A couple of years ago, my wife and I had to catch a flight immediately following a religious observance at our local temple. Minutes after the last ceremony ended, we jumped into a cab and raced straight to the airport. A testament to both the power of prayer and New York cabbies, we arrived with time to spare.

As the airline representative typed in our names, I noticed her fascination with our appearance. It was not entirely surprising: I wore a cream-coloured dhoti and kurta — loose fitting traditional Indian clothes that most people simply call “robes.”

My wife looked elegant in her sari, brightly coloured silk wrapped so that the end came up as a head-covering. Around her neck she wore a flower garland, consecrated at the temple, now shedding rose petals wherever she stepped. Markings of bright yellow tilak, sacred clay used to anoint the body, decorated our foreheads. The final touch: on my way out of the temple, I had grabbed some magazines to read on the plane, and I now held these as if poised to start handing them out at any moment.

“Excuse me, sir,” the representative finally said, “But I was wondering about your clothing. Is it part of your religion?” Here we go, I thought.

I braced myself, looked her in the eyes, and decided to not pull any punches. “Yes. Actually, we’re Hare Krishnas.”

There, I said it. We’re Hare Krishnas. At the airport. “Pardon me? Harry Christians, you say?” — Beliefnet.com