A journey

The sand beneath my feet was receding rapidly into azure Arabian Sea, like standing at the rim of a tilted barrel with barley grains falling over. Had I surrendered myself to seducing waves, a nearby flock of seagulls would have been the only witness of this amalgamation on a virgin beach of Oman, an Arab coastal country in South-west Asia.
The journey from capital city Muscat towards the Wahiba Sands seemed like a fairy land passing through the bioscope. As we penetrated the interiors of Oman, these comparisons became more compelling. The clouds of dust after the ferocious storm settled instantly and displayed the bright houses like a magician unveiling a marvelous trick. Ali’s house, like others, had high compound walls on all four sides with a small, intricately carved and decorated door for passage. The moment I set my foot inside the house, I could not help but notice that the walls were 15 centimeters more than my feet, i.e. about 37 to 40 centimeters.
Ali worked in the immigration department of Oman and had invited me for lunch. Ali, like most of the Omanis follows Ibadhism, a form of Islam dominant in this country. Of all the Islamic states I have visited, Oman constitutes the most moderate and squishier psyche towards religion. Most women do not cover their faces. The dressing of both the genders can be almost compared to inside of a prism, with men in their snowy coloured dishdasha (gowns) and khanjar (dagger) and fairer sex in all beautiful bright colours. I had a rare experience to attend an all women’s gathering, where these comely women transformed into stunning divas, dressed in best couture gowns embellished with studs and stones.
Food is not just an essential requirement of living, but an act of sharing and brotherhood. The bread (khubs) , rice and other dishes were laid on the carpet. The entire family dined using these common plates. Ali’s wife, draped in her silken abayas, in most fragile elegance told me about mutton curry. It is customary for the guest to eat the brain of the goat, as a sigh of approving the offered food. The dust storms were circling like an aggressive army, but inside this abode, I was deeply touched by the streak of divinity in hospitality for their guests.
I reached Al Areesh camp late in the evening. The desert looked like a still of the Arabian Sea. In the feeble moonlight, a seated camel seemed like an erupted island. The calmness of this serenity was broken by a visual disruption of fire turning ferocious in vicinity. I held my can of mountain dew and walked towards the bon fire to plunge into another sea of experience.
If Oman were a youthful beau, she would be in elegant white, inviting its guests to eternal spiritual sand or captivating horizons of the sea. I would just open my umbrella there and enjoy the hospitality.