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, and 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 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 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 the Mustafaawi store, a jeans shop that sold Wranglers, Lee jeans and Yankee boots. The 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 I do?”. The shop assistant chuckled as he continued browsing. Embarrassed, he vowed not to return to that shop.
With friends, he entered a bar on the next street. The air was thick with smoke and the clink of glasses, a cacophony of different languages filling the dimly lit space. Men from various backgrounds mingled: Westerners in loose shirts, Arabs in traditional thobes, Africans in colorful dashikis, and a smattering of Indians in button-downs. He gulped down a Foster’s, the bitter taste a welcome respite from the oppressive heat outside.
As he approached the bar for a refill, a figure materialized beside him. An older man, draped in an expensive dishdasha, his fingers adorned with gold rings, exuded an aura of wealth and influence. The man’s eyes, lined with age but sharp with cunning, fixed on the young lad with unsettling intensity.
“Do you like to work for me?” The Arab’s voice was smooth as silk, a practised charm that set off warning bells in the lad’s mind. The smile accompanying the words seemed predatory, a shark circling its prey. “I can give you a job. Come and work in my office. I can pay you well, three thousand Dirhams a month.”
The lad’s skin crawled at the proposition. The offer, too good to be true, reeked of hidden motives and unspoken expectations. He wondered what this man wanted, what price he’d be expected to pay for such generosity. The thought of being indebted to this stranger, of being at his beck and call, filled him with dread. He politely declined, his voice steady despite his racing heart. “No, I work in a bank; I don’t need a job.” Without waiting for a response, he retreated to the safety of his friends, feeling the weight of the man’s gaze on his back as he walked away, grateful to have escaped what felt like a dangerously tempting trap.
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