Three stitches, one big scare…

 The only family my parents were close to and trusted was Moosa Uncle and Selena Aunty’s family. That was the only house they would leave me at when they went for their nightly half-hour walk for exercise. When I was in LKG, their older son, Haris (whom I called "Haachan," a short form of HarisChetta, meaning elder brother with respect), was in 3rd grade, and their younger son was just a one-year-old baby.

I had a habit of needing to go to the toilet ( I used the word “ shu-shu” which means to urinate ) often, especially when someone else was inside the bathroom. At that time, we lived in a small one-bedroom apartment with a tiny bathroom and kitchen.

One day, after my parents left me at their house, I was playing with toys in the living room. Harish went to the bathroom, and since the baby was sleepy, Aunty and Uncle said they would put him to sleep and be back soon.

Suddenly, I felt like I needed to go to the toilet. As usual, I knocked on the bathroom door and yelled, "Haachan, will you be coming out soon? I need to go shu-shu!" He replied that he would be out soon. I quickly thought I could run and jump onto the soft couch, but instead of landing on the couch, I hit my head on the sharp corner of the coffee table.

Hearing the noise, Uncle and Aunty rushed out and asked, "What happened, sweetie?" I said through my tears, "Nothing happened," though it was both painful and frightening.

Soon, Haris came out and said, "Dolly, you wanted to go to the bathroom, right?" I said, "No," and started crying, pressing my head against the wall. The light floral wallpaper turned red with blood.

Uncle and Aunty were panicked, but before I could explain, they understood what happened. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and it was my parents. Mom was shocked and her blood pressure shot up when she saw what had happened. I wouldn’t let anyone touch my head because I was scared, but later I allowed Mom and Aunty to look at it. They immediately rushed me to the hospital, where I got three stitches in my head.

It felt as if I had undergone brain surgery, but my Mom felt relieved after speaking to the doctor. A mother can bear any pain, but the one thing she cannot bear is if something happens to her child. That’s a pain no mother can endure.

The red flower and the lesson learned

I was born in Dubai and lived in Al Ghusais Sheikh Colony until I completed 2nd grade. I attended Silver Indian Kindergarten School, which was a small school with only preschool, LKG, UKG, and 1st grade. I would leave early in the morning and return by 1 PM. The school bus would stop right in front of our building, so the kids didn’t have to walk far and were safe.

When I was in my LKG, an incident happened. One day, as I was heading into the apartment building, I found a little red flower-shaped plastic object on the floor. It was a bit dirty inside, but I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I walked to our apartment, which was the second one from the left, and went inside. Normally, I didn’t hide anything from my mom, but before I could show her what I had found, she told me she would be right back because she needed to dry the clothes outside. I watched her leave with a bucket of clothes.

I was excited about the tiny object I found, but the dirt inside it bothered me. Impulsively, I decided to try to clean it by scraping it with the edge of a black metallic slide. I scratched at it with all my force, but the dirt wouldn’t come off. Suddenly, there was a spark of fire for a millisecond. It didn’t burn me, but it scared me to death. When my mom returned, she immediately saw my face and asked if everything was okay. That question made me burst into tears, and she became worried, especially since she had just left me moments ago.

I showed her the red object, unable to stop crying. She explained that it was called a “pottas,” a small firecracker that makes a loud noise and sparks when used with a metal toy gun, something teenagers and tween boys used back then. She took it from my hand and threw it away. She told me this was a lesson: never pick up anything that doesn’t belong to you because you never know what it is. Now 36 years later, I still follow my mom’s advice and never take anything that isn’t mine. 

Dubai, where my story began…

Dear Dubai,

Every time I say your name, my heart fills with pride. There’s something about you that lives inside me. I was born in you, and no matter where life takes me, I still carry you with me… proudly, deeply — a true Dubai-born desi girl.

I grew up in a different version of you - a gentler, quieter one. It was the mid — 1980s and ‘90s. There was no Burj Khalifa, no Dubai Frame, no Miracle Garden. Just Dubai World Trade Center, standing tall and proud. That was our landmark. The roads were wide and often empty. The skies were always blue. The air smelled of sand, sunshine and something warm and familiar. 

You were peaceful then. And I loved the peace you gave me. What you gave me in those years meant everything to me. You gave me my childhood. You gave me my roots. And you gave me the most beautiful woman I have ever known — my mother.  Through her you gave me love, strength and a sense of home I still carry today. 

We lived in a small apartment in Dubai Sheikh Colony, building no.5. It wasn’t just a place to live. It was a world of its own. Our neighbours felt like family. There was Moosa Uncle and Selena Aunty. There was a bakery van, a little malayali grocery store and a video cassette shop where we could get Malayalam movies. Even small things felt special back then. A box of Quality street chocolates were a treat — bright, colorful wrappers with sweet surprises inside. And Shawarma, we only had it once or twice a year, but felt like a celebration every time. We didn’t eat out much. We didn’t need to. Our happiness came from what was cooked at home, shared with love and eaten sitting together.

I still remember the early mornings and evenings — the call to prayer from nearby mosque. That sound became part of my daily life, as familiar as the rising sun. Even now I can recite the Ta’awwudh— every word, every pause. It feels like a lullaby from long ago still whispering in my heart. Dubai, you weren’t just a city to me. You were my home. You held me close. You gave me comfort even before I needed it. You helped shape the person I became. 

But then, life changed. Sharjah came into my life — and with it, heartbreak. Sharjah never felt like you. That’s where I lost my mother — my anchor, my peace. That’s where I learned how grief can change everything. Sharjah gave me pain that hasn’t fully gone away. It gave me memories I sometimes wish I could forget. If this feels heavy, I understand. But it’s my truth — and I carry it with me, always!

Dubai, you are where my story began. You were my first home, my first love. And no matter where I go, a part of me will always belong to you. 

 

With love,

A Dubai girl — always…