Written by Eugene Burdick and William Lederer, the novel ‘The Ugly American’ was published in 1958. It was an instant sensation and is still a steady seller; it remains in print to the present day. Considered an iconic book of the Cold War, this fictionalised text, rooted in reality, pierced deep into the failures of the American diplomatic corps in Southeast Asia (by the Kennedy administration, the US Peace Corps is considered to be an offshoot of the book’s immense impact).An oft-quoted passage from the book is when a Burmese journalist says: “…the (American) people I meet in my country are not the same as I know in the United States. A mysterious change seems to come over Americans when they go to a foreign land. They isolate themselves socially. They live pretentiously. They are loud and ostentatious.” The last bit gave rise to the stereotype image of the ‘Ugly American’ outside his borders — whether he was a tourist, diplomat or businessman. It is also believed that the title was a play on Graham Greene’s book, ‘The Quiet American’, which had been published some years earlier (both books were turned into successful films).On the other hand, I don’t think there are too many ‘Ugly Indians’ abroad — unless we are desperate to make a reel for social media and find that creating a nuisance facilitates the purpose. We behave reasonably well when we are overseas. We stand in line, we rarely shout. We may be ‘Silly Indians’, ‘Fawning Indians’ or ‘Irritating Indians’ — but we are rarely ‘Ugly Indians’. We keep that for when we are home. Here, we litter, we often shout, we often fight; even when none of the above are desirable or necessary.Of late, I seem to have had my share of the ‘Ugly Indian’ — who has come in all shapes, sizes and in varied avatars. There is a tenant who arrived with references and grand promises. Before decamping and leaving the premises locked, he has not paid the rent for well over a year and has also burdened me, among other things, with an unpaid garbage bill. As if that was not enough, a set of goons decided that a fight was the way to get things turned in their favour, and found that beating up my son and manhandling my wife (in my noted absence) would move matters their way. So between shouts of ‘how they would set the house on fire’, and threats to life and limb, we have much to thank for the protection of the local police force.A less personal but an unforgotten impact of ugliness stemmed from something very different. This was a professional assignment in Srinagar some two decades back. I had been asked to be the compere for a tourism promotion event for J&K’s Tourism Department. With the appropriate approvals, one had been hired by the event company.Kashmir’s tourism business, the backbone of the local economy, was in doldrums. This was to re-showcase one of the most beautiful places in the world that was beset by terrorism and human tragedy. One drove past the Dal and Nagin lakes and their largely empty houseboats and noted, again, their delightful names — Young Mona Lisa, Cherry Ripe, Sea Hawk, Noble House, Rolex and New Golden Fleece. The absolutely magnificent setting of the Sher-i-Kashmir International Conference Centre took care of a substantial part of the show. The storied lawns were bordered by packed flower-beds flowing down to the banks of the Dal Lake. In the background are the low rolls of the Zabarwan Range.As the sun slipped behind the hills, the lights and fountains came on. As best as I can tell, the programme was a success. This event was a bit of a junket and excursions were also on the menu. On the first visit, the very first thing that we saw as we got off the bus was graffiti on the wall that read: “Indian dogs get out.” That, I’m told, has now changed.This time, the column may be somewhat grim, but these things and the insecurity that they carry with them is something that we common people seem to face on a fairly regular basis. And then, perhaps strangely, what set this tirade off is something that made me feel so wonderful about our country — despite the fractures and the toll the last few days have taken. I am not a religious person, but every once in a while, I go to the temple that is close to our house.Prone to taking shortcuts, and not wanting to take off my shoes, I pay obeisance from outside the door that leads to the sanctum. This time, there was a relatively aged man, obviously one of the many Kashmiri labourers who come to Himachal’s hills. He must have delivered something to the premises adjoining the temple. This person first asked if he could have it, then removed his shoes, bowed his head and took the prasad that I had taken a moment before with my shoes still on.— The writer is an author based in Shimla