The inevitable happens when it will. I knew a parting gift from Kolkata’s street vendors was in the post when I left on an overnight train to New Jalpaiguri. It arrived on the bus to Panitanki, the Indian-Nepalese border town.
I had chosen a seat at the back, luckily by the window. The bus filled up gradually, stopping every few minutes to let on more passengers. The sun beat down on my head and left arm and I started to feel dizzy. When I broke out in a cold sweat I knew this bus ride was going to be too long.
We stopped at a gas station. The ground had stopped moving, I had a fixed target. No sooner had my stream of vomit startled a man below than we were off again. The serious pain in my stomach continued as I tried to miss the women walking on the side of the road.
I had finally gotten rid of the contents of my stomach, a few fried snacks bought at a charity boutique. Arriving at Panitanki I stumbled off the bus and into one of the grotty little hotel/restaurants on the side of the road.
It was soon clear I wasn’t going to be let off with just a little upchuck. I made for the toilet, which someone was in the process of hosing down. I waited outside, taking irregular breaths and pouring sweat. After doing what had to be done, I went back and sat down at the table only to feel the pull again. A tiny child was in the bathroom trying to do his business, and just as I thought I might blackout, his mother mercifully pulled him out of the way despite his loud protests. There was a repeat of this scene as I was back again before he was able to finish.
I sat down at the table, literally drained. I felt an overwhelming urge to sleep, and doubtful I would make it anywhere that day, started to consider spending a night, or at least a few hours, at the hotel.
Luckily Tamio had already had gone through his first round of intestinal troubles and had bought some packets of electrolyte drink. I drank a half liter in cautious sips, in between shamelessly lying down on the restaurant’s bench. Eventually, I thought I could cross the border without being taken for a zombie. The wind on my face felt refreshing as we rode over the river border in a cycle rickshaw. To Tamio’s chagrin, we settled for the second hotel we saw. To me it was the only logical choice: we were already there.
I spent the next day and a half listless and feverish, thankfully too much so to think about the filth of the room or anything else. Between naps I counted the mosquitoes that died waiting on the outside of the net.
On the second night I downed some dal baat. On the third morning I was back on another bus with the full cooperation of my bowels.
The secret to my recovery was the stinking medicine Tamio gave me. Called seirougan, the pills are dark little acrid balls supposed to be good for digestive problems. They remind me of the medicine that Sen gets from the river god in Spirited Away. Tamio’s learned of the medicine from his father, whose father was in the Japanese army. Though the kanji has now been changed, the name seirougan used to mean “medicine to beat the Ruskies.” I would feel a little weird about it, but I’m too busy being thankful to have my body’s water content back. Arigatou, seirougan.
