Counter Point - September 4, 2002

Every issue, every event - global, national and local - has a point and a counterpoint. You are given the point all the time in news and analyses. Now, get the counterpoint

I was coming back home one evening in the magical hour of twilight. I had just rolled down the car window for a puff of wind. The breeze blew in, hot and sultry. I rolled the window back up very very quickly and turned the air-conditioner on full blast.

It has been a really hot day, I told my companion. He nodded, eyes on the road. I had to go to three different places, I said. I had to wait outside for two to three minutes for a cab each time. He nodded again.

Why does Dubai have to be so hot all summer long? Why do I have to go outside the house when the sun is burning? Why do I have to walk across a road when the tar is melting? Why, why, why?, I whined.

That's when I saw them.

A biggish group of around 50 men. All wearing grubby overalls stained with sweat and grime. Many with rags wrapped turban-fashion around their heads. Some fanning themselves with the rags. A few, but only a few, drinking water out of plastic cups.

They stood around and sat around on the pavement, too tired even to speak to each other. Labourers. Waiting for their pick-up. The last rays of the sun slanting down on their red-rimmed eyes, tired-hungry faces.

I looked once and felt terribly ashamed of myself. I had spent a day in air-conditioned comfort, behind a desk in a swanky office. Every time I wanted water, I just had to walk five steps to the cooler. If I wanted a cold drink, I simply walked into the cafeteria.

True, I was out a few times, meeting people. But the taxi came to the door practically every time. Maybe I had to wait for a few minutes in the sun. But what was that compared to what these men do, day after hot, summer day?

They work out in the sun, building homes, building offices, building an economy and a city. The sun has toughened and darkened their skin. And bleached their hair. They do not know what it is like to work in a cool, clean office. They only know the shade of a rare tree for a few minutes in the afternoon. Sometimes.

The sun does not warm the labourers alone. It shines down with impartiality on delivery boys and courier men, salespersons and civic workers. And, particularly, it seems to me, on the young man who brings home my groceries.

I had asked for some milk, eggs and bread one Friday afternoon and the grocery delivery boy came late. I was about to scold him when I looked at his face. He had water running down his forehead and his skin looked red. What happened, I asked.

Nothing, he said. I look like this everyday I cycle across for a home delivery. Sometimes it's difficult to hold on to the bars because they get scalding hot.

I said nothing, just a thank you as I took in the things.

It's at moments like this that I realise I - and all of us not forced to have an outdoors job - am truly blessed. I will never complain about the heat again. Because I know nothing of it.