There are moments here in India when, as a simple foreigner, you feel like rockstar royalty. People are jostling to get close to you, gossipy chatter catalogues your every move, and small children are liable to be thrust into your arms by eager parents.

Little girls are some of the most charming: eyes widen as they take in your foreign weirdness, before a huge open smile cracks open, revealing whiter-than-white teeth. Two little girls I befriended on the railway platform at Jodhpur were soon joined by their father, who made me shake his little baby’s plump hand, exhorting me the whole time: ‘It is a sweet child! Sw-ee-eet child!’ And, like small children everywhere, it was particularly sweet: big black eyes and abundant lashes all set-off by skilfully-applied rings of kohl.

Last night, on our basic rural bus wending its way to the Karni Mata Temple, there were hardly any women. Every inch of space was crammed with men (and the return journey on a different bus got decidedly nasty because it). A family got on: father, mother and a teenage daughter. They came and squeezed onto the seat in front of us.

Spotting me, the daughter beamed, and stuck out her hand for a formal handshake. It was an amazing gesture - just as though we were two Imperial gents meeting on a busy London street outside a Gentlemen’s Club.

In fact, we were two ex-colonials meeting in a sea of testosterone, which made it all the lovelier.