Deep in the heart of Dubai, past the Bastakiya section, which makes up the Dubai Heritage area, narrow, winding alleys are walled in by the shops of Indian textile, gold and spice merchants.
These lanes, throbbing with life, lead up to the Burdubai creek where the blue waters swell and dip in bronzed waves, as they catch the rays of the evening sun.
“The canal was a tumult of cross currents and tides, churning in the wake of water taxis, ferries and delivery boats. Each volley of waves slapped the small boats”
The Creek is awash with abras, tiny ferry boats, which bob back and forth with passengers from Bur Dubai –Deira –Bur Dubai. Lashed closely together along the wharf, are huge dhows bringing in merchandise from Iran, East Africa, India and Pakistan. Sea gulls ring round them and rent the air with their excited screech. Nationals and expats jostle up to the creek attracted by the busy waterway. At sundown, these crowds disperse through the narrow alleys.
The Indians funnel into a bustling lane where, shops joined at the hip, pulsate with Indianness in a nostalgic way, selling jasmine and marigold flowers, incense sticks, mall copper vessels to hold water, framed pictures of Ganesh and Hanuman, brass bells and rudraksh malas, cassettes of kirtans and bhajans, wooden altars, sweets familiarly packed in red cling wrap, tulsi stands, conches, stone and bronze statues of Hindu Gods. The most Indian part of this cobbled pathway, is the sticky feel underfoot, as barefooted devotees leave behind a little of their Indian selves, while they take the twisting path to a temple tucked away at the end of it. Home sick Indians, slow down their pace as they soak up the extracted gentleness from the smells and sounds of their motherland spilling from these shops. There is Ujjwala from Shanker Seth road, rubbing shoulders with Maragatham from Vadapalani, Gurcharan Singh from Patiala squeezing past Bhattacharya, Mohanty and Biswas, from Ballygunje
After purchasing a basket, holding a coconut, flowers and joss sticks, they enter the temple dedicated to Lord Shiva on the first floor. In the floor above is a Gurudwara. A little distance away is a Sri Krishna temple.
On Fridays, the only holiday in the week, Indians from Dubai and the neighbouring emirates, throng to this temple, despite the huge problem of finding parking space. As we take the stairs, we catch snatches of excited Tamil; extended exhuberant greetings in Hindi and Punjabi, followed by bear hugs and excessive back thumping. There are frantic cries from Malayali women, who refuse to speak to their children in Malayalam in public, but struggle along in their thickly accented, quaint English. Sindhis are in full force with dazzling diamond nose pins and mangalsutras. and dusted glitter all over themselves. As we move on we see silvery- haired, Gujarati women, in crisp, delicately embroidered organdies, sitting cross- legged in an ante room weaving garlands of jasmine and marigold. They sing their little compositions unaware of the procession of devotees who watch them. Inside the main hall, a prosperous looking pujari assisted by two singers, enthralls the gathered crowd with rousing hymns as his harmonium yawns back and forth.
People stand lost in thought, as they seek emotional and spiritual anchorage, listening to these devotional songs. They feel reassured gazing at the big statues of Ram and Sita and Shiva in marble. A low, marble ledge separates the room into spaces meant for men and women. This ledge has a slit on it into which are dropped 1 dirham coins retrieved from D&G / Gucci bags. After prayers, the visibly refreshed crowd goes down to receive with Indian joy, prasad handed out in torn up squares of newspapers. Simple Indian ways still have a place in Indian hearts.
Just across the street looms a towering mosque, the oldest in Dubai. In this Islamic country, the serene proximity of a mosque to a temple and Gurdwara is the best example of religious tolerance