The last time I was in Delhi, she left me a little legacy for the plane trip home - the dreaded Delhi Belhi. I had arrived at the airport very early, checked in and proceeded to the departure lounge. Whereupon I realised that certain medication that would be particularly (and urgently) welcome was now, of course, in my checked in baggage. I had no choice but to become intimately familiar with the Gentlemen's facilities.
Once on board, I enquired as quietly as I could of the stewardess if she had a first aid kit. She was understandably preoccupied with boarding passengers but her loud protestations that she had "Nothing at all for diarrhoea!" was neither the answer I wanted, nor the discretion I had hoped for.
I slumped back in my seat, mentally calculating how many steps were required to the nearest toilet for later emergencies when a passenger in row ahead of me leaned over and said "You must be taking this, Sir!"
The foil wrapped tablet could have been anything. I looked at this kind Indian gentleman and made my decision instantly. I ripped the foil open and swallowed the unrecognisable capsule without another thought. It was the answer to my prayers.
When Mayank, our guide, suggested we would be trying food from street vendors, my cheeks clenched involuntarily.
Lentil patties, deep fried.
Freshly brewed Indian Chai.
Paranatha (a type of bread) cooked with a filling of your choice in front of you.
The temptations went on and on.
And were all consumed.
Not a piece of foil to be seen anywhere.
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