Me: “Kahaan se hai aap?” [Where are you from?] I call out to the group of men working at the Dubai Creek. Their blue salwar kameezes had caught my eye and I was photographing them from across the road.
“Dera.”
Me: “Dera Ishmail Khan?”
“Nahin, Dera Ghazi Khan.” [No, Dera Ghazi Khan.]
Me: “Main bhi.” [Me too.]

For a while I am stunned. Dera Ghazi Khan in Punjab province, Pakistan, is where my ancestors are from. It is a medieval city, founded in 1530 by Ghazi Khan, a Balochi chieftain, and has its own dialect. From the 16th to 18th Centuries, it was part of Mughal empire’s Multan province. When British India was partitioned in 1947 as part of independence, my family came to the other side of the newly created border as refugees. I have never been able to cross the border back, even briefly, because of political differences between the two nations since then.

I had also never met anyone from my hometown outside my immediate family and Delhi’s refugee community—ever. There are not that many of us, namely, Dera Ghazi Khan Hindus. And here was a group from “back home,” laughing and chatting with me across a glistening tarmac road in Dubai. I wondered if they were distant relatives. Those eyes reminded me of my father’s.

For many years now, I have been travelling to Dubai and via Dubai. From a time it had not yet become a city of glass and steel, and life centred around the Deira instead. I have often been asked what do I like so much about the city. My answer is in the group of young men I met today. Dubai for me will always be the place where two arms of a warring family hug each other in camaraderie, away from the glare of politics back home. Here, their pasts and differences have been put to rest. 🙂