I know Brian has been here longer than me, but when he looked at himself in the mirror, at our guest house in Dehradun, and announced, "I think I'm turning Indian, honey", I really started to doubt his sanity. Here was my lighter shade of pale, buzz cut greyed strawberry blonde haired, sunburned boy, believing that because he was eating lots of dahl and wearing his Rs 30/- 'authentic, hand crafted Kulla hat', he was now indistinguishable from the 1.2 billion locals.
Completing the look with his yak wool scarf, we set off for our evening constitutional, out of the relative calm of our side street location, towards the still bustling bazaar, that is Kanwali Road.
"We won't need any money will we?" as we turned out of the gated driveway. He answered himself, in my hesitation, "No. We'll be alright."
Not even as far as the end of the street, he spotted the peanut seller. Stopping, and turning to me, "Oh, but I'd love a bag of hot peanuts."
"Do you want to go back? I'll wait on the corner. Actually I'd probably make more money than you. Maybe I should go back? "
I left him with, "I'm sure you'll find someone to talk to while I'm gone."
And of course not ten minutes later I return to find him standing next to the peanut seller, surrounded by boys, bikes and other bemused bystanders, tasting the produce; a mountain of nuts in their shells, roasting over coals. Now cashed up, he received his Rs 15/- bag of nuts. Finishing his free handful, he was cheered by a passing group of boys on bikes, "Grandfather!" laughing and coming around for another lap. Taking this as further confirmation of his burgeoning Indian-ness, not the age gap, "See. Indian. It's in my blood."
Continuing on along the street, feeling more Indian with each step, our next stop is a chemist, where the proprietor is sitting watching the cricket more than the shop. Always up for a chat with the locals, my boy fronts up to ask the state of play. I think Australia were chasing an exciting finish type total, but this was relegated to less important when the owner asks, "Are you Indian?"
'What? Are these people blind?'
The boy of course is chuffed. Smirks at me, and replies, "What do you think?"
"Well, you're wearing a Kulla hat, so you must be from Himachal Pradesh."
Choosing to see this as definitive proof of his new birthright, he is puffed out with, 'I told you so!' pride for at least a few more overs, until the Australian batsmen ramp up the run rate and look like retrieving a win.
Oh, the nationalistic dilemma. A newly minted Indian showing his true colours and cheering for the other side.
Completing the look with his yak wool scarf, we set off for our evening constitutional, out of the relative calm of our side street location, towards the still bustling bazaar, that is Kanwali Road.
"We won't need any money will we?" as we turned out of the gated driveway. He answered himself, in my hesitation, "No. We'll be alright."
Not even as far as the end of the street, he spotted the peanut seller. Stopping, and turning to me, "Oh, but I'd love a bag of hot peanuts."
"Do you want to go back? I'll wait on the corner. Actually I'd probably make more money than you. Maybe I should go back? "
I left him with, "I'm sure you'll find someone to talk to while I'm gone."
And of course not ten minutes later I return to find him standing next to the peanut seller, surrounded by boys, bikes and other bemused bystanders, tasting the produce; a mountain of nuts in their shells, roasting over coals. Now cashed up, he received his Rs 15/- bag of nuts. Finishing his free handful, he was cheered by a passing group of boys on bikes, "Grandfather!" laughing and coming around for another lap. Taking this as further confirmation of his burgeoning Indian-ness, not the age gap, "See. Indian. It's in my blood."
Continuing on along the street, feeling more Indian with each step, our next stop is a chemist, where the proprietor is sitting watching the cricket more than the shop. Always up for a chat with the locals, my boy fronts up to ask the state of play. I think Australia were chasing an exciting finish type total, but this was relegated to less important when the owner asks, "Are you Indian?"
'What? Are these people blind?'
The boy of course is chuffed. Smirks at me, and replies, "What do you think?"
"Well, you're wearing a Kulla hat, so you must be from Himachal Pradesh."
Choosing to see this as definitive proof of his new birthright, he is puffed out with, 'I told you so!' pride for at least a few more overs, until the Australian batsmen ramp up the run rate and look like retrieving a win.
Oh, the nationalistic dilemma. A newly minted Indian showing his true colours and cheering for the other side.
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