After spending 10 days in Lucknow where I went to visit Punjaji, it's time for me to head towards Poona. Upon inquiring about the prices of the flight tickets, I come to know that a ticket for a tourist costs exactly the double than one for an Indian, and what I was planning to spend is actually the fare for Indians. Looking into my wallet I soon understand that if I want to stay a few weeks in Poona, I have to purchase a ticket as a "kama'aina". I ask an Indian friend of mine if he could go to the Air India office and buy a ticket to Poona for me with, of course, an Indian name. But what name? Not being very familiar with Indian family names, the first one that come to my mind is Rajneesh, but somehow to me it feels a little too loud. (I wonder why?) The second name that pops up in my mind is the music shop in Laxmi Road in Poona where I use to buy all my instruments, Adjimer Singh.
        So this is the name I give him for my ticket, Mr.Singh. Yes, it sounds good. As I am waiting outside of the Air India office, I am thinking about who this Mr. Singh is gonna be. He is obviously a Sikh (Singh is a common name in the Sikh community) and he was born in India but grew up in London and that's why he can speak only very little Hindi (alas, I cannot speak ANY Hindi!) and he's now visiting his native country after many years of living in England.
        Once I get my ticket (or should I say Mr. Singh's ticket?) I realize that the most important factor for me is of course to wear a turban like every Sikh worth the name would do. So I find a fabric shop and, with my total surprise, the clerk tells me how many meters of material you usually need for a turban; 4 to 6 meters minimum! I go for five meters and as I am walking towards my hotel I look all around to see if I can find any Sikh and get an idea how to make this turban. My eyes move from Muslims wearing their typical small round cap covering only the top of their head, to Hindus wearing a red dot on their third eye and the white Gandhi cap, to some Indian business men with briefcase and western style suite and tie, to a couple of sadhus with nothing over their body but colored ashes and a perizoma, but not a trace of a single Sikh walking down this road. 'Well' I am telling myself as I am going up the stairs to my room, 'I will make one myself, it cannot be that difficult!'
        After having spent the all evening in front of the mirror, trying really hard to get something around my head that at least looked like a turban, I realize that it is actually not that easy to make a good one. I also know that this is the main piece around which my camouflage is based, therefore it has to be really slick. So the next morning, after my toast and chai, I go downtown, determined this time to get hold of a Sikh, (this time with a certain urgency because my flight to Poona is departing the next day at 2pm.
        After walking back and forth through the market all morning and not finding any trace of a walking turban I am feeling very discouraged, when suddenly, walking in front of a perfumes shop, my eyes get caught by a big red turban that the guy behind the counter is wearing! I walk in and carried by the enthusiasm of having finally found what I was looking for, I start buying all kinds of soaps, toothpaste, perfumes, oil for the skin, lipstick, kajal and what not. Once my bag is full enough to satisfy not one but at least three of the most exigent Indian ladies, I start making friend with the guy (that by now, after my long shopping catharsis, is already very friendly towards me...) and when the conversation reach the right climax I tell him that, after many years of self inquiring, I have come to the realization that in order to find what I am looking for, I have to turn my faith towards the Sikh religion. My only concern though, I tell him, is that I am not sure if I am going to look cool (I think I said "good" to him) wearing a turban. He promises me that I definitely will, and to prove it he asks me to come back the next morning at 10 am, when he opens his shop, and he will make one for me... (Bingooo!!). I gladly accept his invitation while I am making a quick calculation to make sure that I will have enough time to get ready and reach the airport in time for my flight.
        The next morning at 10 am I am standing all excited in front of his shop that is still closed. At 10.30 am I am still standing in front of his closed shop but not so excited anymore, and at 11 o'clock I am really worrying that I am not gonna make it in time for my flight and I start walking up and down the street scanning with my eyes all the other shops in the area to see if, by chance, there is any other Sikh that owns a shop there. But with no luck, and feeling on the verge of depression, I start wondering why do they call this city Lucknow.
        Finally at 11.30, with a typical Indian slow pace, my man arrives, opens his shop and, to my surprise, in just five minutes he wraps around my head the most beautiful and regal turban I could have ever hoped to wear! In the process of making it he shows me how a turban can be put on and taken off just like a cap, without having to re-do the whole thing every time as the inside folds are held together by big pins. When his creation is over he looks at me and with unconcealed pride he says, "I knew from the very first moment you walked into the shop that you were one of us!".
        Feeling quite reassured about my appearances by his words, but not yet totally comfortable, I rush back to my hotel room and complete his work with some beautiful Punjabi clothes and shawl, darkening my eyes with some kajal and, as a strawberry on top of the cake, curling the ends of my mustache upwards (Salvador Dali style) and fix them in that position with some thick coconut oil (in those days it was still difficult to find American gel...).
        As the final test, I walk next door where Dhiru and Mukta (they both traveled with me from Maui) are staying, and knock at their door. When Mukta opens the door, her jaw drops open and it takes her quite a few seconds before, obviously thrilled and surprised, she screams, "Shastro, you look fantastic!" Now, being Mukta is born in an Indian family, I take this as a compliment and a confirmation that yes, I now can be Mr. Singh! After spending a few minutes with the excited girls wishing that they had a camera, I finally get my luggage together, jump on a taxi and head towards my first real fire test-the airport check-in counter