Mandarin Patisserie

Two years ago, Vivek arrived in Dubai carrying the strongest faith and clearest evidence, buttressed by his having seen encouraging media images of thousands of construction cranes stacking steel girders upon sand, that in Dubai he would quickly earn a fantastic living in any of its alluring realms of finance, technology, media, property or even the arts.
So again tonight, he lathered himself with broken bits of Imperial Leather dreams. He dragged his forearm across his eyes. Even if he could square all of his debts and would be forgiven by everyone whose lives he’d messed up because of what he owed, Vivek knew he would never feel redeemed.
Still, he’d reached the point where he couldn’t hold all their dreadful problems in his head. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to take a step forward; standing still was deadly.
In analyzing his new reptilian coldness, he wouldn’t say that a hard selfishness had come to rule his emotions. It was just that, at this point, he couldn’t let himself collapse into a bundle of vibrating nerves in some corner.
But one painful facet of remorse stayed with him. He would never be able to bear the shame brought on by what he surmised must be that emotion’s origin, the unheeded dictate of an Indian mother. When he told his that he’d be moving to Dubai, she simply said ‘Don’t go.’