sitting indian style

(Mumbai, airport)

Sitting on the ground in the arrivals hall in Mumbai, i am waiting for the promised car from the base. All around me the hot, thick air is filled with the sounds of car horns blaring, undercut with a constant, fluid hum of Hindi. Flies land on my arms and I twitch them off, feeling more than ever like an animal in some strange zoo. People line the rails, waiting for their own to come out the doors into the enveloping humidity, but until that happens, I am enough to hold their interest.

I am acutely aware of myself, of the way I look and the way I sit and the way I move. For the first time, I feel like I don't belong. In Africa, surrounded by a sea of colour, I could forget my own whiteness. Here, it seems, I will not have the chance.

This is probably a good thing.

The car is here.