Gulf Returnees Satire – A Mangii Story of Swagger and Sweat

Gulf Returnees Satire – A Mangii Story of Swagger and Sweat

The Gulf returnees satire we didn’t know we needed.

This is a Gulf returnees satire for the ages — where swagger arrived in duty-free packaging, but the real charisma stayed back home. If you grew up along the coast, you know these Mangii stories — the ones where Gulf kids boomeranged back with misplaced superiority, Rexona clouds, and English that missed a few apostrophes. Here’s one of those Mangii stories.

The Return of the Gulfie: Sweat, Swagger & a Smell of Rexona

Okay, there was something about these Dubai/Gulf returns – the ones who boomeranged back to the coast mid-school or halfway through college. Even if they were slumming it out there, with no real academic laurels to parade, they swaggered in like heirs to some Sheikhdom. At least back then, the Gulf still had oil. Black gold. Not just black sweat.

Most of them came from these “Our Own Indian School” types – names that sounded like cut-price franchises of an international curriculum. Definitely not the Doos or the Welhams. But oh, the airs they carried. A peculiar perfume of superiority only they could smell. Everyone else just got whiffs of Rexona and duty-free deodorant.

Donation Seats and Desert Delusions

So naturally, the poor Gulfies landed up in convents or priest-run institutions – paying heavy donations just to land a seat, while still typing “your’” instead of “you’re” in their bios. All with a snigger, as if grammar were beneath Gulf royalty.

But hey, don’t test Mangiis. We wear facades higher than the tides of the ten Arabian oceans put together. There was something about them though. This one boy especially. Might’ve been a senior back then. We ended up doing our Master’s together. Different batches.

Winter Batches, Coastal Burns

If memory serves me right – and it usually does when it comes to the ridiculous – he was from the “Winter batch.”
As if seasons mattered in Mangalore, where winter means you merely sweat less.

At least we Mangaloreans don’t act like Bangaloreans – shedding our monkey caps and dignity at the first sign of drizzle. We wear our humidity like legacy. And when pushed, we just said it straight –
“Kannada gothilla.” Not out of pride. Just practiced disinterest.

The Real Coastal Swag Was Never Imported

Anyway, this “Son” of a gun – and I say that with deliberate emphasis – had a reputation.
The kind of guy who corrected your pronunciation of “schedule” mid-conversation but still couldn’t figure out basic apostrophes. The kind who walked into a room like he invented the Gulf.

But let’s get one thing straight. The real swag didn’t arrive in the underbelly of an Air Arabia flight with torn Samsonite and dried squid. It didn’t need gold chains or new sneakers from Sharjah. It was brewed right here – on the coast. Among coconut trees that knew your entire family tree. Among aunties who could sniff out your sins before you committed them.

Mangii Fluency: Tulu, English, Gossip

We fought in Tulu, drank in English, gossiped in Konkani and a mix of everything all in one breath. Fluent in chaos. Multilingual in madness.
Our uncles wore lungis with a kind of elegance you’ll never find on Zara racks. And don’t even get me started on the neighbours – part-time choir singers, full-time border patrol for every girl who dared to have a male friend.

Gulf Returnees or Reheated Appetisers?

So yeah, the Gulfies arrived thinking they were exotic.
But we were already the main course.
They were just the reheated appetisers.

A Cliffhanger? Or Just Laziness.

Now you must be wondering, why this man has no relevance to the rest of the story.
It’s not a Barney Stinson moment – wait for it!
I just felt lazy. And found it all too long to explain for now.

Like I’m Lady Whistledown. But coastal.
He’ll show up again.
Maybe in someone’s wedding album.
Or in a coastal scandal near you.
Or the possible Mangii Gossip Diaries.