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.
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