Ode to Dubai

Even though I haven’t lived in Dubai for over 10 years, it will always have fond memories for me. I know all of us do, for places where we grow up.

As part of the Indian diaspora that settled in the Middle East, the experience of growing up is markedly different in many levels. There is a sense of belonging, yet you know this isn’t truly your land. There is the looking forward to summer vacations (which kid doesn’t?) and visits to India where we get to see cows on the road, lakes with boating, grandparents and golas!

I write about this today because my parents, who spent 60% of their life there, are returning to India for good. Today my father will wake up, look in the mirror, and wonder what lies ahead. My mother will make their last cup of tea in a city (in a country), which gave them their livelihood, son, circle of friends in a foreign land and so much more.

Even today, when I see a cow or a calf on the road, I feel very happy and content to have experienced this beauty. There is a charm and joy in this simple life experience that I cannot describe even to Shruti (my beloved wife).

I remember Dubai in various ways (not in chronological order):

• Racing on bicycles down a long slope that didn’t seem to end with Sunil Guna during our Summer breaks.
• The creek side Abra which would take us across to Deira and back to Bur Dubai.
• The hot summer afternoons spent in malls and ambling across the city on foot or on a cycle.
• The filafel from Tasty Bites apposite erstwhile She, which is now some other shop.
• My first new computer, a Micron with Pentium MMX CPU and 64MB RAM.
• Learning tennis at the Indian Sports Club, as well as swimming there with friends. I remember making many friends in the pool. God only knows how or where they are, as I never got their full names.
• Waiting for Shivu bhai at the Indian High School fountain to finish his classes so that I could go home with him when Patel bhai would come to pick him up.
• Bus rides to and from school, with all of us sweating (yes, we didn’t have AC buses then) and also enjoying the breeze from the running bus.
• Dad teaching me to cycle in Hadi building corridor.. and me picking it up on the first try, without ever falling off.
• A lot of black ants running all over my hand as I had spilled rose sherbet on the carpet next to the VCR. I remember telling mom this, and she explained that if I spilled sweet things on the carpet, this would be the outcome. I was no more than 2 or 2.5 years old then. This is, then, my first conscious memory in life, at least the one that I can recall. I vividly remember the colour of the carpet, the wooden TV stand that we had for over 2 decades and the VCR where the tape would pop out of the top.
• Standing in the balcony and looking at the world beyond. Our balcony looked out onto a Y junction in the road, and I would love seeing cars choosing one or the other road. Always reminds me of Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken.
• Watching Duru Aunty come home from the hospital with baby Anil in her arms, while me and Prem were playing in the Hadi Building corridor. The first baby I remember seeing at close quarters.
• Dad always taking out time to drop me at the club/mall/whatever at any time of the day or night.
• Asadi, Al Adil and Adbdul Rehman supermarkets that we would buy everything from, before CarreFour and others came onto the scene.
• Drinking coke like it was the coolest thing to do.
• Friday evenings at Al Ghurrair, tokens at Sindbad and Samosa at Al Maya Lals within Al Ghurrair.
• School. Who forgets school. I went to the Indian High School, and loved it.
• Visiting from India once when dad was very sick.
• Dandiya nights at Al Awir (in the middle of the freaking desert!). Awesome.
• Kite flying with Dad, Ramesh uncle and Monil Ruparel at Al Awir. Did it once, but remember it always.
• Sitting at the office with Dad and watching him interact with customers and visitors. Office was a hub of activity. Boxes being opened, shelves being restocked, all desi wanderers coming in for a chat, relatives and friends dropping in for a chat with Dad, me playing Prince of Persia (thanks to Manish giving it to me on a 5.xx floppy) and ordering coke from the Malabari shop across the road.
• Visiting the Haveli, Shiv temple and the Gurudwara when time permitted.
• Visiting Fua’s house and chilling.
• Visiting other Indian family and relatives during Diwali. The sweets, the 10 dirham notes, oh the memories.
• Diwali parties at Fua’s house each year, succeeding the chopda poojan.
• Dada (Prem’s grandfather) dropping us at the bus stop each day, up until 3rd or 4th standard. He was a really nice person, and quite old school in many ways. He would pronounce Dixi Cola as Daxi Cola.

There are very many more memories, but these will have to suffice for now.

Bangalore is my home now. New beginnings and new memories.