Dawn’s Messenger

A Tapestry of Mornings in Dubai

Asthe clock strikes 5.30 a.m., the familiar beep of my Casio alarm pierces the silence, marking the beginning of my day. With only minutes to spare, my morning routine kicks into gear like a well-oiled machine. My attire, a neatly pressed pair of trousers and a shirt stands ready, meticulously prepared the night before to eliminate any unnecessary choices in the early hours. A swift breakfast, and I’m ready to embrace the day.

By 6:15 a.m., I’m crossing the threshold of my home, the day’s freshness marred only by the acrid scent that lingers in the elevator as it descends to the ground floor. Stepping out onto the sandy trail leading to Al Arouba Road, I find the world still at rest. The storefronts of radio shops and eateries remain shuttered, and the streets are nearly deserted, save for a few men draped in Dishdasha, their heads wrapped in shawls. Despite the early hour, the air retains the warmth of the tropics, a gentle reminder that the day has much in store.

I hail a passing Toyota Carina, its destination set for Deira. The driver, dressed in a dusty salwar kameez, acknowledges me with a nod — this morning, I am his first passenger. We stop at Rolla Square; the cars hum a quiet backdrop as we wait for others to join our journey. In minutes, the driver has skilfully gathered four additional passengers. He directs me to the back seat, settles, and propels the Carina forward, deftly navigating from Al Arouba Road. Hindi music blares from his cassette player, tucked neatly below the dash. The vehicle’s interior warms quickly with six souls — some robed in traditional Arabic attire, others in Western-style clothing. Sandwiched between two fellow passengers, I find myself a part of the lose-knit tapestry, exchanging nods and smiles with my temporary.

The man to my right, draped in traditional Arabic attire, leans in and inquires, “يا فتى، هل ستذهب إلى المدرسة؟” — “Young man, will you go to school?” His words, though clear, leave me at a loss — I grasp the reference to school but lack the language to reply. He murmurs under his breath and then falls into a contemplative silence, perhaps pondering the quiet morning that envelops us all.

The taxi glides along Al Wahda Road, greeted by the first golden rays of sunlight. We traverse the undefined stretch between Sharjah and Dubai, a no man’s land awakening to the day. The radio blares its tunes, a soundtrack to the rising heat within the car. I can feel the perspiration begin as the two passengers in the front seat exchange words in Hindi, their conversation a soft murmur over the music’s rhythm. The day’s potential seems to ride with us, each mile bringing us closer to the heart of Dubai. I try to close my eyes and have a microsleep.

In just a short span, the bustling heart of Deira town unfolds before me. It’s time to part ways with the taxi. I hand the driver three Dirhams, the coins engraved with the emblematic coffee pot, a symbol of hospitality. I navigate across the road to the Abra station, where the morning rush is in full swing. The clock nears 6:30 am. Amidst the throng, I step onto an abra, the traditional boat bobbing gently on the water. With a practised eye, the boatman counts each of us — “Wahid, Itnan, Thalatha” — his finger marking our presence as we set off across the creek, the city’s pulse echoing in the rhythm of the waves.

With a practised hand, the boatman collects a modest fare of twenty-five fils from each passenger for the journey across the creek. The deck, constructed of sturdy planks, bears us all safely over the water. In less than seven minutes, we reach the opposite shore. The landing is brief here, and the boatman expertly moors alongside others just a few meters from the dock. I disembark with a series of hops and jumps from deck to deck, a skill deftly acquired by all who regularly traverse these waters. It’s a dance of agility and balance, performed daily by the creek’s seasoned voyagers.

The Dubai Creek’s morning bustle greets me as I disembark. Directly across from where I stand, a prominent storefront beckons. I stride along the walkway, flanked by a medley of shops — garment sellers, home goods vendors, and the occasional jeweller. Most of them are closed. Soon, I’m amidst a cluster of Iranian shops. The shop assistants, young men in their casual pyjama pants and vests, are already bustling about, lifting shutters and greeting the day. I continue, passing the imposing five-story edifice of the British Bank of the Middle East, its facade a silent sentinel over the creek. My pace quickens as I skirt by the small eateries to my left, their aromas of omelette sandwiches and Lipton tea mingling in the early air, a prelude to the day’s symphony of flavours.

A few steps further, I arrive at the Chartered Bank of Dubai. The two-storeyed, gold-coloured building stands quiet, its doors yet to welcome the day’s bustle. I slip in through the side entrance, greeted by Ali’s warm smile — a security guard who doubles as a peon. I’m the day’s harbinger, the first to arrive with a task of paramount importance: to sort through the myriads of messages from the bank’s global network, ensuring they reach their rightful recipients before the doors open for business. It’s a silent race against the clock, beginning in the hushed tones of morning’s first light, a unique routine that sets the pace for the day in this bustling city.