ALMOST a quarter of a century ago, a TV series titled Ek Haqeeqat Ek Fasana was launched from Lahore in which I was cast as a golden hearted Edhi-sque journalist whose life is dedicated to the service of humanity. In fact the dramas were based upon real life stories provided by late Riaz Batalvi.
One of the stories was about a young rustic and innocent man who came along and sells all his valuables and goes to Dubai to fulfil his dreams of a better life. When he reaches Dubai he is arrested because of the forged papers provided by the agent and comes back empty handed, his Dubai dream shattered. Ali Ijaz played the role of this half-witted young man, admirably, and sky rocketed to fame. The drama was called Dubai Chalo which became a national slogan in those days, as Dubai was the dream city of all desires. So when I announced my forthcoming Dubai visit I immediately became the target of all sorts jokes and insults.
“Good heavens Tarar, don’t tell us that you have not been to Dubai as yet! Every Tom, Dick and perhaps Harry also has been to Dubai repeatedly. And you call yourself a vagabond, shame on you”.
So it was with a heavy heart and a sense of shame that I boarded the plane for Dubai. I was going there to record a TV show. My co-host, Aliya Shah, who was accompanying me, was vastly excited by the prospect of shopping in Dubai, especially its famed festival and chirped about it incessantly. The cabin crew was a cocktail of all nationalities and we were informed by the British pilot that we could communicate with them in eleven languages, including Mangolian. As it happens my Mongolian is rather elementary i.e.; Ulan Bator or Changez Khan etc., hence I refrained from communicating.
The Dubai airport was palatial, vast and so well lit that one wondered that, our Arab brethren, who can buy anything on Earth, might have bought a minor sun from some galaxy to brighten Dubai airport. I was not shocked, but deeply amused when I saw “The Irish Village” bar and restaurant offering all types of Irish brews and fresh pork chops, and right opposite to it was a mosque where you could offer your prayers. Rind ke rind rahe hath se jannat na gai.
This was Dubai where the devils and angels reside side by side, so you have a choice and can be the guest of any one of them, or better still both of them.
The Dubai Duty Free Shop is another vast complex stacked with such enchantments which are hard to resist; gold, cameras, chocolates, electrical appliances and what not. This “what not” is the variety of bottled waters which are suppose to cheer the soul.
Finally after covering at least one kilometre within the airport complex, we reached an area where hundreds of passengers were queuing up for God knows what. We were also required to join them because here your eyes were to be photographed for security reasons. However, for the next 30 minutes, we stood on our ground and hadn’t moved. It was disclosed that the eye machine was out of order; a mechanic had been sent for and the possibility was that we will spend the night on the airport. So I approached a burly airport officer, “Sir, we are here to record a television show and our crew is waiting outside, is it possible if you could kindly let us go because the eye machine is out of order?”
“Is it your first visit to Dubai?”
“Yes sir,” I said gleefully.
“Then you cannot go without your eyes being photographed, you may be a terrorist.”
“Well sir, my eyes are brown, you can peep into them and the eyes of this lady are the colour of lenses which she is wearing presently, please?”
He peeped into Aliya’s eyes instead rather enthusiastically and the female charm worked, “You can go.”
Here I must declare a geographical ignorance of mine, I could never differentiate between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, at times I thought they were one and the same thing. However, a tourist brochure enlightened me and I found out that UAE actually comprises of seven independent states i.e. Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Sharja, Ajmam, Umm Al Quwain, Ras Al Khaimah and Fujairah which were ruled by their respective sultans.
In Dubai, we rarely came across a genuine Dubaian; there were hordes of Europeans, scantily clad hopping from one shopping mall to another, loaded with heavy shopper bags, Iranians gobbling Chillu kababs, Indians running their restaurants and stores, Philipinos, Egyptians, Palestinians and of course Pakistanis, mostly taxi drivers. During my whole stay I hardly spotted a few Arab woman clad in black shawls, otherwise the national dress of Dubai for the females was tight jeans and shrinking blouses.
The central Asian woman were also very visible especially after the Sunset, visibility of their contours left nothing to imagination. I was informed that the locals hardly amount to 15 per cent of the total population that is why we hardly saw any locals. The apartment hotel where we were lodged had an Indian manager, the waiters were from Goa, the receptionist was a stern Chinese lady, the housekeeping staff was from Philippines, the drivers from Pakistan and the electrician was a burly Sikh gentleman.
At times an Arab in flowing robes just strolled in, smiled and said Salam to everybody and after exactly five minutes disappeared for the day, he was the owner. In the meantime the rest of the crew also appeared including, Mr Abdul Rauf of Pucchas Minute fame. We decided to spend our first evening in the pursuit of unnecessary shopping because it is such a pleasure to spend your hard earned money on items that are totally useless.
The world renowned Dubai Shopping Festival was on, we counted our dollars and dirhams and headed for the City Centre which is the craze in Dubai. It was so huge that we promptly lost ourselves in the labyrinth of thousands of stores, restaurants, cinemas, coffee bars, designer’s showrooms and what not. Our one and only female companion, Aliya was starry eyed, excited beyond limits gazing at the vast array of goodies displayed in showcases and because of the festival, available at reduced prices.
She will disappear in some huge store; emerge after about an hour or so clutching a pair of shoes declaring triumphantly, “Look Tarar Sahib only ten dirhams!” She would again get lost and this time holding a small dainty handkerchief inform gleefully “Look Tarar sahib, only three dirhams.” However, I was not loosening the strings of my purse because the dollar supply was meagre and I intended to buy a camera and some designers suits.
As I came out of a French shopping mall, naturally without buying even a hairpin the security guard stopped me, “Why you do not pay for things you take from the store?” He was a thin Philipino whose uniform was hanging from his hanger frame.
“I do not pay because I have not bought anything.”
“The security alarm beeped when you come out of store, why?”
“Because I have a magnetic personality,” I smiled back at his sternness.
“Go back and come out again.”
So I obliged him by going back into the store and then coming out; he was right, the alarm beeped like mad, I was alarmed. May be I had put something in my pocket absentmindedly. The guard went through all my pockets and then again asked me to repeat the procedure of going back and then coming out.
The damn alarm again shrieked.
“Please come into this room, you have something.”
He took me to a small room where he searched me thoroughly, my cigarettes, a lighter, wallet and some tissue papers.
“You have nothing,” he was clearly disappointed.
“I told you so.”
“Then tell me why the alarm goes beep beep?”
“I told you I have a magnetic personality,” this time I did not smile because I have had enough. “There is something wrong with your bloody alarm mister, why don’t you get it right?”
“No the alarm cannot be wrong, we have very modern security system,” he insisted. “Look here little man,” I felt like grabbing him from his neck and wringing it good and proper, “You want to search me again? I am going to your security head and lodge a complaint against you, you have harassed me without any proof and I am going to get you fired.”
The little man was terrified by my empty threat and smiled for the first time, “No, you are right, you have a magnetic personality, thank you, goodbye.”
That evening in the food court of the City Centre, over a bowl of Chinese soup I met one of the most amazing personalities in UAE, Mr Suhail Zarooni, whose name is mentioned in The Guinness Book of World Records.
ALMOST a quarter of a century ago, a TV series titled Ek Haqeeqat Ek Fasana was launched from Lahore in which I was cast as a golden hearted Edhi-sque journalist whose life is dedicated to the service of humanity. In fact the dramas were based upon real life stories provided by late Riaz Batalvi.
