Oman, what a time

A distant call to prayer echoes as the day's intense heat wanes and the land cools. The sun slowly sets behind Muscat's golden, jagged mountains, painting the wispy sky in amber and crimson hues.

At the officer’s mess, the pool lights flicker on, as a young boy emerges from the tepid water, droplets cascading from his skin like a shower of tiny crystals. The surface of the pool settles into a smooth, glassy calm. He tosses a towel over his shoulder and strides toward the patio door, the rhythmic slapping of his flip-flops echoing with each step.

Palm leaves dance gracefully in the gentle breeze, bringing relief at the close of another sweltering day.

The Indian staff in white shirts, black trousers, and red cummerbunds begin setting up tables for a barbecue. The air buzzes with conversations in Hindi and Tamil as they carry trays of meat and salad.

Nizar and Albert from Kerala stack plates on tables. A rumble fills the sky as they pause to watch an Air India 747 climb out into the heavens.

Silently, they follow the red and silver plane as it heads east across the Arabian Sea. Though they don’t speak, their eyes reveal their longing for home—to hold their wives and say I love you, to play with their children in the warm sea at sunset as fishermen haul in their last catch of the day.