Priya writes

On my way to the Gabba yesterday, the I found myself sitting next to a man who, within the first minute, asked me if I knew English.

It was one of those moments where your brain short-circuits for half a second, deciding between fight, flight, or just sigh deeply into the Brisbane humidity. The bus was packed with Indians in their bright blue cricket jerseys, chatting excitedly, flags peeking out of bags, the kind of joyful chaos that follows Indian cricket anywhere.

He was a white Aussie, probably in his 50s, and he seemed friendly enough – just the sort who strikes up random bus conversations. But then came the next bit: how his plumber mate had told him that people “in countries like India and Africa die all the time from dirty drinking water.”

I took a breath. Gently, because sometimes that’s the only way you get through to people, I told him that’s not really the case anymore, and that lack of clean drinking water isn’t the leading cause of death in those countries. He seemed surprised.

Then he went on about how Australians grow up in “sterile environments” and “can’t handle places like Bali because of all the germs.” I couldn’t resist. I told him that a lot of countries simply have different climates, infrastructure, and public health challenges, but that the “brown people are dirty” narrative he was hinting at is, well, quite racist.

He immediately backpedaled. “Oh no, I don’t mean you! I mean… in those countries, it must be hard.”

At one point, he also mentioned being surprised when a Pakistani friend once told him that Lahore was “actually quite nice.” That’s when I decided to spell it out clearly: that the narrative he had absorbed from the internet about dirty Indians or unhygienic brown people, was inherently racist. I told him that many South Asian and African countries are actually quite developed, and that plenty of people travel to India for high-quality, affordable medical treatment.

He looked genuinely stunned at that. He couldn’t quite fathom that people would go to India for healthcare.

When I asked what he did, he said he was a tradie in electrical work, had lived in Australia all his life, and never been overseas. His dream trip? Hoover Dam in the US, but he couldn’t afford it yet. When he asked if I’d travelled much and I said yes, he assumed I meant within Australia. When I told him I’d been to 16 countries, he looked genuinely confused and asked, “How did you have so much money?”

I told him my job used to take me around the world.

He looked half impressed, half bewildered, and then said he’s scared to travel outside Australia because he might “get a rash or get sick.” I almost rolled my eyes but instead said, “That can happen here too.”

As the bus pulled up to our stop, he looked at me and said, “You speak very good English.”

I smiled. “Most Indians do,” I replied.

He paused for a second and then, to his credit, said: “Thank you for being so patient and sharing so much knowledge with me. I get most of my info from the internet.”

And there it was. The real culprit: a lifetime of second-hand stereotypes and algorithm-fed nonsense disguised as “common sense.”

That conversation stayed with me, not because he was overtly malicious, but because he was so unaware. Racism often doesn’t come in shouting matches or slurs. Sometimes it sits quietly in a bus seat beside you, shaped by misinformation, fear, and the comfort of never having to question your worldview.

But that day reminded me that sometimes it is important to have the conversation anyway. To push through the discomfort and speak, even when it would be easier to roll your eyes and tune out. Because maybe, just maybe, the other person will actually listen. And even if they don’t fully get it, a small crack appears in that wall of ignorance.

And that’s how change starts: one awkward, slightly exhausting, bus ride at a time.