Fact or Fiction

My son after reading the draft of this month’s blogs asked me how I expected anyone to believe, that what I wrote in them actually transpired. Even the previous one with the milkshake was suspect. His tone seemed almost accusatory - as if to say that the incidents seemed fabricated. Thankfully my wife could corroborate one instance, as she was with me when it happened.

At the time I shrugged off his observation - for two reasons:

- Firstly because I could not consider that you would think that I lie, and

- Secondly because none of you would expect me to be imaginative enough to 'invent' such incidents.

However the statement still made me pause to think.

In Dubai the battle for survival is most widely fought in places like Bur Dubai, Karama and Satwa. And consequently life teems and heaves there, as opposed to the sedate and cultured pace in the swankier Hotels and Malls.

On the streets the density of people and shops, the amount of services on offer, goods on sale, the restaurants and the eateries are like rocks amongst rapids - surrounded and sometimes inundated by the eddy's and currents of life. A morning spent in these places can be quite revealing - but that is only if one is willing to stand and observe. To observe one needs to keep their eyes and ears open, be willing to ask questions and get into conversations with strangers.

However the observation powers of most people are now severely diminished. Whether it is in the gym or on the streets, alone or in company, one has gotten used to seeing people with headphones blaring music and their eyes glued to their mobile devices. Portable technology is creating a barrier between the digital and the real world and the younger generation especially, is living more in the former. With huge headphones and even bigger mobiles they have cut themselves off from the world.

The probability of seeing someone with headphones on, increases exponentially if they are alone. It is now a security blanket - a safety bubble to avoid interaction. It is extremely cool to be dressed in jeans that constantly threaten to slip down to your ankle, a hoodie, mirrored sunglasses and headphones wrapped around your ears. It indicates that you are too cool for this world and that you are just not interested in any of it!

Forget about when one is alone - how many times have we seen a gaggle of teenagers, together yet apart, typing intently into their own devices. No wonder then, that life passes them by with connectivity to neither their surroundings nor the people. The everyday sights and sounds are lost between the music and the screen.

So my answer to my son is that since I tend to gravitate more to the parts of town mentioned above 'and' I do not wear headphones outside the house 'and' I like to get into conversations with strangers - I seem to find myself tripping more into such situations.

What do you think?

Even a Friend is not this Familiar

I had read some time ago that Indians (I think we can infer Sub-Continentals here) can get extremely familiar without being friendly - and two recent incidents highlighted exactly what that meant.

The Cobbler

You know by now that I am not a DIY person and this extends to polishing my shoes as well. In the past I used Kiwi roll-on polishes, which though very convenient, ruined the leather on my shoes rather rapidly. Hence over the last few years I have started to take my leather shoes into town, to get them polished by a cobbler. They do it the old fashioned way, do it much better AND my shoes last longer as well.

I used to frequent this Afghani cobbler who was irritating and funny at the same time. If I forgot to fix the price with him before he started his work, it would land up in a haggling contest. He would insist on charging me four times the asking rate, stating that he used special polish and extra effort. I would never pay him that of course, but I would get dragged into a conversation that I would rather not get into and often resulted in me paying him more, especially if I did not have the exact change. Anyway, tired of this uncertainty I found another cobbler of similar origin but pleasanter demeanor, who I have been going to for a year or so.

That is the background on the artisan. Now the shoes!

I had bought a pair of rather expensive leather moccasins years ago - but every time I tried to wear them - I would get the most terrible chaffing on the skin near my Achilles tendon. Hence they have been lying unused and forgotten until I chanced to see them a month ago. It pains me when I cannot use something I have bought - and it dawned on me that I should take them to the cobbler and see if he could treat and soften them or something. So the next time I went to the cobber I took them along.

When I explained my problem to the cobbler, he took a look at my shoes, felt them around the area that used to chaff and then put one on his anvil and started hammering the s**t out of it. He explained that that softens the leather, though both my wife and I were aghast at the treatment being meted out to these expensive shoes. After going at it with both of them, he does something that I can't forget. He gets up, takes off his slippers, puts MY shoes on and then walks around in them. HE IS WEARING MY SHOES AND WALKING AROUND ON THE STREET!  Picture a man in a Pathan Suit walking around in black ECCO moccasins in Bur Dubai! My wife and I could only look at each other - completely horrified.

With complete insouciance, he then took them off and handed them back to me, saying that they should now be alright. He added that if for some reason they still chaffed, to bring them back to him. AS IF!!!

I have still not ventured to try them on and see if his remedy worked.

The Barber.

An even more interesting episode was with a barber that we (my son and I) had been frequenting - again in Bur Dubai. By the way, this was my way of teaching my son the value of money - going to the cheapest barbers for a haircut. The horror stories with my son's haircuts will be for another blog. No wonder that he hates a haircut as much as I do!

Anyway I was alone that time and being in the vicinity I thought I might as well get a trim. My hair was well past the time when it required one as I had been postponing the cut too long.

I entered the saloon and as my regular guy was busy, a young gun attended to me. Normally after finishing with the haircut comes the most horrendous part - when they spray your face with water and use a smelly old towel to wipe your face dry. I absolutely insist on them using tissues, but sometimes if I am not quick enough, with my eyes still closed from the sprayed water, the towel comes into play. It is whipped up and around you in such a manner that it encapsulates your face completely. My normal instinct is to hold my breath when the water is sprayed on to my face, so I am completely out of breath by the time the towel appears. That situation leaves me with no choice but to take a deep breath while still being smothered in it. The smelly residue of that experience stays in my olfactory memory long after I have left the establishment.

This time I was quick and I stopped him just before the towel made contact with my face. After dabbing me with tissues, he looked at my face and then asked gently if I would like my eyebrows trimmed. I still had the obligatory head and shoulder massage coming up, so I thought to myself - why not. This is awful nice of the guy - I told myself! My eyebrows have an independent disposition, with each hair even more free spirited. After a few months it is difficult to discipline them as they start straying in all directions. 

So I said yes and relaxed back into the seat as the massage began. Soon the thrum of the generator strapped on to his wrist lulled me and I was completely relaxed by the time it was my eyebrows' turn. In this languid state I shut my eyes as he brought the scissors up to snip away. I could feel him snipping away gently and relaxed even further back in the seat.

Suddenly I felt my nose being pushed and thrust up by his thumb and before I can even think "hold it" he has inserted a scissor up my nose and is busy snipping away in the inner recesses of my nostril. He had apparently taken a unilateral decision to prune my nose-hair as well - a treatment that was neither agreed on nor appreciated. It was a gross violation of my personal space. As I opened my eyes to see what the heck was going on, I noticed that he was using the 'same' scissors! If this was part and parcel of their customer value proposition - God alone knew where the scissor had been before it touched my hair. I was completely paralyzed with shock as he finished with one and descended into the second nostril.

That day all other errands were forgotten as I rushed home to deep cleanse my hair, my scalp and every other part of my body!

The Conclusion

I still frequent the same cobbler, though now having 'literally' walked in my shoes, he feels like we are old pals. He never forgets to ask about the well-being of my moccasins (as if they were distant relatives).

I never returned to the barber shop, though I generally wave to them when I am passing by and they happen to see me.     

The Man with the Broken Pants

My fortnightly trips into town are full of “the stuff of life” and entertaining as well. Often they also beggar belief - like the conversation that transpired below! 

A couple of weeks ago I was at a tailoring shop - not the one that I wrote about last month, but a much smaller establishment located near the Dubai Creek. A two level shop, with a tailor (sitting with a sewing machine) and the Master who owns the shop at the ground level. Over time I have realized that they do not share the most cordial of relationships, though there seems to exist an uneasy truce between the two. The Master is stern of demeanor and looks quite the taskmaster! I frequent it for alterations which are done on the spot - I handover the clothes, run my errands and return to pick them up within the hour.

Anyway that particular day this routine failed, as on returning to pick up trousers I had given for length alteration, I was informed that work had not even commenced on them. I was quite miffed with this unanticipated occurrence, but the tailor aware that the Master was listening placated me and told me to wait. He assured me that my work would be done in fifteen minutes and having no option, I sat down to wait on a small bench near the entrance.

A few minutes later a bedraggled man walks in (actually saunters in), brushes by me and starts looking around. He goes to a rack of clothes and ruffles through them. The Master and the tailor continued working, both assiduously pretending to ignore him while keeping a wary eye on this intruder. From the expression on their faces it was evident that this was not entirely usual.

The man then walks across to the tailor, who by then is in the midst of altering my pants and starts feeling my trousers - as if to check the quality. The tailor gives him a stern look, tells him to stop touching the clothes and asks him what he wants in Hindi.

The following conversation takes place in Hindi, which was obviously not the man’s mother tongue. I later find out that he is Bangladeshi.

TAILOR: What do you want?

MAN: My pants are broken.

TAILOR: What?

MAN: My pants are broken.

TAILOR: Pants cannot break - they tear.

MAN: You know what I mean.

TAILOR: Ok - so what do you want from me?

MAN: Do you have a spare pair of pants for me?

Then casually picking up a leg of my trousers that are being altered.

MAN: These should fit me.

TAILOR: These belong to someone else.

MAN: OK do you have any others like this that have been left behind.

TAILOR: No

MAN: Can you repair my broken pants?

TAILOR: Yes - where are they?

MAN: I am wearing them.

TAILOR: OK - get them tomorrow and I will stitch them for you.

MAN: I need them today - I cannot work with broken pants.

TAILOR: Do you have another pair of trousers which you can wear while I work on them?

MAN: No

TAILOR: Then how do you expect me to work on yours?

MAN: I will take them out and you can do the job.

TAILOR: And what will ‘you’ be wearing while I work on them?

MAN: Nothing

TAILOR: What are you wearing beneath your pants?

MAN: Nothing

TAILOR: We do not have a changing room, so where will you wait while I work on your trousers?

MAN: Here

TAILOR: You cannot wait here with nothing on.

MAN: Why?

TAILOR: Are you mad - what if ladies come in or the police? We will be jailed!

MAN: Ok then (again, picking up a leg of 'my' trousers) - I will wear these. 

TAILOR: Stop disturbing me and go to the Master (pointing him out) and ask him.

The man is not phased at all and saunters over to the Master - all the while inspecting the various trousers hung on the racks.

MAN: My pants are broken.

MASTER: I know - I heard the conversation. What do you want?

MAN: I need a pair of pants

MASTER: Come tomorrow and I will see if I can find a discarded pair that will fit you.

MAN: My pants are broken and if people see something that they should not, I will blame you.

MASTER: I told you - come tomorrow and I will see what I can do.

MAN: Mutters something and leaves.

The Master then looks at me and shakes his head. As the man is leaving I notice an RTA logo on his shirt, so I ask the Master who the man was. It seems that he is an ABRA (small passenger boats on the Dubai creek) operator of vague acquaintance to the tailors.

On my asking what he will do if the man returns, the Master tells me that he 'will' come again and that later he will look for some old or discarded trousers to give the man. Shrugging his shoulders he declares that life is, after all, about giving and helping in any small way one can.

Coming from a guy who looked as if he would not help his own ailing mother, this statement resonated deeply with me. It reminded me of the old adage - never judge a book by its cover!    

As I left the shop with my trousers I kept picturing the man touching and feeling them and wanting to wear them, and could not help thinking that they would definitely have served a better purpose with him. As is often the case I was so enraptured by the events as they unfolded, that I did not act until it was too late. 

 So now, every time I will put those trousers on I will think of the man with the Broken Pants.