Disco in Deira: A shared love of Nazia Hassan
Editor’s Note: While exploring the women’s museum Bait Al Banat in Dubai’s Gold Souk, author Sonia Rafeek learned that the building was once home to three unmarried women—whom Emiratis affectionately refer to as "girls." That discovery led to the story of three Malayali women in Dubai. In this excerpt, set in a hospital in Deira, a delightful exchange unfolds about the pop icon Nazia Hassan. Excerpted with permission from ‘The House of Girls’ by Sonia Rafeek and translated by Ministhy S from Rupa Publications.
Solomon had entered my life neither like a storm nor the sea, nor as fire or rain. It was comparable to a derailed train. For six months, I had moved around with him, my feet above the ground. Familiar places had turned exotic and the voices I had been familiar with, had become distant. Hitherto unknown elements opened before my eyes like a treasure chest from the deep sea. My life can easily be divided into two parts: before Solomon and after Solomon. It was on a busy evening, like the day when the novel came by courier, that Solomon entered the hospital. I have become habituated to replaying the first encounter in my mind. However, for the week before Bait Al Banat arrived, I hadn’t thought of it. A natural biological process, which dumps people into memory’s recycle bin, must have happened inside me too. But after the courier’s arrival, my mind started replaying that first day.
I saw Solomon when he was being shifted to orthopaedics in a wheelchair, his fractured leg in need of plastering. When Sister Lizzy wheeled him out of the lift, she stopped near me and asked me to prepare his file. A bear-like man, with long, curly hair, beard and thick eyebrows! The never-vanishing smile playing on his lips didn’t seem to suit him at all. Especially one who was supposed to be writhing in the throes of a fracture! When I finished the file and wished them, he read aloud my name pinned to the Uniform.
‘Nazia Hassan! Where are you from?’
‘Kerala, Sir!’
‘Ah, you don’t look like a Malayali,’ he grinned.
‘What should I do to look like one?’
‘Oh, don’t bother!’
I was incensed. I have seen many folks in Dubai who think it is a compliment to say, ‘You don’t look like a Mallu.’
‘This girl loves tapioca, fish, rice and sambar, Sir! True-blooded Malabari!’ Sister Lizzy joined in the fun.
‘I adore snake’s flesh, Sister! Do I look like a Mallu?’ Casting a surreptitious glance at me, the man teased Sister Lizzy.
I wondered whether he was really the ‘emergency’ patient!
After some time, the doctor called for the patient. He was bruised all over and the nurse was supposed to administer medication to him in the examination room. I stepped out of the reception area and went in search of Sister Lizzy in the orthopaedics department.
As I moved through the corridor, someone hailed me.
‘Nazia Hassan!’
It was the same man. He was in the examination room where they were preparing to apply a cast on his leg.
‘Where is Sister Lizzy who accompanied you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think she likes those who eats snakes. Escaped with her life, I should say!’
As I turned back, pretending that I have not heard it, he hummed a tune, ‘Aap jaise koi meri zindagi me aaye… Do you know who sang this?’
I was stunned.
‘Nazia Hassan, the Pakistani pop singer. Have you heard it, Madam? The song to which Zeenat Aman swayed so alluringly in the movie Qurbani?’
Though I managed a ‘yes’, the sound was subdued.
‘Wow, what a lovely girl…amazing grace! Well, whoever it was that named you, chose it perfectly. It suits you.’
I suddenly felt an urge to clutch Rukhiyami’s hand.
As I was about to move out of the room, another nurse arrived with Dr Peace Amin. The man laughed, ‘I told you that Sister Lizzy would not come anywhere near me again, didn’t I?’ ‘Her duty got over. Let me take a look at your bruises…’ The nurse started examining him carefully.
‘Doctor, your receptionist has the name of a famous music artist!’ It was for the first time that Dr Peace Amin was hearing about Nazia Hassan. Solomon started showing him YouTube videos. The nurse started grumbling that nobody but Dr Peace Amin would indulge any patient to such an extent.
‘How innocent she looks! More than her music, her personality appeals to me…’
Observing that Dr Peace Amin was still discussing Nazia Hassan with the man, I walked back to the reception. I read his name from the patient file once again: Solomon Cyriac. Visiting visa, age 44. The address was of a flat in Deira.
After an hour, the nurse and the patient emerged from the lift. There was somebody else with them. Perhaps a friend. When Solomon pointed at me and said something to him, the friend pushed the wheelchair towards me.
‘What can I do for you, Sir?’
Then, Solomon formally introduced me to his friend.
‘This is the girl I spoke to you about, Nazia Hassan.’
Mahesh, his friend, shook hands with me and struck up a conversation.
‘We went to see the waterfall in the Wadi Al Shees near the Oman border. He slipped from the rocks. This guy came here on a visiting visa for a movie discussion. You know, back in Kerala we have the sea, and the lagoon. Why, even the gutter is full of water! But this man insisted on seeing that thread-like waterfall. Maybe he had never glimpsed Athirappally Falls back home? Since he is a writer, I thought his creative energy must have demanded such a tryst. I took him there and he fell flat on his face.’
I ignored Solomon looking on my face smilingly as Mahesh gabbled on. I felt something very familiar in that smile, as if I had known it for years. Whenever I am embarrassed or discomfited, I tend to pinch my nose and rub my neck. Suffice it to say that I unwittingly enacted such odd gestures until I finished their billing formalities.
As they departed, Solomon hummed the Nazia Hassan song yet again. Then he raised his hand, grinning at me. But my own hand rose in response only after he disappeared from sight. That night, until Samad returned from his shop, I listened to each of Nazia Hassan’s songs. I also called Rukhiyami.
‘I met someone in the hospital today who asked about the person who named me…’
‘What is the name of the interrogator?’
‘Solomon Cyriac…a writer apparently…writes for movies too.’
‘I know that name! Hmm… I have seen his photo in the newspapers once.’
‘Oh, really? Is he that famous?’
I started searching for his interviews on the internet.
‘I am not familiar with modern-day writers. But I am acquainted with his name, though I haven’t read anything he has written. What happened afterwards? What did he say?’
‘That Nazia Hassan is very graceful.’
‘That’s not a compliment meant for the Pakistani girl, but for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Of course! Wait and watch…he will come again!’
