Here’s
A Morning with Elvis at Dubai Mall
At 9:30 a.m., in a washroom at Dubai Mall, Elvis Presley smiled at me.
Yes — that Elvis.
I realise how that sounds, which is why I hesitated to write it.
I have been an Elvis fan all my life — not casually. I have read the biographies, listened to the recordings, argued about Vegas versus the Comeback Special. In Allahabad, I played rhythm guitar and sang Jailhouse Rock and Hound Dog. We played at all the big dances and clubs, and for those few minutes on stage we believed — completely — that rock ’n’ roll had arrived.
I had just stepped out of a stall, humming Can’t Help Falling in Love. The hand dryer roared behind me, warm air carrying the faint scent of citrus soap.
He stood beside me at the sink.
Tall. Slightly stooped. Balding at the back. Jeans. A blazer with quiet authority.
Another man waited near the entrance, watchful in a way that suggested he was not there for the soap.
The gentleman next to me washed his hands slowly, removed his mask, and looked up.
Time stretched.
The cheekbones. The curl of the lip. That half-smile that once travelled across continents faster than radio waves. Age had softened the frame, but the expression was unmistakable.
He splashed water on his face, met my eyes in the mirror, and smiled. Not broadly. Just a small, knowing smile that seemed to say: Yes, I know the song.
No one else noticed. The world carried on with complete indifference to history at the sink.
In that instant the past returned — the cracked microphone, the nervous energy of youth, the first chord ringing out to a room full of strangers who suddenly mattered. I thought of an elderly Elvis devotee I know in Pune whose room is a shrine of vinyl. I thought of how music travels — Memphis to Allahabad to Dubai — ignoring geography, obeying only memory.
He adjusted his blazer, nodded, put his mask back on, and walked out, the watchful companion falling into step beside him. My hands were still damp; I realised I had been holding my breath.
Outside, the morning bustle of Dubai Mall resumed — shoppers, coffee cups, children negotiating for ice cream. I followed at a respectful distance, purely in the interests of historical verification.
He entered the Gucci store.
A few minutes later he emerged with a sleek bag, as one does when one is the King.
Then a black limousine appeared at the curb with cinematic timing. He slid into the back seat, the door closed, and the car moved off with the smooth inevitability of legend.
At that exact moment I remembered — it was Elvis’s birthday.
Of course it was.
Just like that, he vanished into Dubai traffic, leaving me grinning like a teenager who had just played his first successful gig.
Will anyone believe this? Almost certainly not. But some encounters are not about proof; they are about recognition — a shared note across time.
And yes — Gucci bag, black limousine, birthday and all — it was Elvis.
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