can be likened to a psychological retreat into one’s ‘comfort land’ of nostalgia. The interpretation of what comfort stands for, one rising from the warm depths of happy nostalgia, is of course different for each person.

It could mean a former home, a particular bend of a tree lined lane, monsoons — well not the rare, grudging showers in the UAE but real, soul-drenching downpours — which imbibe the freshly rained mud with a fragrance so powerful that it permeates and resides in the deepest recesses of one’s memory, only to waft secretively in and out of one’s consciousness at some accidental reminder; a perfume shop selling a delicious concoction of honey suckle and jasmine-taking one back to the rambling gardens besides the mighty Indus, chastened by the dam; the barbeque smell of  spicily marinated chicken wafting on the breeze; dusty leather-bound books in wood-panelled studies; lofty libraries with  wrought iron staircases, coffee, cashews and raisins reminding one of the huge sacks of dried fruit being sold under carelessly set canopies by sleepy shopkeepers who have the decency to offer ‘thanda’ — chilled bottles of soft drinks.  That comfort zone is a moment’s throw away, you are inevitably pulled into it on stepping out into the onset 
of winters.

Here in Dubai, even here where there is a perennial summer, we at least enjoy four months of good weather.

The cool breeze while sipping a frothy coffee is but a painful little tug at the heart.  Yet it brings a strange comfort.  While the absurdity of wanting to buy woollens, cozy cardigans and smarter coats and knee-high boots every year while enjoying them only occasionally, leaves one lecturing to one’s shopaholic self to not give in to temptation, one invariably does for the reasons only known to the subconscious. 

It is the need to want to be somewhere else, preferably one’s home country where one has four seasons or even three.  As much as I enjoy the change in weather that has the whole of Dubai’s population radiating happiness and excitement despite the (thankfully retreating) recession, I dread the tug that invariably follows. 

Part and parcel of being an expatriate hones your survival instincts to make you a tougher cookie or cake, whatever you like to call it. A major part of that training is to strengthen your emotional equilibrium to withstand the addictive pull of nostalgia’s siren song. While it provides comfort it also detracts. Dubai and UAE are at least closer to home for expats from south-west Asia. Closer still to expats from the Gulf and the Middle East. Just a two to three hour plane ride away. Yet, the lure of home, glorified, when one lives abroad, never fades. 

Still, witnessing the annual return of this happy feeling while walking to the neighbourhood grocery in the now friendly sun or strolling aimlessly down the walk, one can be thankful for the good things in life. It strikes you while listening to Sarah Brightman swaying the dancing fountains to her 
powerful vocals.

The expectancy leaves you breathless. And oddly comforted. While nostalgia may torment in its sweetness it is buffered by the home like warmth felt here, and found in very few places in the world. Pushing the longings for cold, cold winters where many glorious evenings consist of doing nothing more than cracking nuts and sipping scalding green tea by the fireplace with real logs, firmly back in my heart, I embrace the coming of winter in the emirates. At the same time giving gently in to nostalgia, that always comes with a prayer for one’s home and country.

Faryal Leghari is KT’s Assistant 
Editor and can be reached at 
faryal@khaleejtimes.com