That’s the sign that greets me at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport in Mumbai. Don’t try to pronounce it.

I still have a sore on my tongue where I bit it trying out the words. I’m here for a study on single men (and hopefully women), and although welcome is the message, the scene at the airport is nothing close to welcoming.

For one, the Indians in India are nothing like the Indians in Kenya. Those in India speak in something I can only describe as Hindiglish — a language closer to Hindi than English. The accent is so thick, I barely make it through customs.

“Vat you come to do India?” the man with my passport says.

First of all, my name is not Vat, and I have no idea how to do India. That’s what I want to say, but the man peers at me from under the kind of bushy eyebrows that tell you he can read through to your mind.

“I’m here for Romantic Near-Misses and Other Statistical Miracles.”

The brows arc up one after the other. “You come India to find romance?”

“You make it sound like it would be a bad thing.”

The stoic demeanour falls and the man bursts out laughing. He tosses a look over his shoulder and shouts something in Hindi. I cannot be sure it’s Hindi, but that’s all the Indian languages I know.

Another Indian man abandons his station and joins my bushy-browed friend. He takes one look at me and stifles a laugh. “Is this true, mister? You fly many hours and jump many oceans to find romantic missus in Bharat?”

“No,” I say, beginning to feel a tad offended. “It’s a scientific study of singles in Agra.”

They laugh even more.

“So you want study single Indian ve-men,” says my first acquaintance.

“How is this important? I’m only here to take a connecting flight.”

A third guy now joins the conversation. The second guy nudges him with an elbow. “You hear that, Ravi? This man from Kenya wants to make connection with our ve-men.”

I can’t believe this, I’m thinking. I say, “Can I talk to someone else, please? Maybe like a supervisor?”

“Oh, you want to meet supervisor of single women, nahin?” says the third dude.

Just then, an Indian woman in a neat blue skirt suit arrives at the station. The men scatter like chicken attacked by a hawk.

“My apologies, sir,” she says in near-perfect English. “Sometimes my colleagues don’t know when to stop. Would you like to lodge a complaint?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say and mean it. “All I want is to make it to my next flight.”

“Anika,” she says, grabbing my passport and leading me through.

“I don’t understand Hindi,” I confess.

She laughs sweetly. “That’s my name. Anika, not ma’am.”

“Tom,” I say, embarrassed. As we walk into the Transit Lounge, I say, “By the way, Anika, why was it so amusing to the guys thinking that I’ve come to India to find romance?”

She smiles. “In Indian tradition, marriages are arranged. Mostly, anyway. When you get to meet your bride a few weeks before your marriage, romance can only come after the wedding, not before.”

I throw a smiling glance back towards the arrival bay. “Oh, those poor bastards.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Anika says. “It might just be the perfect cure for your chronic singlehood.” Another beatific grin. “Don’t look so surprised. I overheard your conversation.”

“Thanks for saving me. Is there a way I can call you in case I run into more trouble?”

She nods. “I’m listed. If you can find it, call me. Have a nice flight, Tom.”

Suddenly, it feels like it might not be so hard to find romance in India.