Minister Meher-Homji?

When I was a teenager, my mother thought I resembled Rajiv Gandhi. When I got married, my aunt-in-law thought I looked like Richard Nix-on, the then American President.

Barmy Army, the indefatigable supporters of English cricket in Australia, has mistaken me for John Howard, the Prime Minister of Australia.

To top it all, I received a phone call last year. "Are you Mr Latham?”

Mark Latham was then the leader of opposition in Australia.

"Are you joking?” I shot back because my so-called resemblance to John Howard has become a common joke and I thought a friend was pulling my leg.

"Are you Mr Latham?” he asked again seriously and when I said I was not, he put the receiver down.

What’s wrong with me? Have I delusions of grandeur? Or is it because people see cartoons of politicians more often than their photos and that I am a prototype caricature?

Look-alikes: Kersi Meher-Homji (left) and John Howard

Why can’t people mistake me for my sporting heroes like Sachin Tendulkar (I am short and chunky like him), Dennis Lillee (I’m bald like him), Polly Umrigar (I have a Roman nose) or Adam Gilchrist (I too have outstanding ears)?

One can understand one’s mother seeing you with rose-tinted glasses and a "maasi”-in-law having aspirations to get an invitation to the White House from aapro (our) President.

And on checking the telephone directory, I did locate a Latham living in my suburb whose first seven digits of phone number were identical with mine, only my last digit is 9 and his is 4.

So I can explain Gandhi, Nixon and Lath-am. Not so Ho-ward, although both of us are balding, have bushy eyebrows, wear non-trendy glasses and are cricket nuts.

Now listen to these stories of mistaken identity.

I was at the Wynyard Station in Sydney a few years ago, when an oldish man with an English accent and a breath of whisky approached me. He had a small moustache and a glazed look in his beady eyes.

"You,” he looked in my direction. "You,” he repeated. I looked behind me. There was no one. He pointed directly at me and said, "You, you, y-you are p-prime minister. Y-you’re J-john Ho-w-ward.”

I was taken aback but dismissed this remark as hallucinations from a much-whiskied man and thought no more about it till…

When walking back from the Sydney Cricket Ground with my nephew after an Australia-England day-night cricket match, I was surrounded by a group of happy people near the Central Station.

They were the fervent supporters of the English cricket team and were merrily chanting "Barmy Army, Barmy Army.”

Then they spotted me and shouted in unison, "That’s John Howard. Hi Johnny!” and composed a song on the spur of the moment, "Johnny is a cricket fan, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta.”

Soon this episode became a party joke. No party was complete without my being forced to narrate my brush with fame. Some friends even started calling me "Johnny.”

It was all nice and funny till I visited a sick friend at the North Shore Hospital in Sydney. His wife greeted me warmly and added tongue-in-cheek, "Welcome, Mr John Howard, how’s your lovely wife Janette?”

The other patients in the ward nervously adjusted their pyjamas in awe and the nurse wondered why there were no security guards.

Here is a suggestion for the Lodge in Canberra. If Howard wants a few days off in peace and tranquility, I volunteer to be the prime minister for a week. Call me the first ever acting Parsi PM.

Born in Bombay and settled in Sydney since 1970, Kersi Meher-Homji is a Master of Science in virology. He has many research publications in international journals on poliomyelitis, smallpox and HIV-AIDS. He also writes cricket columns in mainstream newspapers (including the elite Sydney Morning Herald) and magazines in Australia and in The Wisden Cricketer in South Africa. He has written 11 books on cricket including the best-selling The Waugh Twins, Out for a Duck and Six Appeal. P. G. Wodehouse and Adi Marzban are his heroes.