Touch me. Touch me like you didn't touch me last night.

            Everybody in The Spot went quiet when Hamir Mendra walked in the front door. The customers of the greasy spoon—located in a town which, at 4400 people, was the largest in its county—rarely saw an Indian on television, let alone in person. Everybody stopped and stared at the Hindu holy man, with his long white hair, flowing white robes, and black pottu spot on his forehead.

            In the eerie silence of this Midwestern restaurant, Sir Reginald’s booming voice was all the more distinct.

           “BABA MENDRA!” he shouted through a mouthful of beans and sausage and egg on toast. “Good heavens, it’s been years! Come, sit, eat with me!”

            The patrons of The Spot were of two minds about whether they should keep staring at the Indian or at the shouty English man who was eating a plateful of what appeared to be vomit.

            “Namaskar, Sir Reginald! Kaise ho aap?" exclaimed the man in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you for months!” he said, with such a stereotypical accent that it practically dared somebody to make fun of it