“You have until the seventh to leave the country,” said the HR staff pointing to the date in the residence visa cancellation paper.

“Don’t you get at least a month’s time to get out?” I asked panicking, thinking that a week would not be enough to pack, sell stuff and move out.

Then I looked at the date again, and I had read it wrong and had 30 days to leave. Things were happening fast and I was trying to play catch up.

Last week I was at the immigration office to cancel my son’s residence visa as he was under my sponsorship. “Why are you cancelling his visa? You don’t like Dubai?” asked the immigration officer. I should have said something smart and sassy like, “Who would want to leave Dubai?” But I giggled and said something inane about how my wife will now be our sponsor.

The officer picked up a large, silver-coloured stamper, stamped ‘Cancelled’ on my son’s visa.

“Where’s the ID card?” he asked. “It is valid for another two months,” I said, holding on to it tightly. He took it from my hand and placed it in a large envelope that was full of ID cards. “He has 30 days to leave,” he said.

Time has passed fast and it seemed like it was just yesterday more than a decade ago that my new employer’s representative Shaukat received me at the airport. He drove me to Ascot Hotel in downtown Dubai, where I would stay until I found my new home.

In the evening, I got out of the hotel to explore, and found the area the same as Little India in Greater Toronto. There were sweet shops, restaurants with giant signs advertising biryani and chicken tikka dishes and textile shops selling colourful kurta and churidar suits.

Time-lapse video

The only difference was that I had arrived in the middle of summer and walking the streets was agonising as the air-conditioners hanging out of the walls kept blasting me with even more hot air as I hurried past.

Over the years, Ascot underwent many changes. It was like watching a time-lapse video. First, there was a Russian nightclub at the hotel’s entrance as I drove past on my frequent trips to Bur Dubai. Then it changed to an Indian nightclub.

An Irish joint then opened in its place. Finally, there was massive renovation and I could not recognise the hotel any more or the room from where I tried to look out on the street below through the humid, moisture-blocked windows.

“Wait a minute, why am I reminiscing? I am not going anywhere yet,” I told myself.

“How do I save some money?” I asked the PR friend. “Leave for Hatta in the morning. As soon as you reach the border, tell your wife to apply for the residence visa and fax it across to you. It will save you Dh1,000. ”

“Why can’t I wait till she applies and then leave?” I asked. “Then they will tell her that you are still in the country,” he said.

Apparently, the charges to change the sponsorship on to someone else are more if you are in the country.

When I told my wife she said, “Forget it. Drive me to the immigration office. Let’s not complicate things.”

“It’s all very easy. Even your son’s gym trainer does the visa run,” I said.

“We need the Ejari,” said my wife. Ejari, as everyone who rents a home in Dubai knows, is a tenancy contract registered in the system, without which you do not get a residency visa.

At my property owner’s office, I found out from a kind staffer the rent would be raised by about 15 per cent on renewal in July.

I realised that though time passes, some things do not change.

Mahmood Saberi is a freelance journalist based in Dubai.