I think we experienced a quintessential 'Indian conversation' today: bamboozling; impressive; surreal.

I was worried before arriving in India that my complete lack of cricketing knowledge would be frowned upon, proving to be both a conversation-stopper and an affront to my Australianness. In three days' worth of India travel, the Cricket Question is yet to rear its ugly head, but today my undoing occurred on another conversational front altogther. Yes, that's right: Patrick White trivia was on the chatting agenda in downtown Calcutta.

We were on our way to the river here, where thousands upon thousands of Hindu pilgrims are currently converging. The devout are on their way way to Sagar Island for the annual Ganga Sagar Mela pilgrimage, and, for the past week, they have been pasing through Calcutta en masse.

Moving in the direction of the river, we were picking our way through the city's 'lungs' - a huge expanse of bracken-dry grass, paddocks, sporting ovals and dusty tracks known collectively as 'the Maidan' - I was reflecting that the barren, rubbish-strewn ground was not quite living up to the tranquil description given by LP.

Suddenly, a short, squat Hindu man was calling out to us as we passed one another in a paddock: 'Excuse me sirs! Which country are you coming from?'

(Us): Australia!

(Him): Yes, yes. I see! Look here: I am wearing an Australian sporting vest!

At which, he peeled open his checked shirt to reveal a green-and-gold cricketing shirt with logos on it advertising '3', a mobile phone company operating in Australia.

(Tiffany:) Aaah! Australian sporting colours - green and gold.

I receive now a somewhat baffled look, as though I am slightly imbecilic, but will be humoured.

(Him:) Yes, yes. That's right. Now ... how much is air passage from your country to India?

Where do you stay? How much is it per night? Is that per head, or together? Is this your husband? You are having children already? University? Which university? Which degree - oh, yes, we term that 'LLB'.

The next thing I knew, he muttered something very quickly about Nobel Laureates. I coldn't catch it, but I inferred that he was likely extolling his country's virtues and its achievements.

(Us, in hesitant confusion:) Yes, very good. Excellent!

(Him:) Yes, Patrick White. Most excellent man!

(Us:) Patrick White ...?

(Him:) Yes! Nobel Prize for Literature; year 1975. Most excellent. Oh! Was it '75 or '76?

He regards us expectantly, and with a whole-hearted faith that we will know the answer. Instead, all I can stutter out is: Your memory is incredible. How did you know that?

(He looks at me as if I am simple:) I remember it! I read it in the newspapers at the time!

(Us:) What do you do?

(Him, in a rising crescendo of mirth:) I do nothing! I am a vagrant! I am a little tramp! I am not having any family!

(Us:) Where do you stay?

(Him, gesturing:) I sleep out in an area adjacent to here.

We ask him for directions to the river, which he gives us, before we part ways with him calling out merrily, 'I must return to the temple by the river shortly! Perhaps I shall see you there!'

Postscript: Shamed by this conversation, I can report that I have Googled the great author, and have discovered that his Nobel Prize was awarded in 1973.