A Room in Sharjah
A Room in Sharjah
In sultry Sharjah, a young man moves from hotel quarters to Roy’s modest villa, navigating heat, transience, and the quiet intimacy of shared, makeshift living.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, leaving a sultry September haze over Sharjah, when I finished dragging my worldly possessions from the Inter-Continental’s staff quarters in Rashidiya to Roy’s modest villa. Sweat plastered my shirt to my skin, and my arms ached from hauling a battered blue suitcase and a bundle of clothes packed inside. It was the kind of evening where the air felt like a damp blanket, heavy and unyielding. Roy stood on the verandah, watching me with quiet curiosity as I set my things down with care, as if each item – a shirt, a pair of worn shoes – held a story of its own.
“Goodness, it’s muggy,” I said, wiping my forehead with a handkerchief that was already limp. “I think I’ll wash, Roy Uncle.”
Roy chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that seemed to fill the empty corners of the villa. “A bath now, lad? You’re a brave one. We’ve got a tap, a couple of buckets, and a showerhead that’s a bit temperamental. No door, mind you – you’ll be bathing under the stars, with the upstairs folk as your audience.”
“Sorry, Roy Uncle,” I mumbled, feeling a bit foolish.
“None of that ‘Uncle’ business,” he said kindly, his eyes crinkling. “Just Roy. I’m not quite ancient yet.”
There was something about Roy – his steady gaze, his easy manner – that put me at ease, even as I felt his eyes on me, taking the measure of this lanky boy with long black hair and a faint, hopeful mustache. I must have looked a sight, fresh from the hotel’s bustle, trying to find my footing in this new world.
We sat on Roy’s bed to eat, there being no table to speak of. The meal was simple – rice and curry on a plastic plate – but it carried the warmth of his effort. I picked at it, the heat dulling my appetite.
“My boy eats more than that,” Roy said, his tone gentle but pointed.
“It’s the heat,” I said, a touch apologetic. “Hard to eat much in this weather.”
Roy nodded, understanding. “Not like the hotel’s spread, I suppose. I cooked this after coming home from work, mind you, in that blazing three o’clock sun.” His words weren’t meant to sting, but they reminded me I was far from the familiar. He softened, though, seeing my expression. “Did you like the hotel quarters, then?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “It was lively – friends like Rajakaruna, Nicky, and Sena. But the bank job’s a good one, and sharing this place with you and Wijey feels right.”
Roy gave a practical nod. “You’ll need a bed and a cupboard, lad. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the furniture shop. A bed with a mattress might run you three hundred dirhams. The cupboard – plastic, with metal bars – you can get at Rolla Square for sixty. You can carry it yourself. They are good and sturdy, made in Taiwan”
“I’ll get the money tomorrow,” I promised, already picturing my sparse corner of the room taking shape.
As Roy soaked the dishes in the sink, I looked around. The villa had a weary charm, but it was a temporary place – peeling plaster on the walls, broken windowpanes letting in the desert’s breath, an open bathroom that offered no secrets. I’d be gone in a year, I thought, but for Roy and Wijey, this was home, a small anchor in a shifting world. The thought settled in my chest, heavy but not unkind.
“If you’re knackered, off to bed with you,” Roy said, his voice a gentle nudge. I took it as my cue and settled onto the spare mattress he’d given me. The night was warm, the air conditioner’s hum barely denting the heat. Upstairs, the Malayali bachelors were at it, their voices carrying through the thin walls – “Ennada?” they shouted, laughing, keeping sleep at bay. Sand from the desert seemed to creep into everything, gritty under my fingers.
Before turning in, Roy switched off the tap, silencing its drip to spare us the morning’s chatter from the pipes. I lay awake, the glow of a stray light keeping me restless. I didn’t dare get up to switch it off, not wanting to disturb Roy’s peace. Instead, I thought of the hotel – Rajakaruna’s late-night tales, the clink of smuggled drinks, Nicky and Sena’s easy laughter. Those days felt far off now, like a story from another life.
Morning came with the tap’s faint drip and the distant call to prayer. I rose early, brushing my teeth in the open bathroom, its noise a small rebellion against the quiet. As I changed by my suitcase, slipping out of my shorts, I didn’t notice Roy watching from the doorway. It was a fleeting moment, awkward but innocent, part of this new life where privacy was a luxury I’d yet to earn. In this villa, under the desert’s vast sky, I was learning to live with the closeness of strangers, each of us carrying our small dreams in a place that asked us to make do.
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