Morning arrived gently.
Not with noise or urgency—just light slipping through the curtains and the distant, muted rhythm of a city already awake.
Al Fahidi revealed itself without display.
Low-rise structures. Sand-coloured walls. Wind towers. Narrow lanes that carried history instead of ambition.
Her brother slowed his steps, looking around with visible confusion.
"This doesn't look like the Dubai we saw last night," he said.
They had a guide with them that morning—middle-aged, composed, familiar with the place. Bani had already instructed him to explain everything simply and clearly.
As they walked, the guide spoke.
"This area was once the centre of trade. Merchants came from India, Iran, Africa. There was no oil then—only business."
They moved through the lanes as he continued, explaining that oil was only part of Dubai's story, and that real wealth had come much earlier, through trade.
Her brother asked, "Then how did people actually grow here?"
The guide answered easily.
"With capital. Even small capital at first. Trading goods. Transport. Storage. Later—real estate, services, logistics."
His gaze briefly shifted toward Bani's father.
"Here, money grows when money already exists. Labour helps you live. Capital helps you rise."
Her father said nothing.
He listened.
Attentive.
The guide added that even today many businesses worked on thin margins but high volume, and that without capital one remained an employee.
Her brother followed up, "So can anyone start here?"
"Yes," the guide replied. "But only with preparation. Registration, rent, compliance. Everything is clear—but nothing is free."
They paused near the Creek.
"To grow here, one must already be strong," the guide said.
He explained that strength came from capital, planning, and patience.
Her father spoke softly, almost to himself.
"This place doesn't reward desperation. It rewards readiness."
Before they left, the guide summarized calmly.
"Dubai is fair. But fairness here means rules. With capital and discipline, growth is fast. Without it, life is comfortable—but limited."
Lunch Near the Creek
The restaurant was tucked into a narrow lane close to the water.
Nothing fancy.
A few outdoor tables. Plastic chairs. A faded menu board.
But it was busy.
Families. Workers. Tourists stopping out of curiosity.
They chose a table facing the street.
The waiter handed over the menu—simple, laminated, clearly well-used.
Bani read it aloud in Kannada, translating the names so everyone understood.
They ordered:
Chicken mandi
Chicken shawarma plates
Falafel with hummus
Fresh khubz
Mint lemonade
The food was familiar.
The prices weren't.
When the bill arrived, her brother leaned closer. He pulled out his phone and began converting the amount into rupees.
He whispered the figure to Bani.
She smiled slightly.
He compared it aloud to what similar food would cost near a Bengaluru street corner.
"Here, one plate is like three meals there," he said.
Bani replied calmly in Kannada, explaining that this was a tourist area, so higher prices were expected. She added that the same food, cooked at home or eaten where locals lived, would be far more affordable.
Her brother nodded, still calculating.
Their mother tasted the food thoughtfully.
"It's good," she said, "but not special enough for this price."
Bani agreed quietly.
Across the table, her father hadn't touched his phone.
He wasn't calculating exchange rates.
He was watching.
Who came in.
How fast tables turned.
How quickly plates were cleared.
How many orders moved without pause.
The food arrived quickly.
The bill was settled faster.
No lingering.
No wasted movement.
Her father noted the pace.
Not rushed.
Not slow.
Efficient.
As they stood to leave, he looked once more at the street—people eating, paying, leaving.
A small place.
Steady flow.
Predictable margins.
He said nothing.
But his silence said enough.
They stepped back into the afternoon sun, the smell of spices fading behind them.
Lunch was done.
After finishing the Dubai Creek tour, we decided to head toward the Marina. Manu was visibly excited—it was the place he had wanted to begin our journey with. When I had told him earlier that we would be visiting the Creek first, he had been a little disappointed. Remembering that, I chose to take him to the Marina the very same day, since it was already on our tour list.
By the time we reached back, it was already 2 p.m. The afternoon heat and the long morning had caught up with us, so we decided to rest for a while and take a short nap before continuing our adventure.
Bani had been wanting to talk to her father about moving to Dubai. Now that they were actually here, the thought felt heavier and more real than ever. She knew she couldn't make such a decision alone, and more than anything, she didn't want to move forward while leaving her family behind.
So she decided to speak to everyone together—to share her thoughts, her hopes, and her fears—because whatever choice she made, she wanted it to be one they faced as a family.
The weight of the city pressed softly against Bani's thoughts.
Being in Dubai made everything feel closer—too close. The glass towers, the unfamiliar rhythm of life, the quiet realization that this place could become more than just a stop on their journey. Yet that very thought made her hesitate.
She was only eighteen.
Yes, she was already part of a Hollywood film. Yes, her life had taken turns no one could have predicted. But none of that erased the fact that she was still her father's daughter—someone he had raised with care, caution, and unwavering concern for her safety.
That was what frightened her most.
She knew how this might sound to him. He might think she was speaking out of excitement, swept away by success, dazzled by opportunities too big and too fast. He might worry that she was losing her grounding, that fame was pulling her away from the values he had taught her.
As a father, his first thought would never be ambition—it would be safety.
Dubai was unknown. Foreign. A place where he would wonder how his family would survive, how they would belong, how he could protect them in a land that wasn't home. She could already imagine the questions forming silently in his mind.
And yet, she couldn't stay quiet.
Because this wasn't a reckless dream. It wasn't an escape. It was a possibility—one she believed they could face together.
Bani didn't want to move ahead alone. She didn't want success that came at the cost of distance from her family. If this step was to be taken, it had to be taken as we, not I.
She had to make him believe—not that she was fearless, but that she was thoughtful. Not that she knew everything, but that she trusted them. That whatever this unknown place demanded, they could learn, adapt, and grow—together.
Taking a slow breath, Bani prepared herself.
This conversation wasn't about convincing him she was ready.
It was about showing him that she wasn't walking away from her family—she was asking them to walk beside her.