Brothers Grocery

I clasp my uncle’s hand (dad’s cousin), swinging it back and forth as we make our way down the staircase. I’m four and I’m skipping with delight, because in a span of around 10-20 minutes, my tiny arms will be struggling to grab hold of all the candies, chips, juice and other obscure goodies from the “Brothers Grocery”, “بقالة الإخوان” (Baqalah-al-Ikhwaan) in Arabic.

As things do get lost in translation, it is quite clear that an apostrophe is missing from the “Brothers Grocery”. It might as well be a name in this case, since one can never tell if it is one brother, two or three or infact an entire clan called “Brothers". No one knows, and we never cared enough to ask.

I grew up in a very middle-class expat household. When I was born, my parents were living in a studio apartment above this particular grocery store, struggling to make ends meet. My father being a low-tier employee and my mother, an English-teacher; things were always done in a calculated manner. My mother tells me that they never really invested in a stroller until my brother came along; because they never really saw the need, and it was quite expensive to own one at that time.

We lived in a tiny, but quiet locality called Kalba (normally means female dog in Arabic, but also refers to a fort in the area, built during the Portuguese reign of the region). An exclave of the Emirate of Sharjah, Kalba in the late 90s was underdeveloped, and almost unheard of among those who frequented the Emirate. To live in Kalba meant, to live on the outskirts of the city itself. There was not much besides the ocean facing our tiny apartment complex, some scattered trees and a green-belt stretching out for almost five kilometers or so.

In many ways, growing up middle-class, cut off from the main city and barely having friends over because of how annoying the distance was; things like these rarely ever bothered a four-year old. My uncle used to frequent our house alot during the week, and always made sure I was entertained in some way or the other. Mohammad Ali was his name, yes, like the boxer. He came from a very poor background himself; lured by the gulf expat dream to keep piling money and sending it back home, to his ailing mother. He had no wife or kids at the time, and loved to spoil the only child, the only family that would let him — me.

We had a routine of sorts, my uncle and I. Every weekend that he came over, after his 7PM chai and a little gup-shup, he would tell me to ready myself and would jingle a few coins in his pocket. The sight of his wallet bulging out from his pocket would be enough for me to run off towards my cupboard and dig out my pink backpack — to fill up with snacks ofcourse!

Hand in hand we would head down the stony steps; often almost-tripping over the last one as it had broken away from the edge. It would be dark and musty, since the landlord never really believed in investing in some sort of lighting in the area; and I would stick close to whichever adult I was going downstairs with, in order to avoid anything lurking around in the dark. Namely, lizards or rats.

Once we’d reach outdoors into the moonlight, the grocery store was just around the corner; a slight turn to the left from the building, and the dazzling blue of the sign board would almost blind anyone walking past it. We never walked past it though, alway into the shop.

It was there that I discovered my love for Kwality Street’s mango icecream cup, Aladdin chips, Pofak, Sohar, Lacnor milk, Areej juice and Kitkat. Any item I would lay my hands on, my uncle would swoop it up and place them upon the counter, until I would have exhausted my search.

The cashier, we never really knew his name, nor did we know if he was one of the pioneers (Brothers); was always quick and meticulous with his cash register, made sure to give us a customary nod and smile at me whenever I showed up. Which was almost every weekend. It was also a tradition for him to hand me a tiny candy or a lollipop free of charge, probably for being such a frivolous and loyal customer. It also helped being tiny and having two pigtails on either side of my head.

We would then make the pilgrimage back to my tiny apartment, one step at a time. Uncle’s pocket devoid of any coins and my backpack brimming with snacks of all sort. Little did I know that I’d be bearing the repercussions for it, for the rest of my teenage years.

But for now, I was four and the world was my oyster. No one could take it away from me. It was all mine, and mine only.