One of the thrills of traveling to Mexico and Spain is being mistaken sometimes to be their own native.
And in Bangalore even after 20 years, Somanna, Proprietor of Swagath Tailors, whom I have known since my school days still recognizes me. No, he does not stop and inquire, "Oh, when did you come from America?" or "Where have you been all these years?". Instead he simply half-smiles and half raises his palm and moves on as though I had run into him only last week and had never left Rajajinagar.
And in Bangalore even after 20 years, Somanna, Proprietor of Swagath Tailors, whom I have known since my school days still recognizes me. No, he does not stop and inquire, "Oh, when did you come from America?" or "Where have you been all these years?". Instead he simply half-smiles and half raises his palm and moves on as though I had run into him only last week and had never left Rajajinagar.
Guadalajara, Mexico
I was traveling on business to Guadalajara in Mexico and had just dozed off in the flight when a gentleman across the aisle said, "Ola!" Thrusting into my hands his passport and arrival card he started muttering to me in Spanish as though I was naturally expected to follow him. I turned towards him and raised my eyebrows. Although upset at having my sleep disrupted I was courteous enough not to vent. He muttered more Spanish and made a motion with his hands drawing my attention to what he had put in my hands. He seemed to want my help to complete his arrival card. His tone was more of a demand than a request for a favour. I looked at the document; it was in Spanish.I stared at him closely, discarding my politeness. He must have been in his late sixties. With his dense hair, thick eyebrows and a formidable build he could have passed for one of those celebrity drug lords whom the Mexican military arrests from time to time while they try to escape through sewer lines. I indicated curtly that I did not speak Spanish. He looked at me in utter disbelief and snarled more Spanish which struck me as, "Is this a joke on me? Eh?! How dare you?" I was glad we were not in a dark alley of his hometown.
I remained calm and shrugged an indifferent shoulder. He turned his face away and let fall a few curses.
I reached out my right hand to give away his stuff back and he stretched out his left hand reluctantly to receive it. It was only then I noticed how brown and how nearly alike our skin colours were. And only then did I realize why he considered, me - the guy far across the aisle the natural choice to seek help instead of the white guy immediately next to him who looked like the typical Tea party Trump type.
In a split second my bitterness towards him vanished. The drug-lord had transformed into a dear uncle needing a nephew's help. I took back his documents and signaled him to wait and began to work on the English side of the arrival card. I had no difficulty in locating his name and address in the passport and entered that into the arrival card. However when it came to the Yes or No questions on "Are you carrying drugs?", "Do you possess firearms?", "Have you been arrested before?", "Are you carrying more than $10,000 cash?".. I checked the "No" boxes without actually ascertaining from him whether that was true or not. I stole a quick glance at him. He was smiling approvingly at this nephew. I smiled too, glad to be of help to that uncle,
Madrid
Fellow travelers of Indian origin in Spain are not as common a sight as in some of the other European countries like UK, Switzerland, Italy and France. And it may also be because they too have a tinge of our own brown, Spaniards tend to think we are one of them with delightful consequences.
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La Mallorquina |
After a long and tiring afternoon of having explored Madrid by foot, we went to La Mallorquina - the good old bakery in the good old part of Madrid. Ground floor was swarmed by impatient lines of tourists, trying to get the attention of the brusque staff behind the counters for their to-go orders. We were pondering over the racks of tempting pastries, unable to decide which, when much to our surprise, one of their staff smiled and ushered us upstairs. We learnt that locals who want to sit down and savor, quietly find their way to the staircase at the remote corner. We headed above and were delighted to find a place where we could unwind. As luck would have it, we got the table with the view of the lively Puerta del Sol. Inside there were only locals: friends-only groups in an animated conversation while enjoying their wine and sangria, next to our table was an architect, who, assisted by coffee was going over the drawings of home expansion plans with the couple seated opposite and there were big Spanish families relishing the freshly baked croissants and cakes. We were perhaps the only people, aliens, being taken in as one among them.
Upstairs where the locals sit back and savor. |
Rhonda
After briefly peeping in the gift shop displaying made-in-China thingummies, I stepped out of the shop. They didn't interest me one bit. There were a few other men like me who were checking their mobile devices outside while their wives did the shopping inside. I leaned against the wall, switched off my phone and watched the flow of life on the street. A few minutes later an elderly lady came out of the shop, looked at me and said, "Loved your place! You have such an amazing collection!" Instead of correcting her, I decided to take her complements. I bowed gently and said, "Gracias!" (Thank you in Spanish) reminding her to have a nice day too.
With Flemenco dancers, Seville |
Seville
Of all the encounters this one tops. We were walking briskly towards our hotel, having already checked the route on Google maps earlier. We saw a middle aged Indian couple approach us. The lady in her saree and with her heavy shopping bag was slightly behind her husband. The gentleman, a sikh, with a guide book in one hand and water bottle in another, stopped us as asked, "Can you speak English?" A little taken aback and wondering if I appeared to him an illiterate, I said, "Yes, I can speak Hindi too". He looked both surprised and embarrassed and said, "I am so sorry, I thought you are from here!" I smiled at him and was still able to help him with his question on directions to a flamenco show.
Back in homeland
Now this is not about colour of the skin but about how the sound of my name makes me feel as one among them at places where I was clearly not.
It seems my grandfather had actually named me as Jayateertha, a word designed to leave the caller with a feeling of oomph at having delivered something delightfully mouthful. Alas, the mighty Jayateertha, over all these years morphed into the tepid Jairaj. Interestingly it is only in Tamil Nadu that I do not recoil with horror while having to announce my first name. In Coimbatore whose mapillai I am, I realized that it would be a blunder to use my last name. My first name Jairaj was already a visa for being considered one among them. There my name makes me feel as much at home as brother-Jairajs who are brokers, barbers, rikshaw drivers, kerosine pedlars, chit funders, and the Jairajs who get routinely rounded up during political rallies.
Back in homeland
Now this is not about colour of the skin but about how the sound of my name makes me feel as one among them at places where I was clearly not.
It seems my grandfather had actually named me as Jayateertha, a word designed to leave the caller with a feeling of oomph at having delivered something delightfully mouthful. Alas, the mighty Jayateertha, over all these years morphed into the tepid Jairaj. Interestingly it is only in Tamil Nadu that I do not recoil with horror while having to announce my first name. In Coimbatore whose mapillai I am, I realized that it would be a blunder to use my last name. My first name Jairaj was already a visa for being considered one among them. There my name makes me feel as much at home as brother-Jairajs who are brokers, barbers, rikshaw drivers, kerosine pedlars, chit funders, and the Jairajs who get routinely rounded up during political rallies.
However in Pune, where I spent the best part of my life, I had hidden my first name like the convict who hides his face under a towel on his way to being arrested. I merrily hobnobbed with the Puneris using just my last name. It did not matter that I could not speak Marathi, thanks to my melodious Maharasthra-border family name, I was always their "amchya Galagali".