Echoes of the Sands
Echoes of the Sands:
Tales from a City by the Sea in the Seventies
The city shared its name with the state in a sandy land kissed by the sea. Days meant counting money for a foreign bank, while nights unfolded in a lively dance through brightly lit lanes.
Sun-soaked streets were crowded with more brown faces than locals. White-robed natives, Indians dressed in vibrant movie-star hues, and Pakistanis adorned in brown Salwar Kameezes created a vivid tapestry. Women were rare, hidden beneath black burkas, leaving the streets and bazaar to be ruled by men and boys.
Amidst friends and jingling Dirhams, he strolled carefree as if tomorrow were just an ordinary day. The side streets turned his brown shoes into a white canvas, telling tales of his unrestrained wanderlust.
Tea boys in flared pants offered Lipton Tea from trays at a mere 50 fils each. Shopkeepers welcomed customers with chilled RC Cola and refreshing ZamZam. Despite the heat, the city evenings felt routine, shops humming with the comforting melody of air conditioners.
Storefronts showcased stereos, cameras, radios, sarees, and clothes. Apartments sat above, while eateries nestled in between, serving delectable Indian, Pakistani, and Lebanese flavours. A crowd gathered near the shawarma shop, where savoury delights were priced at a modest two Dirhams each.
After enjoying shawarma and RC Cola, he entered a jeans store that sold Wranglers and Lee jeans. The Iranian shop assistant, clad in nomadic pants, asked in Persian, “چرا سبیل نداری” — “Why don’t you have a moustache?” Puzzled, he responded, “Well, when facial hair doesn’t sprout, what can one possibly do?”. The shop assistant chuckled, “Fair enough,” as he continued browsing. Embarrassed, he vowed not to return to that shop.
With friends, he entered a bar filled with men of different backgrounds: Western, Arabs and a few Indians. Ordering Fosters, he gulped one down and went for a reorder. A man in Arabic attire, resembling a businessman, approached when he stood near the bartender for his refill.
The Arab smiled and tapped on the lad “Do you like to work for me? He smiled as if he had known the lad for ages.
“I can offer you a job. Come and work in my office? I can pay you well, Dirhams three thousand a month”.
The lad knew what the man was after. He thought, ‘How could one offer a job just like that on mere first looks?
He politely declined. “No, I am working in a bank, I don’t need a job”.
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