Escape to Edinburgh by Bhoomika Ghaghada

In the sterile surroundings of a VFS visa application centre in Dubai, an unnamed narrator reflects on her failed marriage, familial and societal expectations, and what freedom means to her. Written by Bhoomika Ghaghada and extracted from Wasafiri 122: The UAE Issue.

You can download this full piece for free during the month of August 2025, or read Wasafiri 122: The UAE Issue in print, available to order now.

I stared at the last name printed on my VFS token. I fought the impulse to tear it to bits. A chime and a flat voice, echoing off white tiles: ‘Token no. 304’. I glanced at my hand: 315. It took twenty minutes for it to change from 303 to 304. There were seven counters, four unmanned. I would be here for a few more hours. Two, at least.

‘Um, excuse me … ’ A whisper. I turned around to see a woman with blonde highlights leaning over. ‘Do you know if they have a washroom in here?’ She spoke with a British accent, two decibel levels lower than her normal voice — as if scared of being kicked out. Wait, why would she need a UK visa?

‘I have no idea,’ I said, ‘sorry.’ She smiled and sat back to whisper something to her partner in Arabic. Oh.

I adjusted the sliding tower of paperwork on my lap. The blonde woman leaned forward again ‘Solo trip?’

It took me a few seconds to register she was speaking to me again. Why?

‘Kind of,’ I said, still in disbelief.

‘Oh — um, cool,’ she said, smiling, but her eyes were brimming with sympathy.

Involuntarily, a chortling laugh came out of me. The woman jumped back in her seat, looking sorry she ever engaged. I shook with laughter for a full ten seconds, my eyes watering.

*

‘Why? Give me one good reason why!’

Eight.

‘It’s not working, Mumma.’

‘What “not working”? It’s not a machine. It doesn’t break! What happened? Is he beating you?’

This was the eighth time I was having this ‘conversation’ with my mother. Like a game of Scrabble, I moved letters around, trying to make it make sense at first, but she looked at me as if I spoke a foreign tongue. So, I resorted to the same few words over and over. She looked crestfallen.

I was driving Mom to Deira City Centre from our home in Jaddaf, all to return a Nutribullet that wasn’t working. She insisted that the prices at Deira City Centre were cheaper than the malls in the south. She wouldn’t budge, even after I showed her tags saying AED 549 at three stores — in the south. I looked over at her in the passenger seat. She was definitely part of the reason I was so wilful.

We waited at the traffic light near Dubai Creek Club. My mother tapped her phone and showed me her wallpaper. I glanced at the photo, keeping an eye on the light that would soon turn yellow. I didn’t have to see it to recognise the picture from my wedding: me in a lehenga the colour of a sunset, and Manish in a beige sherwani.

Mom expected me to react with a pang of guilt, shame. It came and went through me, like two handfuls of confetti floating in a roaring, determined ocean. I hope I make it out. I have to.

I gave my mother a sad smile. Grieving. She was grieving, and I had to let her. I could almost see rows and rows of women behind her – women in my lineage – who had endured unspeakable things to make marriages ‘work’. They were shaking their heads at me, the one who had the audacity to want more than they all settled for.

In the rearview mirror, the guy in the car behind me was poised with his right hand over the steering wheel, ready to honk, but the microsecond the light turned green, I slammed my right foot on the accelerator.

*

Two and a half years ago, I would have been devastated if someone told me I’d be sitting in a VFS office in 2024, planning a trip alone. The chime sounded, calling token number 306 to Counter 3.

Three months. Manish and I were introduced through family and had known each other for three months before the wedding. The first time I met Manish was at a rooftop bar in Downtown Dubai. We had been texting back and forth, and I suggested we meet. I picked the time. He picked the place.

Sheikh Zayed Road stretched out under us, neatly-ordered lights, human forms almost unrecognisable from this height. Manish looked statuesque with broad shoulders and an impeccably groomed beard, gave me a bouquet of sunflowers, and ordered a fancy bottle of wine.

I told him I would continue working after marriage, my non-negotiable. ‘Of course!’ He almost snorted, like it was a ridiculous notion that I would be kept from working in 2021. ‘Even after kids,’ I said. He nodded like it was no big deal.

‘I know you live with your extended family right now … ’ and before I could say anything, he said, ‘I’m looking for an apartment in JVC. Figured it’s best to buy in this market, and move out, before it shoots up again post-COVID.’

I smiled and settled in, my wariness fading. This would work.

*

Token no. 307 to Counter 2. I cried two times filling out the paperwork on my lap, once with grief for the love I’d borne Manish. Once for the signs I had ignored, which became clear as I filled out a twenty-page application, listing every country I’d visited in the last five years — entry and exit dates. All the places I had visited with friends and family before getting married. Then – the honeymoon, and three weddings we had attended together – New York, Sri Lanka, Cordoba.

Read the full piece here, free to access and download for the month of August 2025 only.

Cover photo: Three Women with Flowers by Fernand Leger