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.