The moment Aarav stepped out of Dubai International Airport, he was hit by a wall of heat, an oppressive embrace even in the early morning. It was a dry, heavy heat, unlike the humid warmth of Mumbai, and it carried the faint scent of desert and ozone. The sheer scale of everything immediately overwhelmed him. Gleaming skyscrapers pierced the sky like colossal needles, their glass facades reflecting the blinding sun. Luxury cars glided silently on immaculate roads, and a cacophony of languages filled the air – Arabic, English, Filipino, Hindi, Urdu. He felt an instant, unsettling disconnect; this was a world away from the dusty, chaotic streets of Lucknow.
His initial plan was simple: find a shared accommodation, register with a few recruitment agencies, and hit the ground running. But the reality was harsher than his research had implied. The shared apartment he'd booked online turned out to be a cramped, windowless room, barely large enough for a single bed and a small table, shared with three other men who worked night shifts. The air conditioning, a necessity in this climate, perpetually hummed at a low, ineffective thrum. Sleep became a luxury, stolen in fitful bursts between the shifting schedules of his roommates.
The job search was even more brutal. He spent his days pounding the pavements, moving from one glass-fronted office building to another, clutching his meticulously prepared CV. He applied for every mechanical engineering position, every technical assistant role, every draughtsman opening, no matter how junior. The answers were always polite, often dismissive: "We're looking for someone with local experience," or "Your qualifications are good, but we have many candidates," or simply, "We'll call you." The silence that followed was deafening.
Days bled into weeks. His meticulously budgeted savings dwindled with alarming speed. Food became a utilitarian necessity rather than a pleasure – cheap falafel wraps, biryani from a hole-in-the-wall eatery, always counting every dirham. The calls from the loan sharks back home intensified, their tone growing sharper, their demands more urgent. His parents, still hopeful, would ask if he'd found anything. He'd force a cheerful tone, describing interviews that were "promising," knowing full well that each one had led nowhere. The shame was a bitter taste in his mouth.
One sweltering afternoon, after yet another fruitless interview, Aarav sat on a public bench in a small park, watching the perfectly manicured lawns and fountains. His shirt was clinging to his back, his shoes scuffed, his spirit heavy. He pulled out his phone, the screen cracked from an earlier fall, and stared at his bank balance. It was critically low. Enough for perhaps two more weeks of this existence, if he stretched every dirham. Beyond that, nothing. Despair, cold and sharp, pierced through him. He had failed. He had taken his family's last hope, their last bit of collateral, and squandered it in this indifferent, glittering city. The towering skyline mocked his insignificance. He closed his eyes, wishing for a miracle, anything to break the suffocating cycle of struggle and debt.