This the first chapter of the online serialisation of the upcoming novel set in Dubai- The Robins We Share by Roshan Abraham Jacob.
Chapter 1- One of the Horrid Things
The Robins We Share
Have you ever been part of a hit-and-run case? What were you driving? A beat-up Nissan Sunny or a newborn Mazda, pristine in its sheen. Where were you going? Were you on your way to pick up chai from a hole in the wall? Or were you racing to your next meeting on the other side of Dubai, and that was the reason you were switching lanes like an idiot without using your indicators on Sheikh Zayed Road?
Which side of the accident were you on? You see, I was the transgressor. If you’ve ever made new enemies casually, quickly, or accidentally- you and I might get along. If I ever opened up.
What kind of person carelessly tumbles into another’s life, ablaze with maybe the scent of ale or something darker? The decent thing to do would be to stay, to pay the price for your crime. Obviously, there are consequences. The thing about consequences is that you need to face them head-on. You need to chew on them, until they’re swallowed and out of sight. A banquet of remorse, tasting like the rind of a lemon after the fruit has wasted away. I didn’t have the appetite, but I had to eat it anyway. No one was going to share this meal with me. Not my parents. My mother tried and she would hold me as I wept quietly. She seemed to have her own problems.
My dear mother, who is calling me now.
“My love, where are you?”
“I’m just getting off at Financial Centre,” I said. I was slipping down the stairs like treacle, slowly, my feet more falling over the flight of stairs than traversing them, making decisions. Plop. Plop. Plop. Like rainfall. I had no presence, people didn’t notice when I entered rooms. The number of times I shocked people with a ‘hello’, when I had been standing there for fifteen minutes straight. The beige stairs seemed to hold me as I made my way past the lifeblood of Dubai. Construction workers, maids, labourers whose countries had paid in dark blood, to divide them, make sure the lines between their countries were thick and stained with martyrdom, but here they were, faces squeezed against each other. Talcum powder-wearing, itching to go home and eat biryani, waiting to evade cardamom with their deft, dark fingers. I hadn’t been standing with them. My mother had handed a gold card on our first day here.
“Don’t bother with the silver class. Far too crowded. So many men.”
“There’s a very clearly marked women’s section.”
“Too many women.” My mother had puffed. She wanted me to stand out. She was already upset that I wasn’t going to be using the family car or one of our drivers. After they were going to move back to Singapore, they were upset that I wanted to downsize. That I wanted to blend in. Yet, there were concessions.
I tapped my Nol Card, and started making my way to DIFC. The weather outside is fairly pleasant. Dubai in November was cooling down and people were beginning to frequent the beach. Honestly, it was bliss after London. I felt so much safer, the metro and the tube were very different experiences. Yet, the horrid things about London were up and out in the open. The horrid things in Dubai were translucent. People could hide thoughts, actions, past lives. That’s the point of starting over. I wondered if therapists had gold-lined pockets here. How many people had come here to begin again? Certainly, I am one of them. Certainly, I am one of the horrid things of Dubai.
“I hate you. I hate your stupid, white face.”
I shake my head. I couldn’t go back there now. Those were evening thoughts.
I was starting out at the bottom rung at my uncle’s company. He wasn’t actually my uncle but my father’s best friend. It was pure nepotism; I was informed that I’d be an idiot not to make the most of my connections. I was a fool for not wading faster and stronger into the stream of gold and saffron waiting for me. Who spits out the silver spoon in their mouth? No one. I hadn’t. I’m just a little champagne socialist, Father would say. He was right. It was deceptively easy to hang up Jeremy Corbyn posters, in your country home in Richmond.
I’m out now, and I take a look at the Museum of the Future. I think of the robot barista inside and the little flying bird? Was it a bird? The white thing that flew above us all, a little bit of a marvel. Yet, as much as it pretended, it wasn’t a real bird. It was a simulation, it had a flight path. Like me.
The red pavement hears us all speak. All sorts of languages. As I move deeper into the financial centre, past the conference hall and the pharmacies and the pizza place, people are beginning to look and dress a bit more like me. The core of Dubai is quite racially ambiguous. Are you Lebanese or simply half-English? People had similar doubts about me.
“Wasian?” Strangers would guess.
I’d nod politely. What kind, always their next question.
“Half Singaporean, half English.”
“Coloniser and colonised, wow.”
“Haha.” People had an audacity here. I’m thinking of all these little quirks, all these happenstances as my boss snaps me back to the present. I feel the A/C hit my skin, and I’m reminded that I’m side, I need to work. I need to pull ahead. I need to forget about the boy by the cards. I need to forget about his grubby, fingers and his trusting eyes. The colour of amber, when sunlight fell into them, it’s like a whole world opened up. Sasha, stop.
I had a spreadsheet to fill in and bills to pay.
“Sasha. Sasha. Where on earth do you go? I swear.” It was Amritha, my boss and dare I say it, my friend. She was the Project Manager at Aspire Holdings, and I was her assistant, lackey, child. Honestly, I enjoyed it. She was good at her job. She’s a bit like a sunset. Everything about her is warm, sharp, angular. Amrita D’szouza. Leader into my new, Dubai life. We walk into the lift, and she is bursting with some newfound energy.
“Sasha. Sasha. Guess what.” She begins to poke me. People around have their eyes on us, but she doesn’t care. “Sasha, Sasha. Sasha. Sasha Hubert. I met a boy.” Of course she did.
“Of course you have, Amritha.” She dives into a story including and starring Barasti Beach Club, about she’s not sure where he’s from.
“Russian or Ukrainian, I think.”
“That’s horrible Amritha, there’s a huge difference.”
“Stop judging me, I don’t need you to be my conscience.”
“Lying through your teeth, now.” We had established a friendly relationship, but we are in the office now and she took work seriously. Amritha was one of those women who wanted to have it all. She wanted the accolades, she wanted that tennis win on Saturday, now she wanted Dimitri. She got both. As soon as we crossed the barricades of the purple door, her game face was on. It was uncanny, her ability to switch masks, to play the game, to have forty tabs open in her mind. Her mind must be a dizzying place to live.
I sit down at my desk and have a few minutes to think. My Costa coffee (courtesy of Amritha, it wasn’t mentioned before, sorry) is a pleasant sight. All of it was. Here I was, at DIFC at the interior design wing of Aspire Holdings in Dubai. Outside these halls, were the brightest and most stubborn of minds, attempting to sail into unchartered waters. There is an energy here, it was proud and defiant, almost whimsical- like a child that grew bored of climbing trees and decided that he wanted to touch clouds instead. What do you with such children? I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud among these faces. My desk was empty. Everyone else had pictures of family or their home nations. Badges supporting causes dear to their heart. I had a picture of my mother. My beautiful mother. Slim like a young lily shoot, but commanding such authority.
My father’s picture lay in my purse, I didn’t look at it very often.
I sigh. The chai guy, as he was dubbed was busy hustling around the tables and dropping down paper cups, before skilfully pouring the golden tea down. People clapped at how high he went with his kettle. Carton? The chai box. Help me here.
He comes over to my table.
“Chai, madam?” He’s a handsome man, in need of a few more meals but his countenance, the way he stood, his posture- all so proper. It made me flinch.
“Sorry, I already have coffee.”
“Sorry?” He starts pouring anyway. All the way to the top.
“That’s enough.” I laugh awkwardly to show him that I’m not upset.
“Please, stop, haha. It’ll spill.”
He doesn’t listen. He keeps pouring. The cup is choking at this point. I was never going to be able to pick it up without destroying the documents to their left. I’d have to bite the bullet and just print them again.
He gives me a bright smile and moves on. What an odd man. I shiver as he leaves the vicinity. I hadn’t been told his name yet, but I almost didn’t want to know.
Amritha is snapping at me. Sigh, I need to tell her that’s not an appropriate way to call me over. I move over, and I’m lost in the plans of a villa nestled in Palm Jebel. Construction is far from over, but his wife is a very eager woman and wants plans ready. It’s going to take months before she begins to say yes to us. Luckily, even her disagreement signed cheques.
I return to my table to find that my coffee has been spilt.
The tea is intact.
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