Shifting houses is a moving experience.

For someone who is loth to move more than a metre or two in any direction, and who believes a nomadic existence is against all civilised norms, I have moved homes 7 times in my decade and a half in this heathen outpost. From barely 3 months (hurried midnight departure after the building was sealed by the authorities) to a decade in a hotel apartment on one particular street, my tent-pegging in Dubai has covered all types of sand and many miles.

The latest – 8^th – move was on New Year’s Day 2022 (a rainy day with glooming clouds) to the City of Smiles – Sharjah. About 20 miles nor’nor east of Dubai as the falcon flies, and 20 minutes’ drive on a weekend or at the witching hour. The weekday drive can be at least an hour, thanks to a complicated route design that makes several roads spiral and circle the overlap area between the two cities, and then merge onto just two expressways. I believe people carry emergency rations on their daily run. But since I am working from home these earthly considerations do not spoil my appetite nor my sleep.

Moving home is traumatic, to say the least. And I don’t mean only on the emotional front of uprooting self and putting down new roots. I am not one for “new experiences” at the best of times and nostalgia is a huge part of my mental outlook (read my post on nostalgia).

The whole exercise of packing, discarding unwanted mementoes of one’s rather chequered existence (which were wanted just the previous week), transporting the lot to the new shed and unpacking and displaying the assets is a back-breaking, draining activity fraught with angst and desperate pleas to various Gods for redemption. Besides, this entire activity goes against all known laws of physics and nature’s rules on vacuums - how two cupboards are not enough for goods that slumbered peacefully for years inside a drawer is a Buddhist conundrum that cannot be answered with mere coffee.

There is also the very existential revelation that one's life can be packed in a few bags.

But we have benefits. One, a bigger house with a…separate front room and bedroom! This is important for someone who has lived for the majority of his life in a studio apartment. Two, my very own writing desk and chair. Three, sylvan surroundings (though one window looks out onto a building site that resembles a bombed out space in some of the more excitable Arab cities). Four, a less hyperbolic and glitzy environment, which resembles a typical Arab city. And finally discovering my collection of glassware makes the chest puff out. Pride of place of course goes to my Khukri and samurai swords.

And the unexpected joy of discovering restaurants with interesting names.

I am reminded of my parents’ exhortations to move up in life. Looking out from the balcony of this 8th floor apartment, I am happy that I have finally done that.