Still single in the city

IKEA and Obama... AND the Omani Sheikh

I've been playing hooky. Instead of blogging on Sunday - that I'm supposed to do unflaggingly on the day even God rested - I was romping around IKEA at the Dubai Festival centre.

Yes, I finally paid obeisance to the home of all things homesy. I'd first heard about IKEA from a friend who lived in Long Island, New York, a homebody-type. He'd tell me how he used to spend his weekends at the IKEA store there. "What is this IKEA all about?" I'd ask impatiently. In my hard head, I somehow couldn't accommodate the thought of a man spending so much time staring at home fittings, kitchen appliances, lampshades and futons.

"Oh, well, wait till YOU visit an IKEA store - you'll find out," he'd say. "It's Swedish, by the way, but nothing like the massage."

When he heard I was moving to Dubai, the first thing he said was: "Finally, you will get to visit the IKEA store - Dubai has one."

All this while, I couldn't visit IKEA because getting a taxi here is a real chore (okay, I know that's a lame excuse). But yesterday, a nice, Malayali cabbie came to my rescue as I was frantically trying to flag down cabs and failing miserably, and ferried me across to the IKEA store in Festival City.

I spent more than half a day there. I even bought two money plants -- other than a host of stuff that's giving my apartment a brand-new look altogether. By the time I returned, I didn't have the energy to blog. Forgive me, everyone.

And now, the talking point. Obama is President Elect! I knew it! Let me tell you a little bit about all I underwent. I am actually parroting a part of what I wrote in my Friday column for Khaleej Times. I realise that my friend Pawandeep (I know he's a man) has probably seen this coz I just saw a posting about how I had time to do my column for KT, but not to blog.

With apologies to Pawandeep, this is how it went - the second half of my column:

On election eve, I was in my building's elevator, and had just pressed the 4th floor button to go up to my apartment when a middle-aged gent hopped in to the cage with me. He was beside himself with excitement. "I plan to stay awake all of tomorrow night and follow the voting," he was addressing me, I realised, since there was there was no one else around.

"The US elections?" I asked politely.

"YES! We'll find out Wednesday morning who the President will be."

We'd reached the third floor - where he got out. "Are you rooting for Obama?" I couldn't help calling out to him.

"You bet lady," he looked back. "I'm an American, and he's our man."

"Hey, you know what? I'm rooting for Obama too."

He flashed a smile and a thumbs-up as the elevator doors slid shut.

The next evening, I switched channels for the first time since I've moved into my new apartment in Dubai: from Zee Aflam (the channel I am addicted to these days; I devour little-known and long-forgotten Hindi films that are shown back to back) to CNN. Of course, I didn't watch it through the night like my American housemate above me probably did. But I was back to CNN at the crack of dawn. And though I didn't quite break into muffled sobs when Obama unleashed his spectacular victory speech from Grant Park in Chicago, my eyes couldn't help misting over when I heard him say, "And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world -- our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand."

And I thought of Simon and Garfunkel singing ‘Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together/ I've got some real estate here in my bag/ So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs Wagner pies/ And we walked off to look for America' and how the moon rose over an open field after they boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh.

For the life of me, I don't know why I haven't stopped smiling ever since Barack Obama won.

And now, can Michael Douglas and Harrison Ford kindly step aside? It's time Denzel Washington played the American President on celluloid.'

Okay guys, I was seriously hoping to end this right here. But Pawandeep has me in a fix. I think I HAVE TO write about Omani Sheikh. So, here goes, and please, please thank me for this eclectic mix.

The day after I posted ‘My Misadventure at the Serviced Apartment' account, a friend SMS-ed me worriedly: "Are you alright? I just found out that you had a bad experience in your apartment, and have moved back to the hotel."

Well, actually, I moved into the serviced apartment BEFORE I found my apartment. In less than 24 hours, I was back in the hotel like a shot - from where I, subsequently, moved to my place, which is wonderful and lovely. All of this happened almost a month ago, therefore the confusion.

Omani Sheikh came into my life while I was playing my second innings at the hotel (after the misadventure). It was a Friday - which is Sunday for most people out here. The housekeeping chap - a sweet Nepali boy with who I'd become fast friends with - was in my room, doing his stuff, and chatting with me about life back home, right outside Kathmandu. The door was open, and he was moving in and out - his trolley, full of cleaning things, was outside - while I reclined regally on the sofa.

Oh yes, I wasn't wearing my contact lenses and was semi-blind, not blind as a bat, but I had my Nepali pal all figured out.

So at first, when Omani Sheikh stood at my door, all I could do was figure out a figure in white. I thought it was a woman in a white sari. Oh God, this couldn't be a re-run of Woh Kaun Thi, could it? "Excuse me, are you with someone?" The baritone was almost apologetic. And it was a MAN'S gravelly voice.

I peered as best as I could. Again, all I could see was a blur, so I had no idea whether he was like one of the occasional Mills & Boon heroes (there used to be quite a few Middles Eastern ones), under whose hawk-like gaze delicate English heroines would wilt like flowers did under white heat. And I didn't want to make a dash for my glasses, which were lying somewhere on the bedside table, trip and fall and make a fool of myself.

"Nooooo, I'm not," I stated. Had he too forgotten to wear his contacts? Couldn't he see I was alone? "But what is this about?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to be friends with me," he offered evenly.

"Uhhh, I don't think so," I said. Damn! Why couldn't I see his face?

"Why not?" he persisted.

"I'm not interested. Really."

"How about a coffee?"

"I have to go to work," that was quick thinking on my part. "I have some important meetings to attend today - so what that it's Friday?"

Even the sweet Nepali boy was getting worried. Of course, I couldn't see if he was LOOKING worried. "I think madam is trying to tell you that she doesn't know you and doesn't want to be friends with you," he said his part.

"Alright," said Omani Sheikh. "But in case you change your mind, I'm in room number so-and-so." Then, he added that he was from Oman, and that he had seen me in the lobby the evening before. Fat chance of my recognising YOU in case I bump into YOU, I thought to myself as the blurred white form walked away from my door.

I went and grabbed my glasses from the bedside table just in time to see the Nepali boy looking as mystified as Humph, the Camel, who runs away from the desert to visit Dubai. And then, the phone rang, and it was Omani Sheikh calling to say that he hoped he hadn't offended me by what he just said, and that, again, in case I changed my mind, I'd know where to find him. "Sure," I promised, and hung up.

I HAD to call up a few friends. "Guess what? I think I just missed out on my first shot at harem-hood."