by Pankaj Dubey
Ravi responds irritably, ‘Why are you asking me again and again. I told you at the airport.’
‘Your friend doesn’t seem to want any more sightseeing, so I thought you might want to go straight.’
‘Sightseeing?’ Shivam turns to Ravi, incredulously.
‘Forget, Marina . . . Deira straight,’ barks Ravi to the driver. ‘Bhaiya,’ he defends himself to Shivam, ‘I thought you’ll want to have a look of the city since this is your first time here and we won’t take a taxi every day, so I . . . ’
Shivam is not amused. Shankar’s brother seems too cunning . . . he’ll need to be careful. He can’t blow his dirhams like this . . . Babloo has sold everything for them. Fifteen minutes of silent driving later, they reach the Deira apartment. Ravi jumps out and pulls Shivam’s suitcase from the back and starts dragging it in, leaving Shivam to settle the taxi fare. As the lift shoots up to the fourteenth floor, Shivam wonders how the hell he will adjust with this chef who expects him to cough up dirhams every hour.
* * *
Four faces surround him as Shivam opens his suitcase. They are all Ravi’s flatmates, living together in this one-bedroom, one hall–kitchen apartment.
We will be nearly half a dozen here now! And for this micro space, the smart-ass has made him shell out 1000 dirhams! Had it been India, with just one whack, he would’ve sent the swine flying back to his brother’s dhaba.
Swallowing his indignation, Shivam takes out the packets Ravi’s brother has sent for him.
‘Here, take this zeera. Shankar has sent it for you.’
Ravi walks over to take the packet. He holds it up to his nose and breathes in deeply, inhaling its aroma.
‘Not zeera . . . shahzeera,’ he corrects Shivam.
‘Ah! Now we’ll get that biryani,’ exclaims the tallest of the flatmates, seeing Shivam pass on the turmeric and the garam masala packets too. ‘All your spices have come.’
By evening, the promised biryani has been made. All six of them sit in a circle polishing it off with great relish.
‘It’s to die for,’ declares the tall man, as he ladles a second helping for himself.
‘Bhaiya, he’s Nawab,’ Ravi introduces him. ‘By name . . . and by work.’
Everyone laughs.
Ravi goes on to explain, ‘He works at the British Embassy as an office boy. The whole day he sits yawning in an AC room. Even for tea–coffee, English sahib all get up and help themselves while this Nawab just sits and gets fat.’
Nawab smiles and pats his tummy.
‘And this is Ramendu,’ Ravi points out the man sitting opposite Shivam. ‘He’s head plumber in a sanitary company.’
Shivam nods.
‘He’s Ketan. I’m Navin.’ The last two introduce themselves, not waiting for Ravi to do the honours.
‘Both of us are supervisors at a construction site,’ adds Navin.
‘They are involved in the construction of the Dubai Mall,’ Ravi says. ‘That Burj Khalifa I showed you? It’s there only. Best in Dubai it will be . . . ice skating . . . aquarium . . . dancing fountains! You name it, it will be there.’
‘Sounds exciting, but it’s not. It is back-breaking to manage all the labour. We’re dead by half-shift,’ says Navin.
‘And any shit that happens . . . we only get hauled up. Not the managers, not the workers.’ This was Navin’s fellow supervisor, Ketan, adding his two bit.
Shivam nods in understanding. These two were repeating what another person working in Dubai once told him years ago.
Ravi jumps in again to complete the introductions. ‘And Shivam’s a close friend, like I told you all before. He’s come here for a job.’
Shivam frowns at how Ravi presents him. Not a paying tenant, but a friend and a freeloader.
This chef is milking both ways. Fooling him and his flatmates too.
‘Till he gets a job, he can look after the house,’ adds Ramendu.
‘And here’s the directory . . . catch,’ shouts Nawab, chucking a thick book at him. ‘Lists all the placement agents.’
The Dubai Mall-making boys wash off their plates and stand smoking near the window before retiring to their mattress. They keep quiet and to themselves. And that’s how they are every day, as Shivam finds out in time. Their heavy workload drains them of all energy and spirit to dream of anything after work hours.
Shivam stations himself and his mattress next to Nawab’s and chews his brain on how to go about these placement agencies.
‘Face wash and dress neat and go. And don’t forget your CV, passport and visa copies. Rest all inshallah.’
Some insight that was in job hunting! Shivam beat his head. Best was to follow his own instinct. As he lies on the mattress that night, looking out the window at the moon and distant stars, he feels could’ve been anywhere . . . Delhi, Dubai or even Aligarh. The chill of the air conditioner and Nawab’s small talk is all that marks this night as different . . . and international.
‘This is Dreamland . . . jannat!’
‘Jannat,’ repeats Shivam. ‘Then I’ll get all that I want?’
‘Everything,’ replies Nawab.
Shivam smiles, half-asleep even as Nawab drones on.
‘Job, money, food, imported stuff . . . yes, everything.’
Shivam shuts his eyes and starts dreaming of a tomorrow full of . . .
‘Except a girl, you will get everything here.’
He hears that and he can sleep no more.
Nawab dozes off. So do the four others in the room. Now, Shivam lies quietly, questioning the moon. Will his journey be in vain?
30
Shivam short-lists ten placement agencies. Nawab says these are popular with Indians seeking semi-skilled jobs. Shivam stands at the gate of the first one and looks up at the board—Wadi Jobs.
‘Are you looking for a job?’ The receptionist greets Shivam the minute he walks in.
‘I’m looking for some information,’ replies Shivam.
‘Regarding a job, you mean . . . ’
‘Regarding a girl . . . Aaina . . . she has blue eyes . . .’ he starts giving more details that he imagines will help her. ‘Did she come here looking for a job?’
The receptionist gives him an angry look.
Shivam rushes to clarify ‘No . . . don’t misunderstand me. I know her . . . I . . . I mean I knew her, so it’s important that I find her. I was just checking if she contacted your agency. I need to know . . . please.’
The receptionist calls the guard on the intercom. Before he can get into trouble with the security, Shivam rushes out. Ravi’s many warnings echo in his ears: ‘Don’t swear, eat or drink in public. No losing your temper when you’re out. Even checking someone else’s phone is illegal. They could jail you for blinking here. Last year, a guy got deported for being too handsome.’ So, for the next placement agency on his list, Shivam changes tack.
‘I’ve got a visitor’s visa,’ he tells the person manning the counter at Future Focus. ‘I want a job before it expires. My cousin recommended your agency. She got hired through you two years back. You’re the best, she said.’
‘Can you do welding?’ checks the man at the counter after learning Shivam’s qualifications and experience. ‘Tailoring doesn’t have a chance here as lady tailors are needed for ladies.’
Welding, he declines but he is ready to try other options when they become available. After registering in the jobseeker databank, he turns to go. At the door, he does a U-turn and asks casually, ‘That cousin who recommended you . . . I can’t connect with her now. Could you check your database once? Maybe, her number changed.’
And the man falls for it.
‘Aaina Farooqui . . . Aaina . . . 2001 . . . India . . . ’ mumbles the fellow as he scrolls down the company database.He finally declares, ‘No Aaina Farooqui.’
‘How about just Aaina . . . or Aaina something else?’
The Future Focus rep looks annoyed now.
‘One last time please see . . . she’s the
only contact I’ve got here.’
With a scowl, the man at the counter runs the search again.
‘No Aaina,’ he confirms after checking. ‘You’ve got the wrong agency.’
‘Registering with a different name not possible na’
‘This is Dubai, not Delhi,’ he almost shouts. Getting up from his chair, he points to the door. His patience for this dubious job seeker has run out.
Shivam walks out happily, having got the information he wanted. This wasn’t the agency she had come to. Ticking it off the list, he plans to focus on placement agency number three for the next day. Late that evening, he returns to the apartment—or bedspace, as the locals called this type of one-bedroom-with-balcony lodging, where the bathroom is common for all rooms on that floor. Too tired to chat or eat, he sits in the balcony and watches the rest of his roommates trickle in one by one.
‘How did it go?’ Nawab asks as soon as he sees him.
‘Arrey did you mention you are embassy wallah’s contact . . . straight MD post they’ll get you . . . like this,’ Ramendu snaps his fingers.
‘No . . . he took your name,’ Nawab counters him. ‘And down the drain pipe they were sending him.’
Ravi joins the banter. As do the construction worker twins when they walk in. Filling the bedspace with cheer and laughter at the end of a tiring and sweaty day.
Next day, with the next agency on the list, Shivam goes about it with a manic dedication. And on the third day, he strikes silver, if not gold.
Rustom at Gulf Workers is friendly. After fifteen minutes of hedging, Shivam decides to confide he is after Aaina and not a job.
‘Let me run a system search,’ offers Rustom. ‘We’ll know if she came here.’
Shivam sits there, holding his breath. No Aaina appears in his search unfortunately.
‘What next,’ he asks, knowing Rustom will be the right person to seek advice from.
‘Look I won’t tell you it will be easy but I can tell you where to look,’ says Rustom. ‘Nurse, teacher or nanny, that’s what she will be doing. Female jobs are mostly in this category.’
‘Okay . . . so I should check schools and hospitals first?’
‘Right. But this is not India,’ Rustom warns him. ‘It is impossible to walk in and bribe someone here.’
‘I’ll try. I’ve got to reach her . . . anyhow.’
Rustom raises his hands in surrender. Not just blind, love is foolish and impractical as well! No point in arguing.
‘One more favour . . . ’ Shivam is hesitant as he asks.
‘Shoot.’
‘Please share the school and hospital lists where you think the chances of finding her are big.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you printouts tomorrow.’
Shivam’s face falls.
Rustom melts at that. ‘Wait! I’ve got ten minutes to spare, let me see what I can do.’
He manages to sort twelve likely venues and prints them out, before wrapping up for the day.
Shivam is almost in tears. This is so unexpected he does not know how to thank Rustom. He needn’t because as they step out of the office together, Rustom grips his new-found friend by the shoulder. ‘Look, I’ve been so busy making money here that I never thought about girls. I realize now that my life is quite empty,’ he confesses. ‘I don’t want yours to be like mine. Go find her!’
Clutching onto the two sheets from Rustom, Shivam trudges back to the apartment, his heart more hopeful.
Come morning, dreams tend to disperse and Shivam’s goal too gets distant. He does not get entry into even one school. Even at the hospitals they ask him a hundred questions at the gate.
‘Do you have a health card?’
‘I’m a tourist, not a local,’ he says.
‘Okay, then show your passport.’
When he tells them it’s not in his pocket right now, they ask him to leave. His passport is locked in Ravi’s drawer and cannot be retrieved until night. So he pleads with the guards. He stands there in the sun for hours, hoping to melt their hearts or sneak in. Nothing works. But a European coming to the same hospital—touted as the AIIMS of Dubai—simply walks through, no questions asked.
‘We’re the wrong E,’ Nawab explains to him that night. ‘Dubai dances to Emirati or European tune. Expats like us don’t exist. We’re imported only for donkey-work.’
‘Manager or plumber . . . you will always be second class. Always,’ says Ramendu, sharing his own experience.
Shivam sighs. The Dubai sheen is wearing off even before it has come on. Every night he sinks into a dreamless sleep, waking only to the construction supervisors’ morning alarm.
The next day, he leaves early, but not before taking his passport from Ravi. Dubai Healthcare City is the target. Rustom from Gulf Workers suggested he tried there first. It turns out to be a huge complex, with most modern and premium healthcare facilities across specialities under one roof. ‘Which way to Emergency?’ he asks, holding the passport in his hand. The security guard, in uniform, points to the left and lets him pass.
Once inside, Shivam crawls through one hospital building to the other, missing no floor or department. Enquiring about her at every nursing station. ‘Aaina, I’m looking for. Aaina from India . . . she came to work here . . . two years back.’ Four hours go by and he covers five buildings but there is no trace of Aaina yet. Only the dental medicentre is left now. The receptionist in the lobby of the Al-Habib Medicentre stops him from taking the lift.
‘Have you got an appointment, sir?’
‘No. I just need a . . . ’ His mobile rings just then. It is Babloo.
‘Camel ride going okay?’ his friend quips.
‘I’ve come to Dubai Medicity.’
‘What! Are you sick? What happened . . . tell me . . . what happened?’
Shivam almost has to scream to shut him up. ‘I’m fine. Chill. I am.’
Unconvinced, Babloo argues, ‘You are hiding something, Bhaiya. I know you are.’
Shivam steps out of the medicentre to hear Babloo more clearly. Also, he needs to shout the fellow down so Babloo doesn’t keep singing like this and eat up whatever balance is left on his card.
‘Chup be! I’m telling you na I’m okay. Should I repeat in Chinese? Now listen. I came here for her. Not me.’
‘Ohhh!’
‘The whole day has gone, I got nothing. I’ve checked six hospitals, all everyone does is nod their head and say “don’t know” or “don’t have time”. I’m going mad.’
‘Bhaiya, don’t give up. We have to find her.’
‘I know. But I don’t know where to look now.’
‘Bhaiya, think again . . . what did Rustom say . . . all places she could be . . . think . . . ’
‘Babloo . . . schools, hospitals, is what he said.’
‘And?
‘And chances are, she’s a nanny. But I can’t invade homes asking “Do you know Aaina? She came from India two years back. Is she your nanny? I’m hunting the whole world for her.” I can’t do that na?’
‘Don’t do drama, Bhaiya . . . you will . . . ’
‘She’s my nanny.’ Shivam turns with the speed of lightning, the phone slipping from his hand. A woman is standing right behind him. She is the one who has spoken.
‘You . . . you know Aaina?’ He stammers.
‘Yes. She supervises my kids. My husband got her from Delhi a couple of years back.’
Shivam is almost in tears as he bends to pick up his phone. Just when he was about to break . . . she had come, an angel sent to keep him going. Hands folded, he requests Aaina’s contact details. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’
‘Come home and meet her. She’ll be happy to see you . . . someone from home after so long.’
And soon they are driving away, him in the front seat, next to the driver and Madam at the back, on her phone.
‘She was a surprise from my husband so that I can be freer,’ she says, gushing, in between her calls.
He wants to ask her so much
. . . Is she fine? Is she liking Dubai? Does she speak of home . . . of things that happened . . . things she left behind . . . of people . . . of him . . .
He hopes she is not overworked. But he does not have the guts to ask the madam so many questions. Also, she does not have the time. She is busy on her phone for most of the ride.
It is taking an eternity to reach where these people live. Shivam drums his fingers on the glove box, restlessly. Thirty minutes later, the car slides into the driveway of a huge mansion. Shivam looks around as he gets down.
These people are rich. Filthy rich. Loaded! They must have taken good care of her.
He thanks God for this blessing. Though he’s not religious, he has done that twice already today. First, for the angel who had spoken to him . . . and second, now.
‘You wait here . . . in the foyer, I’ll send her.’
Shivam waits, his heart racing, pulse overtaking. His mind flits from yesterday to tomorrow, dwelling in moments in which she will be with him.
‘Beta, come close . . . my eyesight is dimming now.’
Putting his daydream on pause, Shivam walks up to the woman who summons him in the hallway.
Instead of taking him to Aaina, she calls him closer. She takes his face in her wizened hands. She had rough and wrinkled but strong hands. She examines him up-close. Like a microbe, he allows himself to be peered at through those aged lenses.
‘Are you Durgesh’s son?’ Her question baffles him and he draws away.
‘I want to meet Aaina, Auntyji.’
She laughs. A cackle that rises in her chest, gets high-pitched, and makes her rock. It takes her almost a minute to settle down.
‘It’s been ages since I’ve heard that.’
Shivam stands like a statue, not knowing what to say or think. Her declaration makes no sense to him. But wait, a corner of his brain wakes up. Where had he heard that line last, recently? Yes, on the flight. Arzoo . . . she had declared the same thing when he took Aaina’s name . . . what does that mean?
He fights it, not ready to accept what is staring him in the face.
‘You are Aaina?’ He finally manages to breathe out those words.
She gathers him in a hug, fondling his head, petting his hair.