The Telex Boy and the Table Tennis Dream
Inthe warm, wind-blown lanes of old Dubai, back in 1978, I was just a lanky youngster with a head full of dreams and a heart that beat a little faster with the excitement of all that lay ahead. The sun hung low over the rooftops, and the sand clung to my shoes, but none of that mattered — I was young, and the world, dusty and golden, was mine to discover. I worked at the Chartered Bank, a grand old institution run by crisp British expatriates, where I manned the telex machine and the bank’s private communication network. It was a one-boy show, a high-wire act of sorts, with messages zipping across the world to London, New York, Singapore, and Bahrain. Currency deals, fund transfers, trade lingo – each message had to be typed, transmitted, and done with before the day’s end. No tomorrow for yesterday’s work, you see.
My days began at seven, fingers dancing on the teleprinter, eyes scanning yellow notepads scribbled with urgent instructions. The office, tucked away behind glass partitions, was my little kingdom, accessible only to managers with their polished shoes and starched collars. By three, if the stars aligned, I’d be free. More often, it was four or five before I could escape, hopping onto an abra to cross the shimmering Dubai creek, then squeezing into a shared taxi, the sandy paths of the city leading me to the youth club where a table tennis paddle awaited.
That day – oh, that day! – I was a bundle of nerves, my mind not on the telex but on the game I’d planned with my friend Rohit. We’d practiced late into the night, perfecting our dashes and strokes, determined to show the lads at the club who the real champs were. I was in overdrive, my heart racing as fast as my fingers on the keys, desperate to finish my work and dash to the game.
The bank was a curious world, a mix of stiff hierarchy and warm camaraderie. Indian clerks, a sprinkle of Pakistanis and few Sri Lankans, and a handful of British officers ruled the roost. At the top sat the manager, followed by the accountant, the assistant accountant, officers, assistant officers, clerks, and the peons – or farashs, as they were called in Arabic – who shuffled yellow forms from desk to desk in their khaki uniforms. I was a mere clerk, two rungs below the officers, but I loved my work, the hum of the telex, the trust the managers placed in me, and the chatter with my co-workers.
Among them was Barclay Butler, my manager, a young Brit with a carefree grin and a sports car that roared through Dubai’s streets. He was my age, give or take, and we were more than manager and clerk – we were pals, two lads navigating the big, bewildering world. Barclay was the son of a banker in Oman, born to privilege, but he wore it lightly, breaking rules with a wink and a nod. Officially, he was Mr. Butler, the covenanted officer tasked with authenticating messages using secret test codes – complicated things involving account numbers, transaction amounts, and sequence codes to thwart fraud. But between us, he was just Barclay, and I was Denzil, and we shared a bond only the young can understand.
Barclay, in a daring act of trust, had quietly handed me the task of authenticating messages, a job meant only for the covenanted elite. It was our little secret, a rebellion against the bank’s stuffy rules. I felt like a conspirator in a grand adventure, though I knew it was a risk. Fraud was a shadow that loomed large, especially in far-off African branches where test keys were sometimes stolen.
Then there was David Gardiner, the assistant accountant, a man of elegance with a black fountain pen that danced across paper in the most beautiful script. In his thirties, with two little ones – a girl and a boy – who sometimes tumbled into the office, David was a figure of quiet authority. I’d borrow his magazines and newspapers, and we’d chat about this and that. His children fascinated me, their wide eyes and chatter pulling me back to my own boyhood in Sri Lanka, far across the seas.
But that day, the day of the table tennis dream, everything seemed to conspire against me. The yellow notepads piled up, each needing David’s signature – his bold “DG” in blue ink – before I could send them. I watched from my glass-walled office, tracking the forms as they moved from clerk to officer to accountant. But David was nowhere near his desk. He was in the foreign trade department, untangling some knotty problem, his fountain pen idle while my dreams of table tennis glory slipped away.
I called out to Dutta, my favorite khaki-clad peon, urging him to hurry. “Move faster, Dutta!” I pleaded, but the bottleneck was David. His in-tray overflowed, and my stomach growled – not just from hunger but from the ache of a dream deferred. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. My patience frayed like an old rope. In a moment of youthful folly, I strode to David’s desk and rifled through his in-tray, trying to gauge the mountain of work ahead.
That’s when it happened. David, spotting me, stormed back, his face like thunder. “Denzil, leave my desk alone!” he roared. “Do not look at my stuff!” The words hit like a slap. I retreated to my office, shut the door, and felt the world crumble. Tears welled up, not just for the game I’d miss but for the sting of humiliation. I was a boy again, lost and far from my parents in Sri Lanka, the glass walls around me seeming to close in. I’d crossed a line, but in my desperation, I couldn’t see it.
Barclay, bless his heart, saw it all from afar. He rushed into my office, closing the door softly behind him. “David didn’t mean it,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’ll get him to sign the messages. What time’s your game?” He handed me a white handkerchief, and I wiped my tears, catching a glimpse of Neelam, the accountant’s secretary, smiling kindly through the glass. I felt a flush of embarrassment but also a flicker of comfort.
Barclay stayed with me, helping me settle my nerves and plough through the pile of messages. It was late by the time I finished – too late for the club, too late for Rohit and our table tennis dreams. But in that moment, Barclay’s kindness was a balm, and I learned a lesson about boundaries, however harshly it came.
Months later, David was set to leave Dubai for another post in Asia. On his last day, I stood at his desk, my heart still tender from that day but full of respect. “Denzil,” he said, his fountain pen still in hand, “you’re a brilliant young man. You’ll have a bright future in the bank.” His words puzzled me then, but they lingered like a seed in the soil.
Twenty years passed, like pages in a book turned too quickly. It was 1998, and I was in Hong Kong, working for the same bank, now called Standard Chartered, on the 42nd floor of its head office. One day, a man in a black suit tapped my shoulder. I turned, startled, and there he was – David M. Gardiner, the man with the fountain pen, older but unmistakable. “Denzil!” he exclaimed, and we fell into a flood of memories, swapping stories of Dubai and the years between. He was now an executive director, his prediction from two decades ago blooming true in my own journey.
As for Barclay, I’m still searching for him, hoping to thank him for his trust and that handkerchief on a day when I needed it most. David, I’ve found, thanks to a kind reader’s tip, and we’ve reconnected, bridging the years with shared nostalgia.
And so, in the quiet moments, I think of Dubai – of the telex’s hum, the yellow notepads, the creek’s shimmer, and two good men: Barclay, the fearless lad who broke rules for a friend, and David, the disciplined visionary who saw something in a boy with a table tennis dream. Life, like those sandy paths, winds on, but some stories stay with you, warm as a summer afternoon.
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