The other day at the bus station a man with one eye and a pen knife approaches me and starts speaking in Hindi. I look at him skeptically, take a few pointed glances at the folded blade between his hands and shift slowly away. He doesn’t seem to mind.
It’s broad daylight and I’m flanked to my right by two pre-pubescent boys eagerly peddling mango juice. I’ve already told them no, the two water bottles in my hands are enough liquid for me. But they trail me anyway, undeterred.
After getting a safe arm’s distance from the cyclops and his knife I start trying to figure out what he’s saying. “Where you go?” he asks gruffly. “Pune,” I say.
“Bus over there!” he points, still fingering the dormant blade. I realize I still don’t know if he’s trying to threaten or help me, if he’s being territorial or friendly.
“I know,” I say. All buses in this station go to Pune. “I’m waiting for my friend! Mera dost ata hai,” I explain in workable Hindi.
“Ah, dost,” he says, and walks away. Whether because I no longer seemed alone and vulnerable or because he could see I didn’t need help, I don’t know.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever let down my guard in the streets of India. When little kids run up to you and yell “money!” you begin to see that for many of them you’re just a walking wallet. I often walk around with a grimace – my mask of fearlessness and indifference – only to see it reflected back at me. Who started it? Should I let the beer vendor and rickshaw driver trying to rip me off affect how I interact with the waiter and the other rickshaw driver? It’s hard not to, at least so far.
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