“Dubai at its warmest? That’s not the time to visit! Go at some other time of the year...” we were told.
“We have lived in Indian desert towns,” we replied. “We have seen sandstorms and struggled through endless summers. How much worse can it be?”
“That was almost two decades ago — you have grown older and softer. You can’t take the heat as you did when you were young ...”
Gentle advice, stronger phrases, all were used by those who sought to dissuade us, especially long-time residents of the UAE who compared the maximum temperature of their long summer with that in South India and feared that we would wilt in the desert heat and dust. But our agenda was very simple. Our son had invited us at the end of June as that time was convenient for him and so, the end of June it would be. No questions asked — and no advice to the contrary heeded.
It was with trepidation, however, that we set out, just as the first monsoon showers had cooled down our home state after what we felt was an extreme, exhausting, not to be trifled with, summer. “We’ll stay indoors in Dubai and consider it an extra summer to be got through — another season in the sun,” we resolved, not looking forward to anything beyond the sight of our dear child’s face.
As we exited the airport, the expected blast of heat hit us for a couple of seconds and then, without pre-paying or pre-booking, we were inside a spacious, deliciously cool taxi and we were on our way. We hadn’t haggled about destination or time or charges or had touts leading us this way and that — imagine that, we said to ourselves.
It was a ride to remember, practically floating on the runway-smooth roads, with the lights of dozens of skyscrapers, overshadowed by the endless spire of the Burj Khalifa, twinkling down on us.
Where was the heat and dust, we asked ourselves. Were we really in the desert?
As we settled in, no doubt, we looked out of the window to see desert sand around us, date palms laden with netted bunches of fruit, building sites that seemed to rise higher miraculously before our eyes, mostly in muted and delicate desert colours.
True, we woke up to the blazing sun shining in through the window at six in the morning, throwing us completely off kilter in terms of time — and sure, when we walked down to the supermarket to pick up a few necessities in the middle of the morning, it was hot. But definitely not as hot as we had expected. Chiefly because, before and after the walk, there was the luxury and comfort of central air-conditioning that worked — everywhere. In bus-stops and buses, in metro stations and metros, in tiny shops and malls, in every block of apartments and every home. Plus, there were no power outages or water shortages.
Even rustling up our meals, the biggest bugbear of our Indian summers, seemed like child’s play in such conditions.
This was definitely not the kind of summer we were accustomed to.
When all these ‘basic’ amenities — and a lot more — were lauded and applauded by us, we were looked at strangely by residents who probably took it all for granted and often complained of the harsh climate that Nature had bestowed on the land. And then, one of them, blinked and looked around him thoughtfully and said: “It is good to see this through the eyes of a newcomer, a visitor. We should count our blessings more often and appreciate all that we have here.”
Hopefully, as you read this, you do.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
