The worthiness of me or my story cannot be evaluated by anyone, not even the famous Shashi Tharoor.
I met Shashi Tharoor on an Indigo shuttle bus from the airplane to the airport. He was sitting one row in front of me on a plane from Kolkata to Jaipur. Prior to meeting him, I watched him. He looks like a person who is important. Even his hair suggests that he matters. People were boarding the plane and all but jumping in his lap to take pictures with him. Was he a celebrity? His celebrity status was confirmed by the volume at which he announced, “I need all of this to read during the flight,” in response to the flight attendant requesting that he put his bag in an overhead compartment before take-off. Still, I had no inkling of who he could be.
Not one to ask questions or to initiate conversation (who needs to risk ruining a delightful flight by sharing an awkward silence with a stranger), I decided I would ask him of his identity off of the plane if the opportunity presented itself and attempted to busy myself with the inflight Indigo magazine. My row mate (who was not as risk-averse as I) decided that her curiosity about the lone white girl sitting next to her (me) was far more important than any magazine and interrupted me shortly after take off. During her inquisition (who I am, why I am alone, why I’m not married, what I think of India, why I’m not scared…