I have only about a quarter of a head of hair - I blame the loss of the rest to bad genes, bad hormones and bad karma. Even though I don't sport a mullet - mohawk, I can understand and empathize with S. R. Sidarth.

A couple of Fridays ago, I'd just left office only to find out that my train was late by almost an hour. Like every other conscientious worker who can't leave her gadgets alone, I yanked out my laptop and began hacking away at my unfinished tasks to make my wait worthwhile. To my left was a pair of guys - tourists from the look of it, maps in hand, huge pieces of luggage and all.

The louder of the two - a strapping man in an orange t-shirt who really was quite handsome except for the frown and the swearing - was pissed. It was hot, the train was late, the tickets hadn't been bought. "There's no way I'm gonna drag this stuff around," he said, before stomping off in search of the ticket counter.

Great, I thought. A few moments of quiet.

Then suddenly - Boo! came a cry. Slap slap.

I started. It was Orange T, back from his ticket counter hunting expedition, surprising his friend.

"Gotcha dude!" he yelled.

I must've stared/glared/scowled. Because suddenly Orange T leapt, and landed up in front of me.

"Sweetheart," he drawled, obnoxious and sweet all at the same time.

I looked. He was inches away from me.

"I said. Do. You. Speak. English?" He moved closer.

Everyone was looking at us now. Why did he want to know, I thought. If I said yes, would he tell me I was better off returning to whichever impoverished country I was from? If I said no, would I get a lecture on learning to speak the language?

I nodded.

"Then you watch luggage. Ok?"

I croaked out a yes.

"Me my friend here we buy tickets. You watch luggage. Ok? Don't go nowhere."

Yeah right, talk to me in pidgin English, as if I'm an idiot. They left, while I sat with an appropriately imbecilic expression of someone who speaks at all the wrong times, but whose voice had just deserted her. Also looking like I had a sub-zero IQ meant no one would notice my trembing hands.

A voice clucked from behind me.

"How rude."

"Good thing you didn't say anything, he seemed ready to pick a fight," said a young woman.

I said I thought the man ought to be banished to a Miss Manners concentration camp. I smiled when I said it, though deep down I knew it was just to pretend I wasn't fazed. I was still shaking, but sat back in my chair for a few momwnts, took a few deep breaths. I finally put my laptop back in its bag and walked off.

No, I don't want to watch your bags, Orange T, I thought. Especially since your request was so badly put. And yes, I can speak English - three flavours actually. The propah Queen's tongue, a put-on American one and in a musical, lilting Indian way. Wake me up from my sleep, and you'll hear some choice cuss words in the Indian accent. Watch me with my white friends and you'll hear the Rs rolling and the vowels shortening. Which one did you want to hear, sweetheart?

...

I later wondered what it is I'm giving my daughter - an American citizen from the day of her birth. At least I have a fall-back country, my "root" culture that I think I can return to if the need arises. Is this what I'm giving her - does it mean a lifetime of outsiderness? Someone commenting on an entry in my mother's blog said in peace we were who we imagine ourselves to be, but in war and adversity, our true selves came out. Incidents like this remind me that sometimes American eyes cannot see the differences between shades of brown, and all it takes is a few adverse events to rock the (mostly) happy dream that is life in the US.

I wish I could conclude that I had been audacious, hard-as-nails fearless. Maybe I would've regaled you with stories of knockout punches and kickass punchlines had I been a different sort of a person. What I learnt from this incident is that fearlessness is not always a given. Before I could talk about it, I had to understand myself, more than anyone else. I had to get rid of any associated shame. Sugarcoat my acerbity with humor. And oftentimes, fearlessness is just faking it till you get there.

Contributing Editor Priya Ramachandran also blogs at Words on Water