The unsavory reality for many Goans and Indians working in the Gulf. --------------------------------------- Sanjeev was a handsome, stocky, Keralite man who worked as a office-boy in the small-time construction company, where I was employed as a secretary. He had paid a not insignificant amount of money to an agent to secure this job in the Gulf, which promised to be the answer to his financial woes in Kerala. He was a married man with a family, but his pittance of a salary in Dubai did not afford him the privilege of sponsoring his wife and children. He shared bed-space with 100 odd construction workers in the camp set up for this purpose.
I have rarely come across another human being with a more accommodating disposition than Sanjeev. It was rare for a Keralite to speak Hindi with as much confidence as he did and, he had a passion for Hindi songs. He would patiently explain to me that they were from old black and white movie classics. My knowledge of Hindi has always been deficient but we cobbled together conversations and enjoyed the sort of non-competitive camaraderie shared by lower-rung employees. Unfortunately for Sanjeev, the Jordanian half-wit that we worked for had taken a great dislike to him. He lost no opportunity to belittle him or needle him at the slightest pretext. One quiet, otherwise ordinary morning there was a sudden kerfuffle over spilt coffee on the Jordanian’s desk. Perhaps not being able to endure anymore affronts to his self-respect, Sanjeev exchanged some terse words. That was enough for the Jordanian to fire him on the spot. Sanjeev pleaded with all the indignity of a child but to no avail. When all entreaties had been exhausted, with the twin clouds of a six-month ban on re-entry into Dubai and an unpaid loan hovering above his head, he did the only thing he could. He fled. Whereupon he was reported and registered as an absconder with the Ministry of Labour. I was barely into my twenties and fresh out of college. Having grown up in Dubai, I was all too familiar with stories such as these. I was eager to believe that Sanjeev somehow deserved the treatment meted out to him but I couldn’t. I knew a gross violation of the most basic human rights had just occurred. That it was unjust for one’s livelihood to depend on the whims and fancies of another individual. But worst of all, I knew that the Gulf had spawned cowards like me. Cowards who would never voice a protest or stand in solidarity against abuse and injustice. Cowering lemmings who would protect their own self-interests at all costs. I never bumped in Sanjeev again. Rumour had it that he was hiding out with some relatives. A fugitive over spilt coffee. The only way back to Kerala for Sanjeev, without doing jail time, would be as a stow-away onboard a cargo ship. selma
