I had been to the airport with a friend to receive his father, who was visiting Canada for the first time. The man, in his seventies, whom we’ll call Mr G, had had a distinguished career with the government of India, and had rubbed shoulders with several celebrities. I had been somewhat in awe of his reputation before I met him.
I waited with my friend as the passengers started streaming out the exit with their large bags, Mr. G arrived somewhat late. He was tall and energetic for his age. My friend touched his feet, asked about the trip and introduced me in Hindi, his mother tongue. As he went to fetch the car, he asked me to keep his father company.
Mr G peered at me for a while, and asked what I did for a living, whether I was married, and where I was from. I answered the questions briefly, but not so brief as to sound abrupt. He was still curious. The questions were in Hindi. My answers were mostly in English with a bit of Hindi..
‘Did you say your name is Anand Khanna?”
“No, it is Anand Kannan, actually.”
“So you are from Madras?”.
“Yes, close, A place called Trichy”, I said, conflicted between irritation, and gratitude for not bing called a Madrasi.
“So you speak Malayalam?”
“Tamil, actually”.
“I thought Trichy was in Kerala”.
“You're thinking of Trichur, perhaps? That's in Kerala.”
“Do you know Hindi?”
“Yeah. I can read and write, I can speak but I’m not very fluent.”
“99 percent of Indians speak Hindi”, he said.
I was about to disagree, and give him a revised estimate, then thought the better of it. There was no point arguing. He kept looking at me, as if daring me to disagree. I was saved by the arrival of my friend.
