You want taxi, mister?” someone called out behind me from a rusty Mumbai cab. His English was contrived. Having wandered far away from my glitzy Juhu hotel, I probably had the touristy bulls-eye painted on my back. Why else would he assume I would choose him over an auto-rickshaw like any typical Mumbaikar? Why would he struggle with me in broken English rather than in Munnabhai’s lingo?

I was trying to briskly walk away, trying to lose myself in the crowd. But the shouts grew louder: “Discount for you only, mister!” “Hello! Where you going?”

Over my travel years, I have come to cringe at any form of accented English from such ‘conveyance conmen’. What typically ensues is some or all of the following: a suddenly discovered malfunctioning meter, a fare amounting to a king’s ransom, an unnecessary cruise through the town’s perimeter before arriving at your destination.

Having lived in Bombay for over 30 years before, how could these opportunists tell I was now a visitor and did not belong here any more? What was so touristy or NRI-ish about me now? I wore a pair of Kolhapuri and donned desi clothes like anyone else from Chembur would have. “It’s the haircut,” some wag had earlier suggested.

Personally, I think such drivers develop a sixth sense for tourists over the years, transporting people and studying anthropological mannerisms. Clothes, glasses, shoes, cigarettes, jeans, cologne — these are the giveaways. If you belong to the godforsaken NRI species, your angrezi-speaking children let you down.

... contd.