The Portly Paradox

Denzil Jayasinghe

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This short story is about Mohammed Hammadi, a wealthy and devout Muslim living in Dubai. The story explores the irony of Hammadi’s refusal to earn interest on his vast fortune despite the bank using his money to engage in profitable financial activities. The author highlights Hammadi’s contradictory nature and unintentional impact on Dubai’s financial world through vivid descriptions and humorous observations.

InDubai’s sweltering heat, where the sun’s harsh rays threatened to melt the very bones of the earth, Mohammed Hammadi’s entrance into the bank was as momentous as a sandstorm in a teacup. The bank, a square gold plate building, squatted like an overfed cat in the heart of this once-humble fishing village, now a bustling city of bazaars and a shining gold souk.

Mr. Hammadi — for so the bank staff addressed him, their voices a curious mixture of reverence and barely concealed amusement — was a man whose wealth was exceeded only by his girth. Cut from a cloth so rare it might have been woven from unicorn hair and desert mirages, Hammadi was a walking contradiction: a devout Muslim with more money than he knew what to do with and a staunch refuser of interest in a world obsessed with compound growth.

Oh, the delicious irony! His millions lay dormant in the bank’s vaults, refusing to grant the wish of multiplication, i.e., interest. Yet, the bank used these funds to play financial acrobatics in the local money market. As immovable as his expansive posterior, Hammadi’s principles inadvertently oiled the gears of Dubai’s financial machinations.

On this day, Hammadi waddled through the bank’s side entrance — an exclusive portal reserved only for staff and the gorawallas. Draped in cream-coloured Western attire that strained heroically against his substantial frame, he made his laborious progress to Barclay Butler’s desk. Butler, a young lieutenant of the British Raj transplanted to this desert soil, straightened his spine as Hammadi’s shadow loomed large — literally and figuratively.

Hammadi’s considerable mass claimed his chair with the finality of a desert dune swallowing an impulsive traveller. He fidgeted impatiently, each movement sending ripples through his form like waves across a fleshy ocean. The air around him vibrated with unspoken demands as if his presence were a gravitational force warping the fabric of the bank’s reality.

Barclay Butler, ever the master of understatement, cleared his throat and embarked on their ritual exchange. “Mr. Hammadi,” he began, his crisp British accent as out of place as a polar bear in the Sahara, “about that matter we discussed…” And so commenced their verbal tango, a dance of digits and pleasantries, each step carefully measured to avoid treading on the other’s toes — or, in Hammadi’s case, his sprawling financial empire.

Right on cue, as if summoned by some arcane financial rite, Nazir, the tea boy, materialised. This pint-sized Pakistani, quick as a desert hare and twice as jumpy, balanced a silver tray with the precision of a circus performer. Atop it sat a white teacup, its steam rising like the aspirations of Dubai itself — lofty, ephemeral, and prone to dissipation in the harsh desert air.

Despite his wealth and the gravitational pull of his status, Hammadi was not above acknowledging the lesser celestial bodies that orbited him. His weathered face, partially bald head with wisps of jet-black hair clinging to the sides, unexpectedly creased into a smile. As remarkable as rain in the parched landscape, this rare expression emerged as he exchanged pleasantries with the youthful staff members.

Hammadi’s linguistic prowess was as impressive as his financial acumen. He knew a smattering of Hindi and could effortlessly switch between English, Arabic, and Hindi in conversation. For him, changing languages was as simple as taking his imposing seat at the bank. His booming voice, carrying the warmth of a thousand suns, filled the bank with a curious mix of bonhomie and barely suppressed giggles.

The combination of Hammadi’s genteel manner and comical appearance was a sight to behold. His substantial frame waged a constant war against his Western attire, buttons straining like soldiers holding the line against an invading army of flesh. Like Dubai, it was as if his body was engaged in a relentless expansion, bursting at the seams with ambition and kebabs.