When lights go down…
Seven powerless hours brought out sheer human camaraderie in the residential heart of Karama, Dubai, on Thursday.
Stereos were blaring; the air-conditioners were humming, and work in the neighbourhood laundries, cafeterias and workshops were in full gear, when at 9.45am, the power failed. Lights blinked for one split-second, they lit up again, and then, they were gone.
The first instinct of the residents, those who were still at home enjoying the weekend, was to rush to the watchmen of their buildings. Heads popped out of homes, strange faces looked out of next doors, and questioning eyes asked, “No power?” Relief swept across many faces when realisation dawned that the issue wasn’t theirs alone. It was a collective crisis, and not about short-circuits or delayed payments.
The watchmen were equally at a loss. The “electric rooms” were opened. The metres were at a stand-still and many faces pored into the switchboard unsure where to start. News had reached. There is no power in Bur Dubai. In Deira too. The whole of Dubai? Heard it is all fine in Jebel Ali? No, there too?
Two FMs had screeched to a grinding halt; one caught in the wrong footing just as it trumpeted up its birthday celebration. The telephone land lines were still working but the mobile connections had gone down. Will the water supply be affected? Residents rushed to store water in buckets: Split-second crisis management at work.
And then people discovered their neighbours. What used to inter-flat maid-camaraderie gave way to residents giving face to each other. They exchanged small talk and hoped the power would be restored soon speculating on the many reasons. Quick phone calls were made to the friend’s friend who works in Dewa. No avail.
When Europe sang Carrie in the 80s, the music band brought out the pain of parting in the lines, ‘When lights go down, I see no reason for you to cry…’ In Karama, when the lights went down, the babies had enough reason to bawl.
They were the first affected. Having no clue of what a Gulf summer could be, they broke into elaborate sweats even as their mothers desperately fanned them. Soon they broke into wails fraying the temper of the mothers. Some hadn’t prepared the baby’s food, and now, the blenders won’t work.
Work had screeched to a halt at the cafeterias and laundries. The man, who barely lifted his head up and was perennially bent over his iron-box, had strolled out of the shop and had lit up a cigarette. The kitchen staff at the cafeterias had teamed up and caught up with the latest bits of news. One enterprising lot drew out playing cards and started a game of rummy.
The offices that functioned in the ground floors of the residential apartments wore a deserted look. The gas dealer sat inside his shop fanning himself with a newspaper; the freight forwarder, for a change, looked up to see who crossed his door.
The neighbourhood supermarket wore a dark, deserted look. There were a few kids running in and out much to the anguish of the manager. He is worried about his fresh stock too. The children explored their neighbourhood; a fig tree there, flowers in bloom here, butterflies… There is so much of the world beyond television.
Further down, the mall was still cool from the morning air-conditioners but the poly clinic, the money exchange house, the ATMs, the jewellery retailers, the dressmakers, they had all shut shop. Some caught a quick nap by their shops; others crowded in the corridors or by the streets. Here, traffic lights weren’t functioning but police personnel were already at work regulating the vehicle flow.
The initial and fleeting feeling of rest grows into worry by noon. The laundry man continued to smoke but the cafeteria staff had brought out their knives and utensils and seated outside, they chopped vegetables. Hotels have indeed been affected. Food is going waste; the parcel service works but yet, Thursday noon brings big business – especially a brisk sale of biryanis. The food cannot be stored either.
Weariness and the heat made the babies crankier; they bawled at high pitch. In an otherwise silent neighbourhood, the scolds of mothers could be heard from open doors that were otherwise curtained in darkness.
Seven hours passed by in Karama without power; but seven hours also lit up homes with sunlight. Seven hours without television. Seven hours without Internet. Seven hours without the ubiquitous radio. The seven hours perhaps built, even a wee bit, of greater interpersonal association.
How’s that for a silver lining?
