He Had ₹847, No Job & Broken English—Now He Earns 28,000 AED in Dubai!

A real story of dreams, struggles, and the small victories that changed everything

The Call That Changed Everything

“Arjun, I think I found something for you.” My uncle Ramesh kaka’s voice came through the scratchy WhatsApp call. I was sitting in a Kolkata internet café in 2017, fresh out of college with a commerce degree and exactly 847 rupees in my wallet. The AC wasn’t working, sweat was dripping onto my keyboard, and I had just been rejected from my seventh job interview that month.

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“There’s an opening at my company in Dubai. Junior accounts assistant. They’re looking for fresh graduates. The salary is around 7,000 dirhams to start.”

My heart stopped. Dubai felt as distant as Mars. But when you’re 23, unemployed, and watching your parents count coins for grocery money, even Mars starts looking like a possibility worth exploring.

That evening, I sat my parents down. Ma was folding clothes, and Baba was reading the newspaper with his reading glasses perched on his nose—the same glasses he’d been using for five years because new ones cost too much.

“Ma, Baba… I got a job offer. In Dubai.”

The newspaper rustled as Baba looked up. Ma’s hands stopped mid-fold.

“Dubai?” Ma’s voice was barely a whisper. “But beta, that’s so far…”

I saw the conflict in their eyes—pride that their son had an opportunity, terror at the thought of me leaving, hope for our family’s future, and heartbreak at the separation that would come.

Baba cleared his throat. “Tell us everything.”

Growing Up in the City of Joy (And Struggle)

I grew up in a two-room apartment in Kolkata’s Tollygunge area. The walls were thin, and I could hear our neighbor Mrs. Banerjee arguing with her husband every evening at 7 PM, right when I was trying to study. Our apartment had one tiny window that faced another building, and sunlight was a rare visitor.

My father drove an auto-rickshaw for 16 years before becoming a security guard at a local school. I remember waiting for him outside the school gates as a child, watching him unlock the doors with such care, as if the building held all the treasures in the world. He earned 8,000 rupees a month, and every paisa was accounted for.

My mother taught neighborhood kids Hindi and Bengali in our living room, which doubled as her classroom. The furniture—a small sofa set and a dining table—would be pushed against the walls, and she’d sit cross-legged on the floor with five or six children around her. She charged 50 rupees per hour, and her monthly income rarely crossed 3,000 rupees.

But they sacrificed everything for my education. While other kids my age were playing cricket in the narrow lanes, I was at coaching classes from 6 AM to 9 PM. Baba would drop me off on his rickshaw before starting his shift, the early morning mist making everything look ghostly. I’d sit behind him, my school bag pressed against his back, feeling the rhythm of the rickshaw wheels on the uneven road.

Ma would wait up for me every night, no matter how late I returned. Dinner was always ready—usually rice, dal, and some sabji. On Sundays, if Baba had a good week, she’d make fish curry. Those were our celebration meals.

I graduated with a B.Com degree from Calcutta University in 2017 with 73% marks. Decent, but in a city where thousands graduate every year with similar degrees, decent wasn’t enough. The good jobs required connections we didn’t have, or English fluency that my government school education hadn’t quite provided, or both.

For six months after graduation, I sent out 180+ job applications. I got called for 23 interviews. Each interview started with hope and ended with familiar disappointment. The responses were always variations of the same theme: “You’re a good candidate, but we need someone with more experience” or “We’ll get back to you” (they never did).

I’d return home after each rejection, and Ma would look at my face and know immediately. She’d make me tea and sit with me, not saying anything, just being there. Baba would pat my shoulder and say, “Tomorrow is another day, beta.”

But I could see the worry lines deepening around their eyes with each passing month.

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The Dubai Dream (Or Desperate Hope?)

My uncle Ramesh kaka had been working in Dubai since 2010 as an accountant for a small trading company. He was my father’s younger brother, and the success story of our family. During family gatherings, he’d show us photos of the Burj Khalifa on his phone and tell stories about colleagues from 15 different countries. More importantly, he’d quietly slip money to my grandmother every few months—not huge amounts, but enough to help with her medicines and doctor visits.

Kaka visited us in March 2017, and I’ll never forget that conversation. I was lying on our roof terrace, staring at the stars, when he came up and sat beside me.

“Still no job?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head, embarrassed.

“You know, my company is growing. They need young people who can learn quickly. The salary isn’t huge—around 7,000 dirhams for starters—but Dubai has opportunities. Real opportunities.”

That night, I did the math on my phone calculator. 7,000 AED was roughly 1,40,000 rupees. In Kolkata, I was lucky to get interview calls for jobs paying 15,000 rupees monthly. Even accounting for Dubai’s higher living costs, it seemed like a different world.

But the emotional calculation was much more complex. Leaving meant abandoning my parents when they were getting older. Baba’s knees had started giving him trouble from years of sitting in the rickshaw, and Ma had begun complaining about headaches. Leaving meant missing my younger sister Riya’s college graduation—something our family had been looking forward to for years.

It also meant starting over in a place where I knew exactly one person and spoke English with a thick Bengali accent that even other Indians sometimes struggled to understand.

But staying meant watching my father’s shoulders bend further under financial stress. It meant seeing the hope in my mother’s eyes slowly dim as she watched her son struggle. It meant accepting that our family might never break out of the cycle we’d been trapped in for generations.

The decision kept me awake for weeks.

The Reality Check Begins

The conversation with my parents lasted three hours. Ma cried—tears of pride mixed with fear. Baba asked practical questions about visa, accommodation, and work contracts. Riya, who was 19 then, oscillated between excitement for her brother and sadness about our family being separated.

“Promise me you’ll call every day,” Ma said, gripping my hands.

“Promise me you’ll work hard and make us proud,” Baba added.

“Promise me you’ll come back for my graduation,” Riya whispered.

I promised all three, not knowing how hard it would be to keep those promises.

The visa process took two months. Kaka’s company provided the job offer, but I had to run around Kolkata getting documents attested, medical tests done, and police clearances obtained. Each step cost money we didn’t have, and Baba had to borrow from his savings group to cover the expenses.

Landing in Dubai International Airport on October 15, 2017, felt surreal. The gleaming floors, the massive duty-free shops, the announcements in Arabic and English—everything screamed “expensive” and “foreign.” I’d never been inside an airport before, let alone one that looked like a shopping mall from another planet.

Kaka picked me up in a beat-up Toyota Corolla that looked nothing like the luxury cars in his Facebook photos. I must have looked confused because he laughed.

“Don’t worry, beta. The company cars are different from personal cars. And those photos of fancy cars? They’re from my friends’ social media. Dubai has everything—from luxury to very basic. You’ll understand soon.”

My first shock: accommodation. Kaka had found me a shared room in Sonapur—three of us splitting a single room for 3,000 AED monthly, making my share 1,000 AED. The room was smaller than our bathroom back home. I shared it with Suresh, a 45-year-old construction worker from Andhra Pradesh who had been in Dubai for eight years, and Ahmed, a quiet 28-year-old from Bangladesh who worked at a restaurant in Deira.

The building had no elevator, and we lived on the fourth floor. In October, Dubai was still hitting 38°C during the day, and climbing those stairs with groceries felt like punishment for every life choice I’d ever made. The corridors smelled of different spices from different kitchens, and I could hear conversations in Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, Tamil, and languages I couldn’t identify.

That first night, lying on a thin mattress on the floor (we couldn’t all fit beds), listening to Suresh’s freight-train snoring and Ahmed’s restless tossing, I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

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First Month: Everything Goes Wrong

My first day at Al-Mansoor Trading Company was terrifying. The office was a cramped space above a mobile phone shop in Deira, accessed through a narrow staircase that always smelled of fried food from the restaurant below. My “workstation” was a shared desk in the corner with a computer that took 10 minutes to boot up and a chair that had definitely seen better decades.

My manager, Khalid bhai, was a 45-year-old Pakistani who’d been in Dubai for 15 years. He had the tired eyes of someone who’d worked too hard for too long, but a kind smile that made me feel slightly less terrified.

“Welcome to Dubai, beta,” he said on my first morning. “The work is simple but important. Invoice entries, basic bookkeeping, filing. The computer is slow, but it works. Coffee is free, but don’t drink too much—the bathroom is shared with the mobile shop downstairs.”

Then came the crash course in Dubai workplace culture.

“Yalla, finish these invoice entries by 3 PM,” he said, handing me a stack of papers. “And remember, double-check the VAT calculations—we just implemented it this year, and government inspections are random.”

I nodded confidently and spent the next hour figuring out what “yalla” meant (it means “come on” or “hurry up” in Arabic) and why Dubai suddenly had something called VAT (Value Added Tax had just been introduced in January 2017).

The computer crashed twice. The air conditioning worked sporadically. The phone rang constantly with suppliers speaking rapid Arabic or heavily accented English. By lunch time, I had completed maybe 20% of what was expected.

Khalid bhai found me staring at the computer screen, looking defeated.

“First day problems, beta. Tomorrow will be better. But remember—in Dubai, if you don’t speak up when you’re struggling, people assume you’re handling it fine. Ask questions. Ask for help. No one will think less of you.”

The real culture shock came during my first week when I was invited to a team meeting with clients. In India, I was used to sitting quietly, nodding, and saying “yes, sir” to everything. Here, Khalid bhai expected me to take notes, ask clarifying questions, and even suggest improvements to processes.

After the meeting, he pulled me aside.

“Beta, you’re too quiet. In Dubai, if you don’t participate, people think you have nothing to contribute. This isn’t India where juniors stay silent. Here, everyone’s opinion matters if it makes business sense.”

It was the first of many lessons I’d learn about adapting to a new work culture.

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The Learning Curve (Almost) Broke Me

By month two, I was seriously considering returning to Kolkata. The honeymoon period was over, and reality was harsh. Here’s what nobody tells you about moving to the UAE:

The Financial Reality Was Crushing: My 7,000 AED looked decent on paper, but Dubai prices were brutal:

• Room rent: 1,000 AED (shared with two others)
• Food: 1,000 AED (even cooking at home)
• Transportation: 300 AED (bus passes and occasional taxis)
• Phone and internet: 200 AED
• Sending money home: 2,500 AED (I couldn’t send less—my parents needed it)
• Miscellaneous (toiletries, clothes, medicine): 500 AED

That left me with 1,500 AED for the entire month. Some months, when I had to buy work clothes or if I got sick, I’d skip sending money home or eat nothing but rice and dal for weeks.

The Bureaucracy Was Overwhelming: Getting my Emirates ID was an odyssey. The process typically takes 7-10 days from application to card issuance, but that’s only if you have all documents perfect. I made four trips to different offices because:

• First visit: My passport photos were the wrong size
• Second visit: My salary certificate wasn’t attested properly
• Third visit: The typing center had made an error in my application
• Fourth visit: Finally successful, but then I had to wait for biometric appointment

Each visit meant taking unpaid leave from work, and each time I was told “come back tomorrow” or “next week.” The worst part was the waiting areas—packed with hundreds of people from dozens of countries, all looking as confused and frustrated as I felt.

The Language Barrier Was Real: My English was functional, but Dubai English is a unique beast. It includes Arabic terms (“yalla,” “khalas,” “maafi”), British expressions (“brilliant,” “cheers”), American slang (“awesome,” “for sure”), and modifications from dozens of nationalities all mixed together.

During my first client meeting, when someone said “Let’s touch base offline and circle back on this,” I literally looked around the room, wondering what base we were supposed to touch and what we were circling back to.

The Loneliness Was Devastating: Weekends were the hardest. Suresh would visit construction sites to pick up extra work or sleep all day to recover from his six-day work week. Ahmed worked split shifts at the restaurant and was rarely home. I’d walk around Deira City Centre or Karama Market, not buying anything because I couldn’t afford it, just to be around people and hear conversations.

I called home every evening at 8 PM Dubai time (6:30 PM India time). Ma would be preparing dinner, and I’d listen to the sounds of our kitchen—the pressure cooker whistling, Riya arguing about homework, the neighbor’s TV playing Bengali serials. Sometimes I’d just listen without saying much, trying to feel connected to home.

The worst was when Ma would ask, “How was your day, beta?” and I’d lie and say “Good, Ma. Everything is good here.” Because what was the point of telling her that I’d eaten only bread and tea for two days because I’d run out of money? That I was so lonely I’d started talking to the pigeon that sat on our building’s ledge every morning?

The Health Scare: In my second month, I got food poisoning from a cheap shawarma. I was sick for three days, couldn’t keep anything down, and was too weak to go to work. In Dubai, employers are required to provide health insurance coverage for their employees, so my company had basic coverage for me, but I was too scared to use it because I didn’t understand the system.

Ahmed took me to a clinic in Karama where the doctor spoke Hindi. The consultation cost 150 AED, the medicines another 80 AED. That was almost half my monthly buffer gone in one day. I called in sick for three days and lost a day’s salary for each absent day.

Lying in that shared room, weak and homesick, listening to Ahmed and Suresh go about their routines, I seriously considered calling Kaka and telling him I wanted to go home.

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The Turning Point: Small Victories Add Up

Three months in, something shifted. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was stubbornness inherited from my father, but I decided to stop just surviving and start adapting.

The Professional Breakthrough: I volunteered for a project that nobody else wanted—digitizing old paper records that had been piling up for months. It was boring, tedious work, but I saw it as an opportunity to prove myself. I spent two weeks after office hours scanning, organizing, and creating a digital filing system.

When I presented the completed project to Khalid bhai, he was genuinely impressed.

“Beta, this is exactly what we needed. You didn’t just scan the documents—you organized them by date, client, and category. This will save us hours every week.”

For the first time since arriving in Dubai, I felt like I’d contributed something valuable.

Khalid bhai suggested I learn Excel properly, not just the basics. “Dubai values skills, not just degrees. The more you can do, the more valuable you become.”

I started spending evenings at the Dubai Public Library in Deira. It was free, had air conditioning, and most importantly, free WiFi. I’d take online Excel courses, practice for hours, and slowly build skills that would make me more than just another invoice entry clerk.

The Cooking Discovery: Out of desperation to save money, I started cooking. Ahmed taught me to make basic Bengali fish curry, and Suresh showed me his Andhra-style dal recipes. But I discovered I actually enjoyed experimenting with food.

Soon, I was cooking dinner for several other guys in our building. Ravi from the second floor, Hassan from the third floor, and two Bangladeshi brothers from the fifth floor started contributing for groceries, and I’d cook for all of us. They’d each pay me 20 AED per week for dinner, which gave me an extra 400 AED monthly.

More importantly, these shared meals became social time. We’d sit on the building’s roof terrace, sharing food and stories about home. For the first time since arriving, I had something resembling a social life.

The Language Confidence: I started watching English news every morning while getting ready for work, noting down phrases I didn’t understand and looking them up later. I discovered that most people in Dubai were patient with language barriers—everyone was from somewhere else, and everyone understood the struggle.

Within six months, I could hold conversations without translating in my head first. I started participating more in office discussions, and Khalid bhai began asking for my opinion on small decisions.

The Network Building: The real breakthrough came when Ravi invited me to a Dubai Bengali Association meeting. Walking into that room full of Bengalis—doctors, engineers, shop owners, restaurant managers, students—was like finding family I didn’t know I had.

Suddenly, I had access to 200+ people who understood exactly what I was going through. Some had been in Dubai for 20 years, others had arrived last month. They shared apartment listings, job openings, practical tips about everything from the best places to send money home to which government offices had the shortest queues.

More importantly, they shared their stories. Every person in that room had a version of my story—the initial struggles, the homesickness, the small victories that slowly built into bigger successes.

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Year Two: Building Momentum

By October 2018, my life looked completely different:

Career Advancement: Khalid bhai promoted me to Senior Accounts Assistant with a salary increase to 9,500 AED. It wasn’t a huge jump, but in Dubai, every 500 dirhams matter. More importantly, my responsibilities expanded. I was now handling client communications, managing supplier payments, and even helping with basic financial reporting.

The computer skills I’d learned at the library paid off. I created Excel templates that automated much of our routine work, and Khalid bhai started including me in budget planning meetings.

Better Living Situation: I moved out of Sonapur to a shared apartment in Karama with two other professionals—Mahmoud, an Egyptian engineer who worked for a construction company, and Grace, a Filipino nurse who worked at a private clinic.

The apartment was a revelation. Two bedrooms, a proper kitchen, a living room with a sofa, and most importantly, my own bed. My share was 1,200 AED monthly, but having privacy and living with career-focused people changed my entire mindset.

Mahmoud introduced me to Middle Eastern food, Grace taught me about Filipino work culture, and together we created a small international household. We’d cook together on weekends, watch movies, and share stories about our different cultures.

Financial Stability: For the first time since arriving in Dubai, I had financial breathing room. I was sending 3,500 AED home monthly (Ma had called crying when I increased the amount), saving 1,000 AED in a small emergency fund, and still had money for occasional treats—a weekend meal at a restaurant, a movie ticket, even a short trip to Abu Dhabi.

The psychological impact of this financial stability was enormous. I stopped checking my bank balance daily, stopped counting dirhams before buying groceries, stopped worrying that a medical emergency would bankrupt me.

Personal Confidence: The biggest change was internal. I started speaking up in meetings, suggesting process improvements, and even respectfully disagreeing when I had better ideas.

One day, a client complained about delayed payments, and I suggested implementing a weekly payment schedule instead of monthly. Khalid bhai implemented my suggestion, and the client was happier. It was a small victory, but it proved to myself that I could contribute valuable ideas.

Staying Connected: I bought a better phone and improved my internet plan, which meant better video calls with family. Seeing Ma’s face clearly, watching Riya show off her college projects, listening to Baba’s stories about his day—these calls became the highlight of my weeks.

I also started sending small gifts home through cargo companies. Perfumes for Ma, a watch for Baba, cosmetics for Riya. Nothing expensive, but enough to show them that their sacrifices were leading somewhere meaningful.

Years Three to Five: The Real Growth

2019 – The Big Break: Al-Mansoor’s main accountant, Tariq bhai, announced he was returning to Pakistan for family reasons. Instead of hiring externally, Khalid bhai offered me the position.

“There’s one condition, beta. You need to start professional certification—ACCA or CMA. The company will pay for the courses and exams, but you have to pass within two years. Deal?”

I couldn’t believe it. Accountant position meant a jump to 13,000 AED monthly, but more importantly, it meant real career growth.

I enrolled in ACCA and started the most intensive study period of my life. 4 AM wake-up calls, two hours of study before work, office from 8:30 AM to 6:30 PM, then another three hours of study after dinner. Weekends were 8-hour study marathons at the library.

The first exam was Financial Accounting. I was confident going in, but when I got the result—failed by 3 marks—I thought my career was over. I sat in the parking lot of the examination center and cried. For the first time since arriving in Dubai, I felt like a complete failure.

Khalid bhai’s reaction surprised me: “Beta, even I failed my first ACCA exam. And my second one. The important thing isn’t passing on the first try—it’s learning from what went wrong and coming back stronger.”

I passed all remaining exams on my second attempt. Each pass was a small celebration—dinner at a nice restaurant, a video call with family to share the good news, a growing sense that I was building something meaningful.

2020 – COVID Challenges: Like everyone else, COVID-19 changed everything overnight. Dubai went into lockdown in March, and our company’s revenue dropped by 40% within weeks. Three employees were laid off, including Tariq bhai’s replacement who had been hired just six months earlier.

I kept my job but took a 20% salary cut to help the company survive. Instead of panicking, I saw it as an opportunity to prove my value. I took on extra responsibilities, worked longer hours, and even helped Khalid bhai apply for government support programs.

During the lockdown, I started freelancing for small businesses that were struggling to transition online. Word spread through the Bengali Association network, and soon I was helping grocery stores, restaurants, and trading companies set up basic accounting systems and digital payment processes.

This freelance work brought in an extra 1,500-2,000 AED monthly, which helped offset my salary cut. More importantly, it taught me that I could create my own opportunities even in difficult times.

2021 – New Horizons: With four years of Dubai experience and significant progress on my ACCA certification, I started looking for bigger challenges. A mid-sized logistics company was expanding their finance team and needed an Assistant Finance Manager.

The interview process was intimidating—three rounds, including a presentation to senior management about optimizing cash flow processes. But all those years of building confidence, improving my English, and gaining real experience paid off.

I got the job with a salary of 18,000 AED monthly.

The jump wasn’t just financial—it was professional. I was now managing a team of three junior accountants, presenting monthly reports to the CEO, and handling budgets worth millions of dirhams. The 23-year-old kid from Kolkata was now making decisions that affected a company’s financial health.

Present Day: More Than I Dared Dream

Today, in 2024, I’m the Finance Manager at the same logistics company, earning 24,000 AED monthly. More importantly, I genuinely love what I do.

My typical day starts at 6:30 AM with a workout at the gym in my building. Work runs from 8:30 AM to 6:00 PM, and my evenings are split between ACCA studies (just two exams left!), meeting friends, and long video calls with family.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Bur Dubai that costs 3,800 AED monthly. It has a small balcony where I grow mint and coriander in small pots—Ma’s influence never left me. The apartment has a proper kitchen, a living room with a sofa set, and most importantly, complete privacy.

I own a 2018 Nissan Tiida that I bought with a four-year loan (one year left to pay). Having a car changed everything—no more waiting for buses in 45°C heat, no more planning my entire life around public transport schedules, no more avoiding places because they were too difficult to reach.

I’ve traveled to Thailand, Turkey, and Sri Lanka for vacations—experiences I never thought possible growing up in Tollygunge. Each trip was a reminder of how far I’d come from that scared 23-year-old who arrived with one suitcase and 847 rupees.

The Numbers Today:

• Monthly salary: 24,000 AED
• Monthly expenses: 7,500 AED (including car loan, rent, food, utilities)
• Money sent home: 6,000 AED (Baba retired last year, and this helps them live comfortably)
• Savings and investments: 10,500 AED (I’ve learned to invest in mutual funds and have built a solid emergency fund)

But the real changes aren’t financial—they’re personal. I speak confidently in boardroom meetings with CEOs and CFOs. I’ve trained junior staff members from India, Philippines, Egypt, and Bangladesh, helping them navigate the same challenges I once faced. I negotiate with suppliers, manage complex budgets, and solve problems I couldn’t have imagined tackling seven years ago.

Last month, I presented our company’s annual financial strategy to a room full of senior executives. As I stood there, clicking through PowerPoint slides and fielding questions about cash flow projections, I thought about that internet café in Kolkata where this journey began.

The Personal Transformation

The person I’ve become in Dubai is someone I barely recognize from my early days. I’m more confident, more independent, more worldly. I’ve learned to navigate a multicultural workplace, to speak up for my ideas, to take calculated risks.

But I’ve also learned to appreciate what I had back home. The family dinners where we’d all sit around our small table, sharing stories about our day. The lazy Sunday afternoons when Riya and I would argue about what to watch on TV. The sound of Ma humming while she cooked. The pride in Baba’s eyes when I’d show him my exam results.

Dubai gave me opportunities and financial security, but Kolkata gave me values and family bonds that nothing can replace.

Looking Forward: The Next Chapter

My goal for the next three years is ambitious but achievable. I want to complete my ACCA qualification and move into a senior management role, ideally earning 35,000+ AED monthly. I’m also considering starting a part-time consulting practice for small and medium businesses—helping them with the kind of financial management challenges I’ve learned to solve.

On the personal side, I’m in a serious relationship with Priya, who moved to Dubai from Mumbai in 2022 for a marketing job. She’s smart, funny, and shares my ambition for building something meaningful. We’re planning to get married next year, and she jokes about how our kids will grow up speaking Hindi, English, and Arabic—true global citizens.

I’m also planning to bring my parents to Dubai for a month-long visit next year. They’ve never been on an airplane, never seen a building taller than ten stories, never experienced a city where people from 200+ nationalities live and work together.

Baba, who used to worry about bus fare, will stay in a hotel room with a view of the Burj Khalifa. Ma, who taught children in our tiny living room, will see the massive libraries and universities here. Sometimes life comes full circle in the most beautiful way.

Practical Lessons (Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me)

Before You Come:

• Save at least 15,000 AED before arriving. The first three months are expensive, and you’ll need security deposits for everything—accommodation, utilities, even mobile connections.
• Get all documents attested in your home country. Educational certificates, experience letters, police clearances—get everything attested by the UAE embassy before you travel. Doing this from Dubai takes months and multiple trips.
• Learn basic Arabic phrases beyond “hello” and “thank you.” “Yalla” (come on), “khalas” (finished), “maafi mushkila” (no problem), “inshallah” (God willing) will help you navigate daily life.
• Research your accommodation options realistically. Don’t expect to live alone on an entry-level salary. Shared accommodation is normal and can be a good way to build friendships.

First Month Survival:

• Join social media groups for your nationality. Facebook groups like “Indians in Dubai” or “Bengalis in UAE” share apartment listings, job openings, practical tips, and emotional support.
• Get a local SIM card on your first day. Du and Etisalat have good prepaid options. Having local connectivity is crucial for everything from job searches to apartment hunting.
• Open a bank account as soon as you get your Emirates ID. Your HR will help you with this. ADCB, Emirates NBD, and ENBD are foreigner-friendly and offer good packages for salaried employees.
• Learn the transport system. Dubai Metro, buses, and Careem/Uber. Buy a Nol card and learn the routes to your office, grocery stores, and key areas.

Career Growth:

• Document everything. Keep copies of all contracts, salary certificates, performance reviews, and project completions. Dubai moves fast, and having documentation helps during salary negotiations or job changes.
• Network constantly but authentically. LinkedIn is huge in Dubai. Connect with colleagues, join professional groups, attend industry events. But focus on building genuine relationships, not just collecting contacts.
• Invest in continuous learning. Dubai values skills over tenure. Professional certifications, online courses, language skills—anything that makes you more valuable. Many companies support employee development.
• Don’t job-hop too frequently. While Dubai offers opportunities, changing jobs every 6-12 months looks unstable. Build skills and relationships for at least 18-24 months before considering moves.

Financial Management:

• Budget ruthlessly for the first year. Dubai lifestyle inflation is real and sneaky. Set a monthly budget and stick to it. Track every expense for the first six months to understand your spending patterns.
• Send money home through exchange houses, not banks. UAE Exchange, Al-Ansari, Lulu Exchange, and others offer better rates than banks. Learn the timing—rates fluctuate throughout the day.
• Build an emergency fund immediately. Start with 1,000 AED and gradually build to 3-6 months of expenses. Dubai is expensive when things go wrong.
• Understand the end-of-service benefits. UAE labor law provides for gratuity payments when you leave a job. This money can be significant after several years.

Social Integration:

• Say yes to invitations, even when you’re tired or homesick. Your social circle often determines your opportunities. The person you meet at a weekend barbecue might offer you your next job.
• Learn about different cultures, don’t just stick to your own. Dubai is incredibly diverse. Some of my best friends and strongest professional connections are Emiratis, Egyptians, Filipinos, and Europeans.
• Find your community, but don’t limit yourself to it. Cultural associations provide support and familiarity, but don’t let them become your only social circle.
• Participate in local events and festivals. Dubai Shopping Festival, National Day celebrations, Ramadan iftars—participating in local culture helps you feel more connected to the city.

Mental Health and Well-being:

• Homesickness is normal and can last 6-12 months. Video calls help, but finding local activities and friendships is more important for long-term happiness.
• The weather affects mood more than you expect. June through September can be mentally challenging. Plan indoor activities, join gyms or libraries, find ways to stay social during the hot months.
• Don’t compare your beginning to someone else’s middle. That colleague’s luxury lifestyle took years to build. Focus on your own progress and celebrate small victories.
• Stay physically active. Dubai has excellent gyms, parks, and sports facilities. Physical activity helps with stress, social connections, and overall well-being.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

1. Overspending in the first 6 months thinking your salary will always feel high
2. Not learning local workplace culture and wondering why you’re not getting promoted
3. Limiting your social circle to people from your home country only
4. Not saving for visa renewals and annual leave flights home
5. Changing jobs too frequently without building skills or relationships

Why I’m Sharing This Story

If you’re reading this while sitting in your home country, wondering whether to take that Dubai job offer, here’s what I want you to know:

It will be harder than you expect. The first 6 months will test every assumption you have about yourself. You’ll question your decision weekly, maybe daily.

It will also be more rewarding than you imagine. Not just financially, but personally. You’ll discover strengths you didn’t know you had and solve problems you didn’t think you could handle.

You’re not alone. Millions of people have made this journey before you. Most of us struggled, adapted, and eventually thrived. The infrastructure exists to help you succeed—you just need to find it and use it.

Your background doesn’t limit your future. I came from a middle-class family in Kolkata with average grades and basic English. Today, I manage budgets worth more than my father earned in his entire career. Dubai rewards hard work, adaptability, and persistence.

Lates News

• UAE Expands Delivery Worker Protection with 10,000 Air-Conditioned Rest Stations
• Dubai’s AED 20.5B Blue Line Metro to Feature World’s Tallest Station – Route Map, 14 Stops & 2029 Launch Plan
• Planning Analyst – Material/Production & Data Integration – Ajmal Perfumes | Dubai, UAE
• Senior Officer – Sanctions Screening & Transaction Monitoring – LM Exchange | Dubai, UAE
• Senior Officer in Corporate Finance – Ajmal Perfumes | Dubai, UAE

Let’s Connect

If this story resonates with you or if you have questions about any part of the journey, I’d love to hear from you.

Connect with Arjun Chatterjee on linkedIn or post your comments below.

Whether you’re planning your move, struggling through your first year, or celebrating your own milestones, I believe our stories can help each other. The UAE gave me opportunities I never thought possible. Now I want to help others find theirs.

Remember: Every expert was once a beginner. Every success story started with someone taking that first scary step. Your story could be next.

What’s stopping you from writing yours? Share Your Story

Arjun Chatterjee moved from Kolkata to Dubai in 2017 and currently works as Finance Manager at a logistics company. He’s completing his ACCA qualification and volunteers with new expatriates through the Dubai Bengali Association. This is his first published story, but definitely not his last.

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