As we were wrapping up our exploration of the Gateway of India, a police officer approached me and my colleague. His English wasn't great. He almost completely ignored Stephanie and asked me where I was from. I said, "America."
Cop: "America! Newyohk? Newyohk? America, newyohk?"
Me: "New York? No, Los Angeles."
Cop (pointing to himself): "Mumbai police."
Me: "Okay."
He extends his hand. I shake it - he doesn't return the shake. It's like shaking hands with a sculpture. He turns to Stephanie - the same awkward exchange ensues.
We all stand and smile at each other, in total silence, for about fifteen seconds.
(That's longer than it sounds.)
Cop (pointing to himself): "Mumbai police."
Me (after exchanging a clueless glance with Stephanie): "...Keep up the good...work...?"
Cop: "Baksheesh. Mumbai police."
Now Stephanie understands the purpose of this exchange, but plays dumb.
Finally, the cop prepares to go on about his business - but first, he reaches out to touch my hair. Without asking. As though I'm the sculpture, some inanimate object of interesting texture. I dodge back, but he follows through with a curious caress, then shrugs and wanders off.
Baksheesh requires some explanation - basically, when someone asks for baksheesh, they're saying "You look like you've got plenty of money - therefore, I deserve some of it. Share the wealth." Sometimes, they're asking for a tip for virtually no services rendered; sometimes, they're really just panhandling. When the person asking is in a position of authority, it's a polite way of saying "Bribe me." I was a little afraid we were going to wind up in custody unless we shared that wealth, but apparently the guy was satisfied with touching my hair.
Ten minutes before this exchange, a gentleman stopped us so that he could take a picture of his children standing with us.
Sigh....
