‘Making the first million is the toughest’

I woke up to a piece of depressing news the other day that a beggar caught in Dubai had a wardrobe full of Gucci suits. “What’s wrong?” asked my wife, seeing me dejected and reading from my smartphone.

I showed her the report and said: “I have been working here for more than 10 long years and I still don’t own a Gucci suit.”

“Look at my formal wardrobe,” I said, angrily throwing open the Ikea wardrobe with the broken handle. “A pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a blazer that makes me look like a throwback from the swinging 1980s. Luckily, my clothes don’t smell of mothballs.”

“I told you to buy that smart, blue suit with gold stripes on sale at Massimo Dutti, but you are cheap,” said my wife. “It would have gone nicely with the cream, silk tie I bought for you from Khadi Bhandar,” she said.

I hastily changed the subject as that tie was lying at the bottom of a charity bin that was set up in a mall. I could imagine a volunteer sorting out clothes and telling his friend: “Look, some idiot has donated a tie.” But I was desperate as none of my friends wanted that tie.

“Why would a beggar need a bunch of designer suits anyway?” I said. “Do you think these guys hold conventions at five-star hotels, smoke Havana cigars and show off their gold Omega watches and exchange ideas on how to increase their wealth.

“‘I made my first million at the old mosque in Bur Dubai, you know. There is a nice restaurant nearby. You can grab a quick sandwich and get back to begging without having to commute home’.”

“Wonder what their wives wear to these conventions,” I said. “Remember that fancy wedding we went to last year where all the women were dripping in diamonds and pearls. Do you think there were some beggars’ wives in that crowd?”

“You are just jealous,” said my wife. “My father warned me not to marry a journalist,” she mused. “They are usually poor he told me,” she said. “And you are not doing your yoga exercises every day.”

“OMG,” I shouted, as I read further. “Guess where the beggar was living?” I said. “He had a room at a five-star hotel.” “Don’t these people have any shame? They are able-bodied and have their health and they go around fooling honest people off their hard-earned money,” I said angrily.

“I still remember the five-star hotel we stayed at in Goa, on the beach,” said my wife. “I thought your dad would pay for the hotel,” I said angrily, remembering how I nearly maxed my credit card and fell sick eating plates and plates of lobsters and shellfish.

“We should go on a beach holiday again some time,” said my wife.

“Look, it is a little late for me to start a new profession,” I said. “Anyway, these beggars must be guarding their territories fiercely. And I don’t have any backing from their mafia bosses somewhere back in the subcontinent,” I said. “These people must be running a full-fledged travel agency for sending all these beggars to Dubai on time for Ramadan,” I said.

There was another report that said a woman caught begging was seen driving home in a Prado. I looked out of the window at our car and sighed.

“Wish our sons were younger,” I said. “We could have all driven in the car and stopped people coming out of malls, telling them we were robbed and now have no petrol money to go back home to Oman,” I said.

“This is the month of fasting and the timing is perfect as people will be feeling charitable.”

Mahmood Saberi is a freelance journalist based in Dubai.