Can't I just enjoy my milk?

Last night a man barged into our conversation as we drank spiced milk at a corner stand. No "Hello", no "Excuse me" - he jumped straight to, "Which country?" (as in..."are you from?") Sometimes it's tough to maintain patience. Sometimes simple courtesy can be a stretch. Reflexively, the corners of my mouth stretched back into a tight grin and my eyes rolled. Guys like this seek any engagement they can scrounge to use as an "in" to sell you something. Usually, the less they have to offer, the more willing they are for any entree. They often sidle in close, ignoring boundaries of personal space that Americans take so much for granted that you don't even know where they lie...until someone crosses them. My hand instinctively goes for my money pocket when I sense it. This guy had stepped over the line. Before I had a chance to think about what was coming out of my mouth, he was backpedaling, "Why you is angry with me?" Tami and I both hesitated and she opened with an explanation of the protocol of public interaction.

He had us.

So...instead of him working through the usual litany of, "How long you are in India?"...."What is your profession?"..."What is your good name?"....etc; he was perfectly happy to learn about how Americans don't like to be rudely interrupted mid-conversation. He knew that was just a different path to get to his (and our) inevitable destination: he had a rickshaw and wanted to know if he could drive us around the following day.

A blind person could see it coming. As I did, I could only shake my head with the same tight grin and endeavor to conclude our discourse. Still sticking to the standard script, he tried to salvage some dignity by thrusting his hand toward my stomach. (Indian men, for whatever reason, feel compelled to want to shake the hands of foreign visitors. A day rarely passes where a hand doesn't unexpectedly jab out at me as I walk down the street. After you've spent enough time here, you'll understand why I always try to avoid the handshake. Sometimes, though, that hand comes in close enough that you reach out purely out of self-defense.) That's pretty much where I was with our friend on the milk corner. So I grasped his hand....and I noticed two things one right after the other. His hand was unnaturally soft, like a woman's. I quickly glanced down and saw not one but two small thumbs resting on the back of my hand right at the base of my index finger. Amazingly, both nails were filed into the typical, long, rounded "v" common to male Indian digits. With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowds and traffic, no rickshaw to be seen.