028 Melancholy, Hard to Bear and Hard to Utter

Ever since the decision to head to the desert was made, Singh and I began our preparations alongside two senior students, and our studies grew increasingly demanding.

Musa never contacted me privately again. After I decisively arranged our group presentation tasks that day, Ayoub handed me all the gathered materials the very next morning. They were detailed and meticulously organized, with every key point clearly laid out, which truly saved me a great deal of effort in my subsequent work.

With the presentation finished, our group discussions came to an end. As for Musa, he seemed to be deliberately avoiding me; he stopped attending classes entirely.

Perhaps he had become busy again. Was he occupied with the same matters as before?

Yet, I never received another text from him. Sometimes, when my phone rang, I would harbor a faint, hidden expectation that the message was from Musa, only to be met with disappointment every time.

He had severed the budding seeds of our connection far more resolutely than I could. Those subtle, intangible moments of intimacy had vanished into thin air like a dream, even before they had a chance to begin.

To keep myself from overthinking, I threw myself entirely into preparing for the first fieldwork of my master’s program. In the process, I began to interact more with Singh.

Due to various news reports back home, I had always harbored prejudices against Indians, but through our interactions, I found that Indian people were not nearly as repulsive or terrifying as I had imagined. On the contrary, I found Singh to be steady, kind, and friendly, though occasionally, in moments of quiet stillness, a profound, bone-deep melancholy would surface in his eyes.

Perhaps Singh, too, was a man with a story of his own.

Singh was a Sikh—he wore a turban, a steel bangle, and shorts—though the style and color of his turban differed from those of the Muslims. His father had worked on construction sites in Dubai, and given the strong family values inherent in Indian culture, the entire family soon relocated to the city.

Dubai was the only emirate that housed Hindu and Sikh temples, and it rarely interfered with the religious activities of non-Muslims. For those Indians with deep religious faith, it was indeed an excellent place to work and earn a living.

"I came to Dubai during middle school; I've been here for eight years now," Singh said.

I knew very little about Sikhism, recalling only vague news reports, so I asked him, "I’ve heard there are often conflicts between Muslims and Sikhs, that people from the two faiths treat each other like enemies when they meet. You've been in Dubai for so long—have you encountered that?"

Singh pondered for a few seconds and shook his head. "No, we basically live in harmony. There aren't that many conflicts." Suddenly, as if remembering something, his expression grew melancholy. He fell silent for a moment, then sighed, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I even... fell in love with a Muslim girl once."

My chest tightened, as if something were stifling me. It took a while to catch my breath, and I forced myself to act nonchalant as I asked, "And then?"

The air seemed to congeal, and the surrounding mood was dusted with a thin layer of frost. My hands continued to work, but I held my breath, waiting in a state of silent, restless anticipation for Singh's answer.

It was as if I were waiting for my own unknown fate.

The wait was long and agonizing, my heart hanging in my throat, threatening to leap out at any moment. It felt like an eternity before I heard Singh’s soft reply: "Nothing happened."

He was unwilling to say more, but I could clearly see from his irrepressible expression that it was a sad story.

As if feeling his pain, a strange, inexplicable ache welled up in my own heart, though I could not say why.

Just as I was lost in this melancholy, the two seniors pushed open the door. One of them was grumbling, "The professor insists on someone who speaks Arabic, saying he's afraid we'll get lost in the desert if there's a language barrier. What are we supposed to do? Ayoub isn't going, and who wants to go to the desert to translate for us? Ramadan only ends tonight, and we’re leaving in a few days. The Muslims haven't even recovered their strength yet; they won't have the energy to go to such a dry, remote place. And the pay the professor is offering for a translator is so low—where are we supposed to find someone?"