I got the feeling she didn't quite like us.

"I am concerned," she said. "We are on a high alert, you know."

She was in her mid-30s, stout of build, seemingly educated, seated in a corner of a playground in Central Park, New York. I sat near, on the bench next to her.

Dressed in trousers, shirt and light jacket, she stood up as she spoke. She kept her distance, but there was an air of belligerence about her -- feet apart, shoulders thrown back, eyes narrowed.

"Can I ask you what this is all about?"

I told her I was a reporter. And that the small guy with the big camera by the gate of the playground was our staff photographer. He was working on photographs for an article on Central Park we planned to carry in our next issue. Hence our presence here.

"Is that so? So you don't mind if I check up on you?"

I didn't mind. Perhaps she could take a look at my press identification card?

"But this doesn't prove anything," she said after inspecting it. "This could be a fake. They are coming out with fakes of everything... You people are just photographing this whole place! We are on a high alert, you know."

I said I understood her anxiety, but what, pray, did she think we would accomplish with a few snapshots of a playground even if we were not what we claimed we were?

"I don't know! I don't know what you are up to! I am just concerned, you see."

I couldn't understand her concern. In any case, I told her, there was nothing that indicated photography was prohibited there.

"So you don't mind if I call an officer?"

I said she was most welcome to do that. She seemed to think that over a bit, and visibly cooled down some.

"I would like to keep a card of yours. We are on a high alert, you know."

I told her I was visiting from India and my card had our address in Mumbai, not New York -- but I sure could get one for her from our photographer, who worked out of our Manhattan office.

She came along to the gate, where I explained to my colleague the trouble. He could settle her doubts, he said. He had his police pass, issued by the New York City police department.

"This could be a fake," the lady said. "I don't recognise this."

My colleague told her the police department issued the card. If she doubted its authenticity she could call them up and check. And he had his United Nations pass -- surely that too couldn't be a fake?

She inspected that. "I don't recognise this."

There were, I pointed out to her, other people who were qualified to recognise such cards. Like the police, for one. Or, alternatively, she could speak to our office.

She put in a call to the number I gave her. Yes, our office told her, we were who we said we were.

"Well, I would still like to note down your details," she said at the end of the conversation. "I am going to check up on you."

Most welcome, we told her -- and could we have her name too? She didn't answer.

Could we have your name, ma'am? No answer again. And then, suddenly, an outburst:

"I am concerned, you know... I am concerned when a Middle Eastern man starts taking pictures of my country!"

So that's what it all boils down to finally -- the colour of your skin. And ignorance of the fact that there is big, beautiful world outside America, populated largely by non-terrorists.

It took 9/11 for a certain gentleman in Washington to realise that. But it hasn't filtered down to this lady yet.

"I got somebody in the security," the lady said in parting, after we told her that racial profiling wasn't something we were happy about. "Be sure I will check up on you. We are on a high alert, you know..."

Mercifully, the average American is not on "high alert". Else, God help America.

For the last time, Chindu Sreedharan is Indian and proud of it.

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

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