India is mad for cricket. Service in restaurants stops while the game is on and then resumes in a flurry of arms, silverware and steaming dishes during the commercials. Years ago, I spent what was probably the most confusing three hours of my life at a cricket match, and watching it on Indian TV was no more illuminating.

It would not be so bad if my companions would simply leave me in my blissful ignorance, but they always feel the need to explain the game to me, which makes the confusion much, much worse.

In much the same way the cricket looks a lot like baseball, but has almost nothing in common with the sport. Cricket is explained in language that sounds like English, but bears little relation to the language. Bowlers and batsmen are fine sensible terms, but googly golden ducks and sticky wickets are simply not English.

Before I moved to Japan, I assumed that two-year-olds were unaware of things like race. I soon discovered that they are. I occasionally pass by a Japanese mother trying to soothe her screaming, crying child to have the toddler suddenly fall silent and stare at me with open mouth and pealed eyes.

On the flight to India there was woman sitting across the aisle holding a baby who had been screaming incessantly for ten minutes. When she shifted her daughter to her other shoulder, the little girl looked at me agape, smiled and pointed, and thankfully she stopped crying and everyone around could relax. I told the mother how cute her little girl was, leaned my seat back and closed my eyes for sleep.

Then, for the next hour the woman and her husband tried to turn the girl so she was facing the other way. Each time they did, she would begin to scream and squirm until she was resting with her head in a position where she could see across the aisle. Husband and wife then changed seats so the wife and daughter were by the window where the girl eventually cried herself out after another 30 minutes or so.

Strangest thing.