A journey

My journey from Muscat to a small village near Zabara seems as if life is lethargically posing only for me. Cluster of men in ivory dishdashas cluttered around a kehwa shop, confluence of young women floating in raven drapes, kandouras, with veiled faces and painted eyes, crimson liquid squirting from a shoddy butcher shop, a tattered van turned into a shavarma stall.
Ali’s house is tucked in a corner, away from the much colonized area. Our feast is laid on a fluorescent rubber mat spread on the carpeted floor. The dining room, lined with carpets on ceiling and walls cocoon the seducing redolent of meat and spices. Women, in kitchen, with their black robes move like frisky puppets while I sit cross legged with other men circumscribing the voluminous coloured glass bowls containing the laborious meal. My nervousness is making every element seem alien.
I part a small part of my khubz, traditional Omani bread, and reluctantly pick a small portion of roasted chicken and dash it in my mouth as all glares dart on me. Smiles break on every lip as I fail my attempt to say “jaiyedah”, ‘good’ in Arabic. While I bumble with my portion, dexterous hands tear and dip and plunge and pick food to form a perfect morsel before depositing it into their mouths. Luscious chicken, piquant salad, Maqbous, a rice dish cooked with red meat, mutton chunks that still retained some parts of animal form in watery gravy, all savoury sensations shared together from common bowls. Colourful prattles extending beyond the meal concluded with Ali translating his father,”Eating together brings unity.”
On the way back, I am marvelled by incessant Arabian Sea and endless Arabian Desert on either side. Towards duskiness, buildings illuminate into vibrant colours, shops and malls dazzle in the city of Muscat. Scrawny kittens with their heads stuffed into a battered can of food splatter my mind with silhouettes of men around coloured glass bowls and I smile.