Small town India is a funny place. In Bundi, rough population 80,000, the white tourist population was six; the blonde tourist population was one. In places like Darjeeling and Pushkar, local vacation and pilgrimage towns, many of the Indian visitors have never met a foreigner first-hand.

The result is instant celebrity. From dawn til dusk, I stroll the streets like a campaigning politician, putting in appearances at local temples, making sure my constituents are satisfied. People come up and want to shake my hand, often several times per conversation. They wave to me, give me candies and cups of tea, touch me for good luck. Mothers and fathers push their small children my way, urging them to ask my name and to find out how I am doing. In a wonderful/horrifying feat of colonialism, I have perfected my hand-rocking-gently-side-to-side-queen-Elizabeth wave, and no one seems to mind. Everyone asks my name, Maya, which here means money, which means more touching and hand grasping for good luck.

People ask to have their photos taken with me and Dave – every member of every 20 person family (hello multiple wives) must have an individual shot. Throw in pictures with just me, then with just Dave, then with both of us, with an arm here and a great-aunt there, and the permutations and combinations are endless. Photo sessions usually occur outdoors, in the sweltering 40-something degree heat. Still, this beats campaigning indoors. Yesterday, our mere presence clogged up the entrances to a wonderfully kitschy Hindu temple. Once the first father got up the nerve to ask, families large and small lined up around us, cameras in hand. It took one little boy twenty minutes to get over his fear of standing near us. No matter, half an hour later we we still there, posing, smiling, dripping with celebrity sweat.

Some photos are even staged with huge handshakes. All that's missing is an oversized check. Family men with red-dotted foreheads, fabulous mustaches and huge bellies examine their images with satisfaction, shake our hands vigorously once (twice, three times) more, then call out, “I will upload it this on Facebook!”

I have taken to my role with ease. In towns where there is little sightseeing to be done, being the sight is an activity in itself. Yet even better than being gently shoved into a group shot, or having a random newborn dropped into my arms moments before the flash goes off, is being asked to take a photo: Unlike almost anywhere I've been in the world, cameras are still a commodity for many Indians, and men, women, and children jump at the opportunity of seeing an image of themselves. In other countries I've had to resort to a) sneaky walk-by photographs of fascinating characters or b) a polite “can I take your photo,” often followed by horrified arms-covering-face rejection. Here, men, women, and children seek me out for the pure joy of viewing themselves in my tiny LCD screen. Before I can stalk them, or ask them, or inconspicuously swing my lens around at them, women with bangle-sized nose piercings, children with National Geographic eyes, and men in wonderful neon pink turbans approach me. Can my camera take a photo of them?

Most often, the result is yet another Walmart-photo-studio-meets-India family portrait (B.U.M. Equipment comes painfully to mind.) Sometimes the image is a close-up that reveals the folds of an expertly draped headscarf, or the red of paan-stained teeth, or some minute torment in the eyes. But most often, the best picture is the one that can't be captured – the one where a group of forty-something year old women in saris is leaning closely into the screen, cooing and waving at tiny versions of themselves; the one where a fragile old man looks into his own eyes, then cracks a smile and puffs out his chest.

As a campaigning politician, it's these people moments that count.