The Lookalikes

 

The Lookalikes

It’s strange how life occasionally assigns us identities we never applied for. Most people struggle to be recognised; a few of us get recognised for the wrong reasons—twice in my case, years apart and on two different continents.

This story begins in Cuttack in the 1980s and resurfaces thirty-five years later in Tula, Russia. Between the two lies a thread of humour—woven with an unsettling, almost eerie coincidence.

I was a young man then, returning from a friend’s house with a newly borrowed book. Reading was then an interaction in the physical world: no internet, no ebooks, and no social media. On my walk back to the YMCA, I stopped at a small roadside eatery for some snacks and tea. The shop was nearly empty—only one man lounged at the entrance. I placed my order, opened the book, and began planning how I’d fit reading into my week.

Just then, two men entered. One politely asked if he could share my bench; the other sat opposite me. I assumed they would rest briefly and then leave. Instead, one of them leaned in and asked:

“Have we met before?”

A simple ‘no’ would have done, but I courteously scanned my memory, drawing a complete blank. Before I could reply, they exchanged encoded glances, as if cracking a case.

The man sitting opposite me asked with the seriousness of a police inspector:

“Aren’t you Coona from the village called Kalandipur?”

I burst into laughter—not because it was true, but because the question was so ridiculous. Unfortunately, my laughter emboldened them.

“Aha! Look at his reaction! We’ve found him! We’re cocksure,” they declared.

They insisted I was a runaway named Coona, and my disbelief only strengthened their conviction. My silence would also have convinced them—in any case, they knew what was to be proved…and how to. The shopkeeper, lured by rumours of a ₹10,000 reward for the missing boy, joined the chorus. He lovingly counselled me to return home with them—young men often leave home impulsively, he said, and return wiser.

I told him that the only mistake in the room was mine; it was a blunder I had made by stepping into his eatery.

To test their “cocksure certainty,” I asked them my supposed full name and my last known occupation. They didn’t know the first, but confidently declared:

You were studying in high school before you ran away three years ago with your father’s money.

I quietly placed my cup on the table and said, “For your information, I have completed my M.A. and am preparing for the I.A.S. exam. I’m an IAS aspirant.”

The transformation was instant and magical. The very utterance of “I.A.S. aspirant” acted like a tantric chant that frightens away demons. Their bravado evaporated, posture softened, pupils constricted. Even the shopkeeper adjusted his stance and tone.

But he made one last attempt: “If you are not that boy at large, show us your belly. Coona, the boy, had a mark there.”

I looked at him, astonished.

So, you believe that in this entire world, only one boy has a mark on his stomach? And I, in your eatery, must partially disrobe to prove I’m not him? What on earth is this—a tea stall or an engineering hostel, notorious for ragging? Or perhaps an airport immigration in a superpower country with the legal authority to conduct cavity searches on third-world immigrants?

Silence. Complete, embarrassed silence.

I paid the bill and left, with the shopkeeper giving me back more change than he should have; he was too flustered to work out the correct amount. For a change, he shortchanged himself!

Back in my room, I showered, inspected the so-called “touch of angel” birthmark above my belly button, and realised something profound: You don’t need to become an I.A.S. officer to command respect. Sometimes, even being an I.A.S.  aspirant is enough.

The incident remained a humorous anecdote for years—until, three and a half decades later, life served a second helping of mistaken identity, this time in Russia.

***         ***         ***         ***         ***

In 2017, I was in Moscow for a conference. With a free day at hand, I decided to explore something beyond the city’s grand boulevards and onion-domed skyline. My escort recommended a three-hour drive to Tula, praising it as a historic town with beautiful churches, museums, and—most curiously—famous gingerbread.

Religious tourism, I understood—Mathura has Banke Bihari, Puri has Lord Jagannath—but gingerbread as a tourism attraction? I wondered if Russians revered it as Hyderabad does its Biryani, or Odisha adores chhena poda—the cheesecake. But I accepted: food, too, can be part of cultural heritage.

Tula was elegant in a postcard sort of way—clean squares, charming churches, and a sky so blue it felt Photoshopped. The churches, though grand, lacked the electric spirituality of Indian temples. The only gingerbread that impressed me was a terracotta souvenir with a fridge magnet.

Our final stop was the Museum of Samovars. As we wandered through the aisles, admiring vessels that once brewed tea for czars and peasants alike, an incident unfolded that none of us could have anticipated.

An elderly Russian gentleman, perhaps in his late sixties, suddenly spotted me, gasped, and rushed forward with arms wide open.

“Raj Kapur! Raj Kapur! Autograph, please!”

Before I could react, I found myself caught in a bear hug with the crushing strength of someone who had either trained in wrestling or had waited fifty years to hug the legendary Bollywood star. I could barely breathe, let alone impart that Raj Kapoor had passed away long ago—and that I was taller than he ever was.

He finally released me, only to break into song:

“Mera joota hai Japani…”

The lyrics were hilariously mangled, but the tune was spot on. He danced, pulled me in, and for a moment, the museum became a Bollywood flash mob. A guard and some relatives rushed in and softly escorted him away. As he was dragged off, he waved sadly.

“I only wanted Raj Kapur’s autograph!”

Back in Moscow, I reflected on the incident. Should I feel honoured at being mistaken for Raj Kapoor? Was I meant to take pride in resembling a cinematic icon—or relief that the man didn’t recognise Shashi Kapoor instead and ask me to thunder “Mere paas maa hai”?

And then it struck me: it was an uncanny echo of that Cuttack afternoon.

***         ***         ***         ***         ***

Twice in my life, separated by oceans and decades, strangers were utterly convinced of who I was—not based on logic, data, or conversation, but with unshakeable conviction.

In Cuttack, two men knew I carried a round birthmark above my belly button. In Russia, a man saw Raj Kapoor in me across culture, genetics, and time.

Science says the odds of two unrelated people looking identical are one in a trillion. Even identical twins differ in personality. And yet, literature thrives on doppelgängers—Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Bollywood double roles like Golmal, Ram aur Shyam or Seeta aur Geeta—stories that delight in the mystery of two lives sharing one face.

Perhaps life, too, occasionally borrows from literature.

Perhaps identity is not a possession but a costume—sometimes handed to us without rehearsal.

All I know is this: Once, I was a runaway named Coona. Once, I was Raj Kapoor in Tula.

And somewhere between the two, I remain myself—the only one unsure why the world keeps recognising me as someone else.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

3-11-2025

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