepared me. I knew what to expect.

It was still drizzling. The people were sitting inside their camps some on bare ground and some on Charpoys that they had manged to salvage. Some had rain water puddled inside their tents and some were clever enough to heap up earth around the camp so that the water wouldn’t enter.

They came and welcomed us, inviting to sit inside their humble abodes. A look around. A pot or two, a ralli, a weaved chattai, a cooler; that was almost it. They offered me the best pillow to sit on, because it was too muddy on the ground. Watch your dress! One said. Don’t step on her sandals, the other reprimanded a child.

I took out the camera, took a shot or two, then put it down again. It was more fun just to talk to them. Eid Greetings were exchanged and hands shaken. There were beaming faces all around. “Bod Mubarak” they jested. Thats Sindhi for “happy floods”.

Henna cones were given and face paints taken out. Immediately a crowd of kids surrounded us. First shy but wanting to be face painted, we encouraged them, took their hands and asked their names. One by one they came, I took the job of applying henna while the others got hold of paint brushes. Far from having any mastery in the art but both us and them just enjoyed the company. A flood affected girl, all dolled up for eid, came and helped. An old woman brought tea. Drink, she said, we made it specially for you. Reluctant at first I took the chipped cup and sipped.


We visited five or six camp sites, each quite similar, each made home by spirited people. Painting hands and faces and leaving behind an amused crowd. A few moments of delight, thats all that we could give. 


To know that there is no guarantee of what lies ahead of them, to know that a flimsy camp is where they'll be for a long time, to know that the filth, the hardships and the disease laden tent site is now a substitute for what they had back home and still having the spirit to laugh, to decorate their hands with henna and to treat guests from the city with hot sweet tea on Eid is beyond my understanding of human nature.


God bless Pakistani people.

(Photography by FurSid and Misha Tanveer.)