Good Morning, Dubai!-7

It was an eventful weekend. First, I am not used to spending two days away from office. Last time I had the luxury of two-day weekend was two years ago in Bahrain. That time, I had a colleague – Vinod Verma – for company. We used to freak out over the weekend: eat, watch cricket match on tv, booze and party. This time around, I am alone. Habits die hard and I could not kick the practice of waking up early. To that extent, I had more wakeful hours to spend or kill.

Luckily, I had Ali – my neighbour from Pakistan whom you can read about in another separate blog (Good Morning, Dubai!-6) – for early morning company. Then, religiously took up Curveball, the book on how George W Bush mounted the invasion of Iraq purely on the basis of one Iraqi fugitive who had sought asylum in Germany. An interesting book of 360 odd pages. Completed over the weekend, though bought in Muscat a month ago.

The last few pages wherein the US President calls Kay – a think tank wonk – for lunch at White House to know what had gone wrong in his assessment of situation is revealing. It is an apt lesson for leaders how not to get carried by subordinates – particularly those who want to tell the boss what he would like to hear. Reminded of several of my colleagues over the past who screwed up lives just to save their asses.

***
After two hours afternoon nap, decided to venture out on my own. No escorts. Why not try the Dubai Bus? Indeed, why not? It was 6 p.m. and stepped out and reached the nearest bus shelter. Beautiful structure. Reminded me of dugouts set up at IPL venues. Except they are glass-fronted closed set ups with airconditioning. Checked the bus time listing and decided to go to Century Mall/Mamzar. So chose route no.C14.

Though the scheduled arrival was 6.50 p.m, it came 25 minutes late. Stepped in and bought a 2 Dirhams ticket. Thought it would be a short drive for maybe 20-30 minutes. The beautiful bus was meandering through crowded Satwa road, Karama, British Council, Dubai Courts. I was losing patience. When enquired, my fellow passenger said it would take a long time. Maybe 90 minutes.

Ninety minutes inside even an airconditioned bus? No way. Near clock tower – a prominent spot, but can’t figure out where it is located – I simply got out, walked into a nearby Pakistani restaurant (You can't escape running into Pakistani or Filipino in Dubai!) and asked him to guide me back to Jumeira Post Office where I live. He asked me to cross over and take the same C 14 route bus.

Picking up a Diet Pepsi can, I climbed over the overbridge and waited for the bus. For 30 minutes, no sign of any C 14. My watch showed 9.30 p.m. I am in an alien land and have no clue about the topography. No taxi was stopping though I was waving frantically. An unmetered taxi guy approached and asked for 4o Dirhams for the trip back to home. I felt it too was too much. I offered Dh 20.

Before he could react, I spotted an approaching C 14 and entered. But I was asked to step out because I was carrying a Pepsi can. I did not want to throw it out. Again I have to wait for another 20 minutes before the next C 14 came. Paid 2 Dirham and found the Pakistani bearded driver very talkative. Sat in the first row– just a metre away from the front glass panel to enjoy the driver-seat view of the road in front.

After how long I don’t know, the bus halted and everyone trooped out. I also stepped out. But, I had no idea where I was standing. Suddenly found the Pak driver also was missing. One Indian on the road asked me to take C 14 to go to Jumeira Post office. I waited for 10 minutes before I could board another C 14. I told the driver to alert me when Jumeira Post office is reached.

After two halts, he told me to get out which I did and could not locate the Post Office – a landmark I had seen over the past week. It was 11.30 p.m. and I was stranded on the road. Moreover I was hungry. I began walking back towards where I boarded the bus. Then, I decided to take a cab and luckily I found an approaching cab.

Got in and told him to go to Jumeria Post Office. “Are you sure, you want to go Jumeira Post Office?” the old Paksitani driver asked. I said firmly, “yes’. He switched on the meter. “Fasten your belt, sir,” said he. After two minutes, he halted and said, “Sir, here’s Jumeria Post Office.” I did not know whether to cry or laugh.

I paid him 10 dirhams – the minimum fare and got out. The driver called me back and spoke in Hindi. Where in Jumeira Post Office? I showed him the street in front of Post Office. He asked me to climb the cab again and he dropped me in front of my house! “Allah has said that I had to take 10 Dirhams from you this night for such a short distance! I would not have taken this money from you had this been my private taxi. It is metered and I had to give account of this trip. Kindly excuse me, sir!” He stepped out and hugged me.

I entered home and wept loudly. It was close to midnight. Had my oatmeal dinner and hit the sack. The next morning, I stood before the Jumeria Post Office and kicked the ground several times out of frustration. “Swine,” I said in disgust. No, I was not cursing the drivers of the previous night. But my destiny!

Good Morning, Dubai!-6

The first weekend (Fri-Sat) in Dubai. Got up at 6 a.m., skipped usual morning walk becoz I had gone on a long walk last nite. Sort of compensating well in advance in the likelihood of myself waking up late Friday morning. It did happen that way only. Before I could gear up for my morning cuppa, heard a knock on my door and found Mr Ali – my Pakistani mechanical engineer neighbour-cum-houseowner – working in the Ministry of Defence – in his baseball cap requesting me to join him for green tea. Five feet, six inches perhaps. Brown complexion. Living alone while family is in London, claims the UK passport holding Lahorean.

While brushing my teeth, had seen him performing namaaz on the lawns, but did not entertain the thought of being invited for morning tea. He asks me not to wear footwear, but walk on the soft lawns bare-foot. “Good for your feet,” opines the moustache-less, but machoistic middle aged Ali. The grass is soft and velvety and a bit wet from early morning dew. With two cups of piping hot tea and a plateful of badam soaked in water he approaches me at the table set up in one corner. The sun has arisen, but it would take a couple of hours before it is above our head.

After checking out my comfort level with Hindi, he breaks into Pakstani Urdu/Hindi. I like it. It’s different. “Namaaz ek barkaat,” he says. Appears like am watching some Balraj Sahni classics. Honestly, I could not connect with a few words and phrases. But the essence, yes. He tells me a few tales. Here’s a sample: Someone is walking on the hill path and hears a voice. “Son, be careful. Keep an eye on the path,” it says. The walker asks: “Why are you telling me this?” He gets a reply: “Son, whenever you left home, your mother used to put her hands and pray requesting me to protect you. Today, son, she’s no more. That’s why, am telling you to be watchful.” I don’t know why he chose to tell me this story. My eyes well up. Reminded of my mother who had passed way 13 years ago. May her soul rest in peace.

Suddenly a dozen grey-and-white colour doves land on the tree tops within his compound. “What you call them – Parinda? Kabootar?” he asks. Without waiting for a response, he goes ahead to narrate how he is bonding with them for years – 20 odd years at least – in the same compound. Allah asked me to feed them and I’m doing it, he informs me. The BMW I mentioned about a few days ago standing outside my residence belongs to Ali, now I understand. There are five more cars both inside and outside the compound. Some belong to him and others to some of his friends who are out of Dubai for a few years.

Another gem, he spills: It is better to live next to an empty house than a bad neighbour. By the way, he is upset that I am not introduced to him properly. He has to collar me up two days ago. I felt he was a bit rude and tried to generalize all Paksitanis are like that. That morning, I was in my shorts and a T-shirt. He was lecturing to me on etiquette while being seated inside his BMW. I apologized to him for not having met him soon after occupying the outhouse in his compound.

I never felt the need becoz the outhouse was sublet to me that too temporarily for a few weeks. In the subsequent days, he had seen me being picked up and dropped back by office colleagues and yes I was dressed formally – suit, jacket, tie etc and carrying a laptop. I had always seen him going to office in army camouflage apparel. The previous evening, he came visiting as soon I returned from work. I saw him reading one of my business cards lying on the desk. That’s when, in hindsight, I felt his attitude towards me changed for the better. “You did not tell me that you’re a journalist,” he said. Where did he give a chance? He prejudged me to be a clerk or middle level executive in some private sector outfit. Suddenly, I had become ‘Sir’ to him.

“You don’t eat chicken, mutton, beef, etc?” he asks. I politely nod. He picks up his entire non-vegetarian items mentioned above stuffed in my – or rather his – refrigerator kept in the kitchen. I was unsure to whom it belonged and hence left them untouched. He holds forth a long session on muslims’ penchant for mutton and european’s obsession with beef. “They (Europeans) feed mutton to their dogs whereas for muslims it is the staple diet,” he blurts out. He concurs that everybody has their own logic or rationale for following a particular food regimen.

Pointing to a few trees full of drumstick in his compound, Ali tells me that he permits Keralites to pluck them for their cooking. “They like it.” I also like it. For south Indians – particularly from Tamil Nadu – drum stick is equivalent to ‘viagra’. Newly wed couples are fed in copious quantities! Another tree’s flowers are favourite with Filipinos whom again are shown Ali’s benevolence. A kind soul, he is.

He invites me to watch Zee TV in his drawing room. I politely decline, shook hands with him and exit my abode to kill the first day of the long weekend in Dubai – alone. When I return from Emarat petrol filing station – hardly 200 metres away from home – I pick up Friday magazine supplement that comes with Gulf News. One of the columnists recommend – yawn and relax. I simply oblige her.

Good Morning, Dubai!-5

41-year old Mohammed Jameel could not resist laughing out loud. The Pakistani cab driver categorically maintains the business in Dubai is low. “Don’t believe if anyone says there is no impact of slowdown,” he asserts. I enquire the rationale behind his laughing. “I heard you saying your caller a few moments ago that life is slow, but the man or woman on the other end was arguing with you,” he explains. Well, that was a friend from Muscat claiming that he could not believe things would have gone bad between January when he had visited Dubai and now. Jameel, father of six children back in Peshawar, informs that until December last, people used to wait for two hours to get one of the 10,000 cabs plying on Dubai roads. Today, cab wallahs scout for passengers. “I saw you a few minutes from the other side of the road and praying that you don’t get a taxi till I take a U turn and reach you. Insha Allah, you did not get one till I picked you up!” says the yellow-tie wearing Pakistani cab driver plying on Dubai roads for the past two years. After December, for the first time, he had sent a decent money back home after putting together the past two months income. Tough times, indeed.

***
I could not resist asking him why six children? “What can I do? I was married when I was 16 years. I began to raise family when I was a child. Before I could realize, I had six children before I turned 25,” says Jameel with a tinge of embarrassment. Today, he assures me that he would not repeat the same mistake. Now, too late! His children – 4 boys and two girls – are in college and school and a major chunk of his income sent home goes towards their educational expenses. He is confident that his investment in children’s education is worth. His wife is also undergoing training in computers and he hopes she would land up with some job soon back home. Does he not miss his wife and children? “It is my fate that I have to live away from them. Earlier I used to cry. Today, I got used to it. Come Ramadaan, I will be completing two years in Dubai. But will I able to go home?” he wonders. Why? His contract with the cab company that has a fleet of over 2000 does not give him annual or bi-annual free home ticket and hence he has to shell out. Can he afford? Is what worries him.

***
May Sad is peppy Lebanese pretty young thing. She is hosting the workshop/seminar that is organized by my friend Abdul on health insurance in the Gulf region. She has done a lot of live shows in the region for a variety of companies. “You’re witty,” she quips as she goes through the script for her Master of Ceremonies role. Wherever she is uncomfortable with a word or phrase, she quietly suggests a change and that is done. Her eyes lit up when she spots a Lebanese speaker’s name. To lighten up the proceedings on Day one, she asks the panel “what is the latest on the Lebanon?”, knowing fully well the panel is seriously discussing the impact of global meltdown on health insurance in the Gulf. Some names of speakers are tongue-twisters for her as well. She crosschecks with the speakers quietly behind the doors and writes them in Arabic (her mother tongue). I recall the anchor scripting skills of Frank Agarwal at Business India TV (TVI) back in the mid-1990s. It is an art. Not everyone can excel in it. By the way, however great the anchor’s script may be, it is the duty of anchors to read and rescript to suit their linguistic comfort. I had faced challenges with many non-business anchors in handling my business/economic oriented scripts. Everyone is comfortable with general and political anchor scripts. Niche anchors who know the subject are a rarity.

***
I have extended my morning walks by two more kilometers. These days, I go up to Safa Park signal where Choithram supermarket is situated. Before sunrise, I see a clutch of newspaper delivery vendors wearing red T-shirts and sorting papers outside the park. Not a single dog in sight so far. I must bring Zack from Delhi soon to Dubai. Noticing a large number of cars parked outside Safa Lebanese Bakery diagonally across Safa Park, I quietly amble across. No coffee machine in sight. Pick up a Lebanese bread packet for the first time. It is crispy, wafer thin and breaks like Lijjad pappad. As I walk out of the Bakery, notice the orange ball of rising sun just behind the Burj Dubai tower on the horizon. Is it the same spherical beauty that torments a few hours later in the form of blazing heat? Yes, it is.