I was not sure whether I was at the right place or not when I turned a corner and stepped into a place completely isolated from the rest of the neighbourhood. There were 16 beds, a long table, 22 chairs, 11 chest of drawers and a clock. I know all that because I counted each item. On a closer scrutiny, I realised I was not on the street but the courtyard of a labour camp. They looked at me curiously but they realised I missed several steps and entered their home accidentally. When I raised my hand apologetically, they dismissed the gesture and insisted, with smiles on their faces, for me to join them for their afternoon tea.
I hesitated and took a step back. But one of them touched my elbow and gestured to a plastic chair in the middle of the courtyard. Then I realised it would have been very rude to decline their kind offer.
Perhaps it was their way of forgiving me for trespassing their home if I would sit and enjoy a cup of tea. I was joined by 12 of them on chairs arranged in a circle. One of them brought me a steaming but very aromatic hot tea.
While I was sipping the tea, I thought I was going be subjected in awkward moments where all of us would be lost for words. But I was wrong. In broken Arabic, one of them introduced me to all of them by their names. I did the same. Then I was offered sweets and they explained it was made right there in that small labour camp.
Between rounds of sweets and more tea, one of them got up and came back with a drawing pad.
He was an artist and his landscape drawings were quite admirable. Then I did something that I should not. I offered to buy one of them. The man asked politely if he could have back his drawing pad, then he then clasped his hands together and said, “No but thank you.”
I must have gone red on the face for it was an embarrassing moment for me. The man who was sitting on my right understood it. Quickly he offered me another cup of the delicious tea, which I accepted gratefully.
The artist conveyed a simple message to me. He did not let me see his drawings because he needed the money but he just simply wanted me to feel comfortable in their humble home. Any part of their generosity was not for sale.
To hide my embarrassment, I looked around me. My gaze stopped to the old clock standing on the wall. Its frame was made of solid teak wood. Something else caught my attention. I got up and went to take a look. Next to the face of the cloak was an old trademark. It was made by a Mumbai clockmaker whose name has faded away in the passage of time but the year the clock was manufactured was still there. It was 1720. The clock was 300 years old and it was still ticking. It would sell for something significant in any museum in the world or collector.
I did not ask where they got it and who it belonged to. It would not have been proper. I was just a guest there. When it was time for me to leave, they all got up and walked me out of the place. That evening, I could not help thinking how much that old clock would fetch in a private market. I did some research on the Internet of old clocks.
Whoever owned it in that rundown labour camp would not have to work as a construction worker ever again. My strange intrusion into their place revealed not only richness in culture of the dwellers, but the monetary value they have right there in their courtyard.
Saleh Al Shaibany
saleh_shaibany@yahoo.com
Oman Observer is now on the WhatsApp channel. Click here
