Oh dear – India – land of hidden extras. I suppose it serves me right for being a little smug. Everything consumed carefully, hygiene paramount. I awoke in the night with that sinking feeling, when you just know that things are shortly going to get really bad. Ten minutes later, when they’d stopped being really bad, and I was back in bed again, the sinking feeling returned, and I realized that really bad was going to be the norm for a little while. Something I’d eaten or drunk during the day had offended my delicate little English stomach. Frankly, I was in a spot of bother and this was the worst I’d felt in my life.
Unfortunately I was off to Ranthambore that morning, with a car coming at 9am. We left late – I couldn’t keep asking the driver to stop, and where would we stop anyway?
As it was, an hour and a half into the journey I was ill again, and spent the rest of the time in the back seat dozing against my rucksack. When the driver stopped on one occasion and left the car, the usual gaggle of street sellers came knocking on the window. I was being offered some trinket or other for Rs 20, and feeling really wretched I wound the window down a fraction and explained to the nearest and oldest,
‘Look, I’m sick’ and demonstrated with hand gestures, ‘I don’t want to buy anything. Rs 20 to make them go away and stop tapping’ and pushed two fingers holding a note through the crack. To my surprise the note was returned, and the elderly gentleman gently stroked my two fingers with his forefinger, and then the window glass where it touched my forearm.
‘Poor Madam’ and then he raised his voice at all the others, and they went away, while he gestured I should raise the window again. That was very touching.
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