The building complex we live in is circular-shaped. Our apartment is on the top floor. The car park and the watchman’s living quarters are on the ground floor. The complex is on Al Ghubaiba road, leading to the then Falcon roundabout in Bur Dubai.
The car park is an open atrium with no roof, open to the blue skies. When I look down from my apartment to the atrium, six floors down, I can see the car park on the ground floor.
Nathur is the building’s watchman. He is not the friendly type. Middle-aged and hailing from Egypt, he does not know how to smile. He wears a galabiya, a huge robe, the traditional attire of Egyptian men. On his head is a gutra, an Arabian tunic. His robe and tunic are smeared and dirty. His galabiya is so big that it is a long gown. When he walks around the car park, from a distance, it looks like his long cloak is sweeping the floor behind him.
Nathur is the sole authority in the security of the vast building. He is like a hawk with eagle eyes guarding the building in a period before CCTV cameras and security doors are invented. He dominates the building, particularly the ground floor.
Nathur does not care for me much. I never made the cut, in his eyes. Perhaps he thinks I am too young to live in my apartment in his building. When I am forced to talk to him, he answers in Arabic, a language I am not good at except for a few simple words. He must think I am strange; I can neither speak Arabic nor Urdu. I find him a strange hostile character who enjoys making me uncomfortable.
All this despite me paying him to wash my car. During the day, while guarding the building, he washes tenants’ cars parked on the ground floor for a fee. He charges tenants fifty Dirhams a month for the service. I am intrigued by how he manages to wash many cars with a single bucket of water.
Nathur does not like Randy, too, perhaps more than me. When Randy turns up at our apartment, he makes it difficult for Randy before allowing him into the building. Nathur knows that Randy is my regular visitor. Yet, he takes pleasure in ridiculing a young lad, overstepping his authority. This happens every time. Randy puts up with Nathur’s hostile behaviour.
There is nothing I can do except tolerate it. We are at his mercy for security, car park logistics and everything else in the building. Nathur has a monopoly in our living space. He knows to use it against Randy and me.
On a hot summer day, Nathur keeps Randy waiting for fifteen minutes at the building’s entrance. Randy is exhausted and incensed when he finally turns up in our apartment. He is fuming and determined to avenge the humiliation. Randy’s public indignity has broken the camel’s back.
That afternoon, when the weather cools down, Nathur continues his daily routine on the ground floor. From up my apartment, Randy watches him, walking in his dirty cloak. Finally, Randy goes to the bathroom and fills up a bucket of water.
Nathur goes on about his business, from car to car, unaware that someone above is tracking him. Randy is waiting for him at the zenith up six floors, looking at his opponent’s exact position, holding a big bucket of water. At the precise moment when Nathur is vertically in a straight line under Randy, he goes into action. Randy throws the water over the window on Nathur, soaking him.
I can hear the torrent of water splashing down below. I can hear Nathur’s screaming and yelling. Possibly expletives in Arabic. Randy moves quickly from the window. Nathur doesn’t know what hit him and from which floor.
Revenge taken and mission accomplished, Randy is content and laughs. He laughs so much that he says that his stomach hurts. He is holding his stomach, sitting on the ground. It takes him a while to tone down.
Randy is so happy and overjoyed he buys dinner for my partner and me that day.
Nathur does not know who threw water on him on that hot afternoon. The next time I see the marauding Nathur, I smirk, thinking of Randy and his dare-devil action.
Young Randy has a knack for the sweet art of avenging a wrong.
Cyril Stanley A story of gratitude — Denzil recalls a friend who looked out for him in his budding years in Sri Lanka Denzil Jayasinghe 11 min read · Aug 27, 2022 1 Give us a bit of background on how you met Cyril. It was the seventies in the sleepy village of Dalugama , my ancestral hometown, some ten kilometres from Colombo. With their flared bell bottoms and Afro-style hair, it was easy to notice Cyril and his younger brother Edward. I’d bump into the duo in the neighbourhood as I walked home after a day at college. A casual hello greeting turned into a conversation and an evolving friendship with the duo at an age when making friends was effortless. However, it was Cyril who reached out to me first. What did the brothers look like? C yril was a younger version of Smokey Robinson and his brother, Edward, a junior Lionel Richie but darker. Both had curly hair, grown long, copying the Afro-American idols of the seventies. Smokey Robinson, Cyril Stan...
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
20 quick-fire questions * If you could give your younger self one piece of advice, what would it be? Your life would not turn the way that you planned. It is OK to be naïve and stupidly young. What do you like doing in your spare time? Writing and reading. Both complement each other. What would you change your name to? My family's name is Jayasinghe. ජයසිංහ in Sinhala in the original script. Phonetically, it is pronounced Jaya-Sinha in Sri Lanka. But in English, through generations, it was spelt Jayasinghe, which sounds differently in English. I would change its spelling to Jaya-Sinha to align it with its original sound. Perhaps my grandkids in Australia could do it. What’s your favourite time of day? The morning hours. I am most productive in the mornings. What is your biggest weakness? I could get carried away with what I could be doing. Sometimes, I must pinch myself to stop what I am doing. What is your favourite colour? Green. Always from my kid days. Would you believe I had...
4 min read·Jan 29
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