To someone who has not seen rain in months, the wet tramac of the Changi Airport was a welcome sight. The droplets of rain that gathered on the window of the Jumbo jet rang nostalgic bells

Expecting to have a good time despite the chock-a-block schedule, as one disembarked from the craft, "Here I come, the world cleanest city," one told to self.

"So you think you are an Indian?" the lady at the immigration counter shattered all the 'expectations of a good time' with her cold question.

Despite the "chink face", the flat nose, high cheek bones and pencil eyes, never before was one asked such a question in previous travels to foreign shores.

"No, it is not a question of 'thinking I am an Indian'. I am an Indian," she was told politely the fact.

The Passport is the proof and the visa is the vindication, a message was conveyed to her firmly.

My 'eney' looking lady finally relented, after successfully squeezing valuable time. (Already the delayed flight had put prior commitments at the Fullerton Hotel in jeopardy).

"Thank you" was said to her with a tinge of sarcasm.

Exactly 22 minutes and 15 Singapore dollars later, I stood in front of the classic Fullerton Hotel, furbished on the remnants of a colonial past, which was now one of the most sought after places in the capital city.

However, any thoughts nurtured about a trouble and irritation free stay there was cut short by the sweet looking girl at the reception counter.

"Oh! you are an Indian," she exclaimed, after seeing the "passport", which she took for check-in purpose.
"Yup."
"Oh I can't believe this, then you must have a Chinese mother or father," she insisted.
"No. In India there's a part in its north-east, the people from where look the same as you are,".
There began the mini geography and social studies lesson.
The student was bright and she understood her lessons quickly.

After dumping the luggage in the room, and a quick freshening up, the day's engagements began.

But more identity crises were to follow. The host, the two Britons, were also equally zapped on seeing a "Singaporean" instead of an Indian.
The same lesson taught to the receptionist was repeated at the meeting table. While one got tired of the whole thing, two Britons got to know there was a part of India where people of Mongoloid race inhabit.

"One of those races proudly call themselves Manipuri and of course they are amongst the nicest people on Earth," the Brits were made to understand.

Thankfully, the identity crisis bit helped cut ice between the host the guest.

Yet, in the crowd at the Orchard Street or Sim Lim Tower or at the city's MRT (underground rail system), it didn't matter if an Indian, a Manipuri to be precise, was walking, shoulder to shoulder with people whose faces resembled the same, but who called themselves Singaporeans!!!