Lazarus in Dubai

Minor Staff

You may wonder what this subtitle has to do with the main title of this story set in my early days in Dubai in the Chartered Bank. You must read on to get to Lazarus, the main character.

In the 1970s, minor staff was a classified group of office workers. They were the lowest in office hierarchies. Minor staff were also known as peons, office boys or farash in Arabic. Now. in 2021, if you click on the link of the word peons, you may be aghast that a section of the workers was ranked with such indignity. Unfortunately, that was a norm in many offices in Asian and Middle East countries. I will leave the contemporary views of ethical aspects of that discussion out of this story.

I have fond memories of the minor staff of the bank, a lovely bunch of characters. Back then, I was not as socially conscious as I am now. I was a curt youngster. I write this story as a tribute to these great men in Dubai who, with their interactions, taught me diversity and to develop my emotional intelligence early on. I learnt a lot about humanity from them.

When I joined the bank in Dubai, everything was done manually. Bank clerks sat on fixed desks, moving papers. Officers signed them depending on the organisation's hierarchy. Documents, cheques, double-entry vouchers, letters of credit, payment messages, and signed documents moved from desk to desk, some from bank branch to branch. The poor souls of my story, the peons, moved these artefacts to in-trays and from out-trays. They also attended to mundane tasks like filing, sorting mail, opening doors, carrying heavy items, making tea and running errands for their bosses.

The minor staff were the foot soldiers of the bank. Financial services depended on the efficiency of moving papers before the advent of automation and artificial intelligence. Banks of the seventies in Dubai would not have survived without our devoted farash community. They kept the wheels moving.

The peons were all male. They had their uniform, a light brown ensemble of a pant and a buttoned-up shirt provided by the bank with its logo. They wore these uniforms proudly despite being subordinates in the bank. The majority of them hailed from Pakistan and then India. To add a bit of diversity to the mix, there were two Balochis, hailing from a region that connected to Iran and Afghanistan across the straight of Hormuz.

The peons had a pegging order. Hussain was the most senior peon in the bank’s rank. He was influential enough to get his son, Riaz, into the bank as a peon. Then there was Noor, the manager’s peon. Simply because he was the manager’s peon, there was a slight aura about him. He behaved differently and spoke softly, possibly because of his master’s influence. Noor proudly carried the manager’s briefcase. I am sure the briefcase was not heavy, but that was the order of the day. He followed the manager wherever he went, duty-bound.

Then there was Rashid, the manager’s driver. He drove a Cadillac, a gas guzzler when the size of the engine did not matter when fuel was one Dirham a litre. Finally, Hamid was the bank’s messenger. He plied the bank’s branches carrying cheques and documents between the bank’s branch offices on his motor bicycle, provided by the bank. Hamid could be seen in the bank’s canteen, sweat pouring, galloping water between his rides in the harsh open sun. He had a way with him, loud and funny but pleasantly respectful of others.

Both Rashid and Hamid played for the bank’s cricket team. They were great fans of the Pakistani national team. They always spoke of their national team’s achievements, especially against India. When they played for the bank’s team, it was their proud highlight. The young British officers, Indian and Pakistani officers, clerks, and the minor staff played as one team, representing the bank, breaking barriers and social classes.

Ahamad was another peon from Pakistan. He had a good command of English. With good writing and reading skills, he could have been a junior clerk. He was proud of his filing system, which he religiously guarded for its integrity. He was gentle and intelligent and serviced the bills department. Datta, a pleasant bespectacled man from India, serviced the foreign exchange and money market department.

Then there was Hamza and Jose, both hailing from south India. Jose had a better command of English and knew the bank's workings. Young as I was, he annoyed me sometimes with his patronising comments. Hamza was timid and was a good reliable worker.

Most peons had their spouses and kids back in their home countries. Family reunions for them were every two years when the bank provided air tickets. It was common to hear that they had become proud fathers months after their visits. Sadly, they did not get to hold the newborns until they were toddlers on their next trips home.

Nazir

Nazir, a short dark man in his middle age, was the tea boy for the bank. He wore a white uniform and walked like a busy bee serving tea. He had an elevated status within the minor staff simply because everyone depended on him for their morning and mid-morning tea. He carried himself with a sense of importance. His uniform in white made a distinct difference to his character. He made tea and coffee and served them in a tray as he saw fit. Nobody was allowed to make their coffee or tea in the days when there were no self-serve machines.

All staff were at the mercy of Nazir’s monopoly and control of the canteen. First, it was the British ex-pats who got their tea or coffee. Then the local officers. Then the workforce, mainly the clerks, females and males in that order. Minor staff were not served but had their tea in the canteen. Now, Nazir had his preferences in his job. He served his favourite females first. I think he was mesmerised by some. Then the remaining females, the male clerks, the last in his priority order. Within the male clerks, age was a determining factor in who got served first. I, unfortunately, was at the bottom of his serving order. I got my tea almost at noon.

Sometimes, Nazir forgot to serve me, and I had to walk up to the canteen to remind him. Whether it was a deliberate act or not was always doubtful. He probably considered me a young lad who could survive a morning without a cup of tea. If young guys like me wanted a second cup of tea, we had to pay him 50 fils in coins. We were unfortunately at his mercy for the second tea. Did it land up in somebody’s back pocket? It was a mystery unsolved.

Ali and Hassan Lashkari

Then there was Ali and Hassan Lashkari. These two were from Balochistan. They were distinctly different to the other farashes in character and looks. They could speak a version of Arabic better than the others due to the proximity of their homeland to Dubai. Ali was a funny character, tall with dark features, mixed heritage, and curly hair. He had a way of being funny, smattering Arabic expletives in a non-offensive manner. I learnt my Arabic from him, expletives first. He knew how to make me laugh, mostly with his mannerisms and limited English. I tried to teach him English innocently, but it was hard work. Every time he tried to pronounce an English word, it evoked laughter. Ali kept me amused and entertained.

Ali also acted as the bank’s watchman or nathur in local. He opened the front grilled entrance door of the bank sharp at 8 am, unlocking the heavy chains and padlocks. Customers would roll at the moment Ali was done with the large door. Then, he would be at his nathur duties again to close the massive door sharp to the minute at noon. The door was heavy, even for a tall, strong man like Ali. One could see him virtually hanging on the huge metal door to bring it down. Ali was immensely proud of this special duty, being the bank’s gatekeeper, a reserved role for him.

Ali and Hassan Lashkari (artwork is mine)

Lazarus

Now the star of the story comes to the fore. It was Hassan Lashkari. He wore a brown uniform, Arabic headgear, and dark sunnies. He was probably touching sixty; He wore his sunglasses inside the office. He worked for a sub-branch, often coming to the head office. He was a character that one came across mid-day, walking across the bank’s floor. He was a man of the soil and confidently walked around with his fluency in Arabic. He was semi-local in all aspects. Lashkari reminded me of a character in The Land of Black Gold, one of my favourite comic books from the Tin Tin series. It was a tough Arab character from the desert. In my head, one of my boyhood characters had come to life here in Dubai. I found Lashkari's mannerisms deeply amusing, his dark sunnies inside the bank and that stern, penetrating look.

Then everyone heard that Hassan Lashkari was sick. A few days later, we heard that he had died. All were saddened to hear the bad news. Some staff started collecting money to help Lashkari’s family in their bereaved hour.

Then we heard that Lashkari came to life again. First, we did not believe this far-fetched story of being raised from the dead. How could it be? Curiosity was killing us. Gradually, how this unbelievable drama had happened came out.

Lashkari lived with his family and relatives. He became sick and had not responded to local treatments at home. His family thought that he was dead with no response from him. Hospital care and doctor visits were a novelty for some in Dubai then. His heartbroken family and relatives washed and prepared him for burial on the same day following the Islamic rituals. At the burial grounds, the caretakers refused to bury Lashkari without a death certificate. His relatives then took him to the hospital in Satwa. The doctors examined Lashkari’s body and determined that he was not dead. He had been in a deep coma. Lashkari received treatment at the hospital. After a while, he gained consciousness and woke up. A furore erupted now among the relatives. Some thought Lashkari was now a ghost. Eventually, sanity prevailed, and he went home to everyone’s joy. Lashkari, thankfully was not buried alive. He got another lease on life.

Hassan Lashkari rose from the dead, a la Lazarus. He had two go at life. This is the crux of this far-fetched story.

I did not see Lashkari in the bank after that unbelievable episode. Perhaps he decided to live his second life to the full. I have reliably that he lived many years after that incredible episode as a family patriarch.

But this epic story is now folklore among everyone who worked in the bank back in the day. We still have a hearty laugh recalling this incredible episode among the ex-bankers, a close-knit crowd who remains connected.

This is how my Tin Tin character came back to life again in Dubai, Lazarus — blistering barnacles! If the author of Tin Tin magazines, the famous Belgian artist Herge heard about Lashkari, it could have been enough material for a gripping episode in one of his comics.