RETROGRADE

1

Dubai in the 1990s consisted of a hot-melting sun, street vendors yelling along bustling roads, and a whole parade of people gathered near the Al Sajdah Cinema complex.

Women in deep-colored burkas, men sporting pure white robes, school children straddling backpacks still in their dark blue uniforms. The congested traffic mingled with heaps of desert sand, yet the passersby never seemed to mind it. The children would linger by ice cream stands, conformed by the tight school clothing, but their beautiful golden skins would glisten with fresh perspiration and glee.

For Heroin Chou Gochhayat, this time of the day meant her blue tight and itchy School Uniform had long been forgone. Unlike her peers, who'd loiter about the high school campus grounds, the boys horseplaying, and the girls licking on orange ice-candy sticks, Heroin saw no reason to linger back.

The minute the bells had rung, signaling release from that insect-infested building, Heroin stepped out of the woman's washroom plaiting a leather Jacket on her back and replacing the scratchy knee-high white stockings with faded bell-bottom jeans.

The girl's beige bike motored off into the road before anyone could blink twice, but she knew what they were all whispering. Their stares dug daggers into her back.

"I heard she's part of the WR".

"Probably that's where she's headed off right now".

She felt for the braces on her rusty scooter handles, the insides of her palm growing damp while a street cop's whistle howled at oncoming vehicles bustling along the intersection. Heroin halted her scooter at the crossroads, buzzing alongside other motorized vehicles.

The cop lifted his hand, signaling for a stop as walkers climbed across the street.

A procession of women in dark burkas that were modest enough to cover their figures, but modern enough to reveal beautiful olive faces passed by. The flow of opal robes was speckled with splashes of flowery colors, belonging to those who didn't adorn the common middle-eastern wear.

Heroin glanced down at the rearview mirror of her scooter. Part of it was cracked, but she was able to see enough of her rounded face, the crescents of her eyes peeking from the brown cooling shades resting on the bridge of her nose. Sometimes, at instances like this, when she let her lips curl down into a frown, Heroin could see the staunch resemblance to her Japanese mother everyone talked about. The girl pursed her lips, shaking her head and letting the helmet shade her forehead.

The Dubai sun gleamed over Heroin's tanned skin, an addition gained from her Indian father. The heat burned through the long sleeves of her black leather jacket as she scanned amongst the buzz of rickshaws, buses, and cars for an opening.

She adjusted her helmet straps as the cop's whistle fell into his parched mouth, a single blare meeting her ears with a ring. Her grip on the scooter handle slacked in disappointment when the sound wasn't from the cop's whistle. It was instead, an indication that another vehicle had motored beside her.

Heroin nonchalantly glanced to her corner, meeting the disapproving stare of a rickshaw driver. Disheveled hair fell over his bloodshot eyes, and he sucked on a cigarette stick, blowing out smoke into the girl's face. She wrinkled her nose, swiftly turning her focus ahead and subconsciously adjusted the rounded lens of her brown cooling shades.

"Oy Stoopa!", the rickshaw driver boisterously called out to his counterpart who'd rolled up beside him in a similar bright yellow vehicle.

Heroin squirmed in her seat impatiently, shifting the weight on her feet as she awaited the street cop's signal. A hacking sound made the girl's lips curl down in disgust, a wet glob of sickening green tobacco-spit landing near her feet.