Through the open doorway I saw Indians still sleeping on rope beds set up beside the street for the night. A picture of blue-hued Krishna, fluting breathy silver notes to dancing dairymaids in saris, hung behind the glass counter. Under glass, the packaged biscuits, sweets and cigarettes wheeled in stacks. I sipped tea and held The Hindustan Times in the triangle of direct sunlight that fell on my plank table.

Another tea drinker appeared two tables away. He lowered his eyes when I looked up. I read the editorial page. It happened again: I looked up and he looked down. Was this a message? He was favored with dark eyes, feeling eyes. He sprawled, relaxed as a Goa beachcomber. Unruffled, I patted my hair into place and touched lipstick to my lower lip. My eyes were drawn from the print to where he sat. He looked down.

He must want to ask questions about my country, I thought. Maybe he wants to take me out. Perhaps he'll marry me. He needs a green card to go to America. He'll be a graduate student. I wonder if he'll like my chicken biriyani.

I couldn't wait for the outcome or even for the beginning, it seemed. As soon as I left my table, he glided over to get The Hindustan Times I had left. Without a glance he began to read.

Actually, he was more polite than some Indian men. On the Bombay train, an Indian had snatched my newspaper from my lap even before we left the station. When he opened to page two, his eyes met mine and defused every trace of my pique. Smiling with such good humor, he made me wish I'd bought it just for him. After he'd read his fill, he gave it back.

By Pushkar Lake (India), an itinerant cow thought of an alternative use for my Express newspaper, and when my back was turned, she paused by my table and ate the headlines. Seeing her, the tea vendor grabbed a broom, and swatted the sacred cow, mid-page. Soon, the same cow washed down my news by drinking dishwater from a bucket by the tea stand. (The next day, my newspaper was a patty drying in the sun to fuel the cooking fire.)

I remembered in Chile the men had said "Permiso" and waited for consent before taking the paper. On the train south from Santiago, a señor with his son had eyed me, testing my attachment to the paper. I had him pegged for the next owner. Then a conductor in a black uniform rocked down the aisle. Legs braced to keep his balance, he asked riders their destinations and sold tickets. The conductor told the newspaper fancier's son, "Stand up and let's see how tall you are!" I wondered why. "Dios mio, if my boy's over one meter, I must buy him a ticket," replied the señor. The boy stood proud, taller than the conductor's meter stick, so papa had to pay. The conductor, meanwhile, seeing my paper, treated me to a melting smile. "Con permiso?" So I gave him my copy of El Tiempo.

Here in New Delhi I identified, in fact, with the Indian man who had waited for my newspaper. It reminded me of my days in New York when I had eaten breakfast at The Active Ingredients Restaurant, where the fragrance of baking bread warmed the morning. One time when I arrived, a few patrons like flies with newspapers under their arms looked for the right table for settling down. One chose a table, deposited himself, and read. Another searched the faces around, then selected a table near those he liked best. A third buzzed the tables while he compared light, noise factors (kitchen racket, serving-line voices, the hum from the air conditioner), temperatures (by the window and near the center of the room), the light or darkness of the table tops and the population density in each neighborhood of tables. To find the ideal resting spot took him five minutes and then his coffee was cold. I fixed my eye on him. He had a New York Times.

A woman hugged the Times, but she toted a big breakfast, too. From her tray she arranged her apple and orange at the left on the table, her grapefruit juice and coffee, right. Her plate of stacked pancakes swooped into center, drifting its aura of maple syrup. The lady plunked the paper on the bench and sat down to appraise her domain. Her fork jabbed into her mountain of pancake. I stopped watching.

A businessman folded his paper! He stood, straightened his tie, picked up his attaché case, opened it and looked inside. I feared he'd pack his paper, but he changed his mind. I glanced around the room. I had three rivals, already stalking that paper. They watched him with three kinds of smiles: one with a ready smile; the second, not quite; the third, more than ready. The paper still lay on the table, as the patron organized a box into the crook of his left arm. He searched high and low. Looking for his cane? No, for his hat. He put on a Stetson. Two of my rivals trembled for the news: the third looked gaunt with desire. A tray of dishes crashed; a metal cover clanged on the floor and spun ever faster. We kept our eyes on the newspaper. The well-dressed man left the table.

Four of us reached the table at once. We introduced ourselves, asked how did we do, spoke of the weather, grinned. One asked, "What's new?" Then of one accord we looked down at the newspaper.

A strange hand with a good suit sleeve took our paper! Furious, we looked up only to see the owner, who must have forgotten it. His eyes pierced us each in the brow and he turned without a word.

The tallest of the news rivals -- the one with the more than ready smile -- gave up the sport and followed him out.

Three of us returned to our tables and resumed the watch.

A woman slipped her purse strap over her shoulder and stood up with resolution. She had left her paper on the table! Two of us hopped right over. Unbelievable! It was The New York Times, all right, but the copy, yesterday's. The woman had left "The Week in Review" and the "Arts and Leisure." The second rival strolled by and hacked a laugh.

My two rivals had to go to work, so with one ready smile, they left. A newcomer to 'The Active Ingredients' was from India or Pakistan. I could see he was adept as he checked how far each reader had progressed in their paper. His strategy was to move to the table by the reader who neared the end.

As it happened, this reader sat in the booth before mine. I could only see the corner of a white sheet curl like a calm wave over the top of the booth, then sink from view. In a moment another crest of printed wave rose, curled, and dropped. It took two minutes for it to happen again. The crescent peaked, fell.

An Hispanic woman -- her hair reddish-blond -- rose from the booth and left without her paper. The Indian and I reached her table at the same time. I would let him have it -- he was a guest in our country -- but he gave me half! We introduced ourselves. He'd been in America four days and he was from New Delhi!

So now in Connaught Place, New Delhi, this morning as I wait by the counter to pay my bill, I can understand clearly how the Indian visiting America had received his training -- probably in this same kind of setting. I feel happy watching the Goa beachcomber studying my former paper. After paying the man with the orange turban for the vibrant Indian tea and chana, I hide a smile at seeing two more Indians already watching the reader who now owns my Hindustan Times.