To Dubai
Malayali Aano (Are you
Malayali), queries the airport security guard after a glance at our passports
for Ma’s plainly records her place of birth as Ernakulam. Pa and I can barely
contain our amusement at how this is the apposite flag-off for a trip to the Arabian
Gulf (or is that Gelf). The guard gives us a half-knowing smile, almost as if
to acknowledge the cliché. Ma musters a sheepish grin in response to the looks
being cast at her. It may be a case of making too much of a happenstance but
this start revs us up for more. And how often it happens thus – we encounter precious
little of Kerala during the following hour spent traipsing aimlessly around
Mumbai’s International Terminal after the procedural rigmarole. Perhaps the
opening gambit was a red herring.
Our ramble eventually leads us to a café with a Tamil theme and a
decidedly unpretentious name – Vaango (Welcome).
We ask for filter coffee, opiate supreme to South Indians. It is a debt we owe an
Arabian immigrant by the name of Baba Budan. Having discovered the pleasures of
the coffee grain in the medieval coffee trading outpost Mocha (which has lent
its name to the brew), legend has it that he left with a few grains and found another
peninsula along with its unsuspecting populace in South India. Given its
Arabian origins, it is the fitting choice of beverage before we leave for the
Gulf’s most potent concoction today – Dubai.
A whiff of Malayalam and a swirl of coffee; for me, our experience
trail begins here.
Flying westward in the night, we are set to gain time and lose sleep. I
flirt with half-sleep and Peter Roebuck’s Sometimes
I Forgot to Laugh, finding neither fully compelling. Later, this general
state of inertia is enlivened by a bumpy descent into the Gulf. Soon the
Emirates emerge into view below and there are animated murmurs around. Pa is
aghast at being the one stuck on the aisle seat while Ma and I corner the views.
He makes it clear that he will be the one on the window seat during the return leg.
At this point, the aircraft does something reminiscent of landings at Mumbai.
It flies over the Emirates into the waters between the Arabian Peninsula and
Iran before turning around for a landing at Dubai. Aircrafts from Gujarat and
indeed from all parts of the world to the west of Mumbai do something similar.
They go all the way into the Indian mainland before turning around for a
landing at Santacruz.
Rather expectedly, Dubai International Airport (DXB) is a behemoth,
especially to those uninitiated into the ways of the busy port destinations of
the world. Taxiing after touchdown takes a full 15 minutes. Our exit via
Terminal 1 is one moving walkway after another; its static essence captured succinctly
in the landmark titular sequence of The
Graduate. As such, I do feel that if this weren’t my first trip overseas, I
should feel just as listless as Ben Braddock. This time though, I am bounding
through each of these, eager to get ahead. Ma and Pa are caught between the
urge to amble and the need to catch up. The vestiges of a shopping hub abound –
photoshopped models adorn poster ads of Christian Dior, Versace and the like. It
occurs to me that we might be in a moving gallery of sorts, albeit one where the
viewer and the viewed pass by each other with clinical indifference.
When we finally reach Immigration, the scene is my initiation into the
ways of the Emiratis. Passport Control counters are manned by young males sporting
(‘wearing’ does their demeanour injustice) a flowing white robe, the Gandoorah and a white headscarf, the Ghutrah. This headscarf is held in place
by a black circular hosepipe, the Agal. The
overall appearance they exude is one of aloofness and arrogance lightly worn. It
seems as if a general apathy for motion induced by the harsh Arabian sun has been
suffused with pride derived from wealth and the knowledge that some of their
clothing is now part of worldwide fashion (Keffiyeh).
This combination of economy of movement and primness of attire is a philosophy that
might apply, in large measure, to their facial furniture too. They give the
impression of imperturbability; indeed some bear countenances that appear as
though they would be little disturbed by the news of an impending apocalypse. In
contrast, Indian countenances are imbued with dramatic flair. We always seem
poised to spring into expressions that eschew economy and go for the jugular.
Maximum effort for maximum effect might well be our maxim.
When we exit eventually, I spot a waving hand on what looks like my
uncle. Just as I make to follow him, my aunt’s gushing enthusiasm envelops us.
Hugs and flowers follow. Sriram Mama (SM) provides quiet foil to Pushpa’s
cheeriness, only occasionally breaking a self-imposed decibel barrier for a
witty outburst. Dubai that night is balmy with just a hint of the tropics. A
port city set against a predominantly desert landscape is beyond my immediate
grasp having encountered nothing of the kind in India. In March, Dubai
compounds the issue further by defying characterization. In a six-day window, we
witness a sand swirl, a haze, a downpour, mild afternoons, hot evenings and cold
nights. The downpour in particular has Ma sighing in resignation and
channelling her favourite climate keywords, global warming as a response to any
perceived anomaly in weather.
We take an MUV to SM and Pushpa’s home in Al Karama, literally The Dignity, a meaning that assumed deeper
societal significance when nearby Yemen suffered a tragedy on its Juma’at El-Karama protest march (53 people
were killed) as part of the Arab Spring of 2011. Dubai’s Karama however, is an
unassuming residential area to the west of the city’s prime natural feature,
the Dubai Creek. A host of low-rise buildings house Indians (primarily) in
addition to Pakistanis, Omanis and Filipinos. As to whether it houses even the
primitive wellsprings of a rebellious spirit, the answer is to be found in the
form of graffiti on some of the walls. They feature the Emirati flag with slogans
praising Allah and the incumbent Sheikh.
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