We were accommodated on the tenth floor of the guest house of the company that gives Dad his Dirhams for all his hard work, and us, good chance. It was our first time under the wide blue sky of the United Arab Emirates. I bet most of you are already thinking – Dubai, but I’m talking - Abu Dhabi. After my month long sojourn, I found Abu Dhabi to be an ideal amalgamation of the Islamic culture – reminiscing my early school years spent in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia - with liberty and freedom in all aspects, for men and women alike, just like home - Mumbai, India.
An outsized dividend of my vacation time I spent walking aimlessly on the streets of the well-planned state. The architecture was remarkable. I loved the way the four-wheelers would file up on the grid-pattern roads, and how an occasional gentlemanly driver would halt in the middle for the pedestrians to cross, and a kind thank-you gesture would be exchanged.
Some days, we would drive to a random mall to blow up the hours or in the words of my dear Father, ‘to empty his wallet.’ My sister and I would pick up clothes from a range of dime a dozen stores (the extreme high-label fashion outlets, read – Armani, Valentino, Dior - were strictly meant for admiration from the other side of the glass window – excerpt from parental rule book). So, instead, the two of us would go hunting for fancy foot-wears and bling jewelry, eating a scoopful of ice-cream or sipping on a drink concurrently. And we’d end by appreciating my sister’s flair at ice-skating in the rink located midst the mall, and my bad luck at the same.
Keeping the girl brigade aside, other evenings all of us would spend time at the Corniche, watching the sun go down, till the muezzin from the nearest mosque would confirm the hour of Magrib. We’d stay till the lights of the minarets would glow against a navy blue skyline. Few instances at the beach, we siblings would go jet-skiing and race with fellow strangers in the sea, making Mother wait for us, her feet enveloped in cool sand as she sat on one of the chairs by the shoreline, my sister waving out to her periodically.
For dinner, we’d try variants of non-vegetarian delicacies in a wide array of restaurants and so, all along, my taste buds were beyond just gratified. If nothing else, my sister and I, would grumble but settle for a Shawarma with a can of chilled beverage followed by home-made dinner. At night, we’d turn up the volume, and enjoy back-to-back movies on the newly installed home theatre system. In sequence came tardy mornings, and an annoyed Mother, and our ‘we’re-sorry’ brunch. More than the late nights, I’d blame it on the A.C., the dark shades of the long drapes covering the tinted French windows, the fluffy pillows and the thick layered sheets.
The state was a delight of a place, with room enough for everybody. The threads of Arabic ethnicity and of Islam remain interlaced, as formidable as they were when Islam began to triumph in the Arabian Peninsula. It has weaved its way through an era of unconventionality and if anything has changed, it can be traced to the evolution of mindsets, to ascertain and acknowledge – to each his own. A woman decked in a dainty black burqah, her pretty face in veil allowing a mere glimpse of her striking kohl-ed eyes, embracing one from another continent all together, dressed in fitted-blue denims and a pullover, with her beauty evident through her radiating smile. An Arab wearing an immaculately white thoub and another clad in cargo pants and a casual T-shirt, both heading towards the nearest mosque for congregational prayers. If from a crowd, one enjoys the high-spirited flamboyant nightlife with the DJ in command of the music, say at Sheraton’s Zenith, then in all surety, there will be another who finds solace in reading the Quran during the hours of the break of dawn sitting under one of the domes of the majestic Sheikh Zayed Mosque, cocooned in its serenity and tranquility. What I love about this emirate is that it gives you the prerogative to seek your own identification, but it has not once lost its own.
After a one of a kind experience, a night before our return to Mumbai, I stood in the balcony of our temporary tenth floor abode, overlooking an imitable state, one that is perpetually invigorated. I stood watching the little balls of light illuminating the cars as they raced past my vision.
When I revisit Abu Dhabi in my head, I imagine lively mornings (the days that I did wake up earlier) - employees dressed in neat formals calling out for a cab, an Arab woman racing past in her Ferrari, and a group of teenagers sitting at a Starbucks Coffee joint. There’s this memory of the sparkling turquoise waters of the sea, and my sister collecting shells at the coast while my Dad smiles at her, and my Mom leaning against the bonnet of the car, watching them both. I picture wide roads, an assortment of people from globe-over, the silhouette of impressive towers against the dark backdrop of a moonless night, and the golden reflections of the street lights dancing on the glass buildings; the scent of a mabkharah of flaming ‘ud and the soft music of the prayer call lingering around - modernity clad in the veil of culture.
