The Irony of a Delhi-less Belly

The irony of this must not escape you.

To many travelers in India, the words "Delhi-belly" conjure images they would rather forget: of lengthy, horrible trips to the bathroom; of tossing and turning in the early hours of the morning, wondering why you're hungover when you haven't drank a drop, etc.

So, my obligatory intestinal post commences with the lack of cliche and the intense good humour of arriving at my own version of Delhi-belly, almost 1 month into my trip and near the end, and actually in Tamil Nadu, in the southern tip of India near Sri Lanka, about as far as one can actually get from Delhi.

But...I was booking a train...from Chennai to Delhi Central Station. Oh, the richness of it all.

As the woman behind the counter jotted down the final numbers of the train I would need to board, I broke out in a cold sweat. I memorized the number and darted away. Outside or to the bathroom? I headed for the bathroom and pushed the door, which jammed.

My proper revenge came in the form of regurgitated fish masala, which rocketed from my gut all over the door. My heaving at it - not to mention my hand leaning on it - moved the door and I bolted inside.

After a few minutes of refreshing, jovial banter with the sink, I left and sat down - where I immediately started laughing, in much the same way as I laughed when I fell of the scooter in Panjim, or when I fell in the courtyard fountain at the fort in Amber.

Tomorrow I board a toy train for Ooty, a hill station in the mountains and an old, Raj-era British outpost.

I've shaved and bought a pack of Polos to commemorate the occasion.