Still single in the city

About Aruna: A True Story

I have many stories to tell from Dubai - including the one about my Misadventure in the Serviced Apartment, that almost saw me taking the first flight out of here and go back home to Delhi. But let me save that for another time.

I must, first, tell you the story of Aruna, a colleague and a friend. Here, where one tends to spend almost 80 per cent of one's waking hours (at least the wide-awake ones) at work, co-workers (the ones you get along with that is) become an important part of life.

"You must meet Aruna," the Boss ordered on my second day at work (the first day, I only met the HR/admin guys), "the head of research."

It was a bit like someone saying, meet Abhilasha or Sunita or Prema, and you turn your head, expecting to see a woman, and you see a man. You keep wondering why is HE called ‘Abhilasha' or ‘Sunita' or ‘Prema', and NOT Abhilash or Sunit or Prem. That's exactly what went through my mind when Aruna walked in to the Boss's chamber: why on earth is HE, that man, called Aruna, and not Arun?

Maybe I needed hearing aids. Or maybe this wasn't Aruna actually.

"Hi," he thrust his paw into mine, "I'm Aruna." I cocked my ears and listened very carefully: there was a distinct ‘a' after Arun, it added up to Aruna alright. "Hello, hello," I said. "I'm Sushmita." Not Sushmit. I didn't say that of course.

I was dying to, but couldn't ask him why he has a woman's name. Not right then anyhow. So I waited for a couple of hours, and walked up to him on the pretext of some research-based number crunching, and chatted with him for a few minutes.  Then, I just had to pop the question: "Why do you have a girl's name?"

Aruna in Sanskrit means the colour crimson, he explained hotly, his face a flush of crimson tide. Somebody in his family is a Sanskrit scholar. Therefore.

That STILL doesn't explain why you have a girl's name, I giggled.

He stomped off.

Aruna is a highly qualified economist (his team members call him a ‘genius'), and has lived in various parts of the world, the Asia-Pacific region mostly: New Zealand, Australia, Singapore, East Timor. India obviously (where he grew up). And now Dubai. But at the end of it all, he wants to get himself a PhD in economics and then become a farmer. His family owns agricultural land near Mysore. "I hail from a royal family, madam," he boasts. ‘Madam' is his favourite form of address to any woman - irrespective of rank, seniority, age etc.

Why do you want to do a PhD in economics if you plan to get into the hands-on agriculture sector?

Madam, he said solemnly, "it's for my personal satisfaction. In an age of instant gratification, my pleasures are studied and doctoral in nature."

Aruna's got an enhanced sensibility - or sensitivities if you please - of a man who's lived by himself. I was particularly impressed when he told me that he tops his Mysore-based parents' cell phone account through his credit card so that it's actually he who pays when they call him (even though he's clearly using his economist's brain and doing himself a favour: it's about four times more expensive to make ISD calls from Dubai than from India).  

Then, he keeps a stockpile of stuff that is free-for-all: plastic spoons (two different sizes) in one of his drawers (just in case somebody needs to shovel food into his/her mouth - and people in office need to, all the time), along with toothpaste (in case someone feels like to getting his/her breath freshened), biscuits and cupcakes (for whenever hunger strikes anyone).

Hmmmm, you are really organised, I observed archly one day.

"Madam, it's because I've lived alone for almost 10 years now - I know what it takes to survive."

He shops for things like ironing board covers and pre-heated packaged milk (that has a long shelf life) for his morning coffee that he has along with cornflakes whenever he is eating at his bachelor's pad.

Aruna's always at work - even on his off days - because he says he "has nothing to do". But don't feel sorry for him: he plans to get married soon, he confessed one evening after a couple of beers had loosened him up considerably. His girlfriend lives in Delhi. He hates Delhi, by the way; she loves it, but is also alright with living in an agricultural space, as she will with Aruna, the Future Farmer.

A couple of days ago, Aruna offered to place the lunch order for a few of us from Amaravathi, an Andhra takeaway that delivers food to office ALWAYS sans spoons (that's where Aruna's copious collection of plastic spoons is hugely useful). After he rattled off the wish-list, the person on the other side wanted to know who he was speaking with.

"This is Arun," said Aruna, and hung up.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" I asked.

"Madam, I've realised it's easier to call myself Arun when I'm interacting with the service sector - especially the ones manned by Indians. When I say Aruna, they keep asking me to repeat the name - because they can't believe that they HADN'T been talking to a man."