Our last night in India

I woke up from a strangely pleasant dream--a mishmash of dancing horses, Rajasthanis with turbans and giant mustaches, office cubicles, laptops, fluorescent lights, and cool breezes over open water. I felt completely relaxed; I was in such a deep sleep it took me a few moments to figure out I was on my back in a toilet stall in a Bombay bar. My shins were up against the toilet; my head was nestled under the small sink. I slowly stood up and took several deep breaths. Two cockroaches and some cigarette butts on the floor. After a couple seconds sewer water started to back up and gurgle through a floor drain and pool around the toilet--I felt pretty lucky to have woken up before I got soaked. I felt pretty lucky I hadn’t cracked my head on the sink.

I had started feeling vaguely queasy earlier that afternoon, but wasn’t especially concerned (hey, it’s India, after all...pepto bismol has been our best friend here). Jacqueline and I took a taxi to the bar; we were excited to meet up again with the rest of our group for one last farewell dinner. It was a shabby Edwardian-style tavern, a dark-wood and wicker and ceiling fan sort of place; imagine the Cheers bar after several years of neglect. It was packed and sweaty. Our group had taken over the small back room; we were chatting, just ordering drinks and food when Jacqueline noticed I was looking pale. I excused myself, and pushed through the crowd. The stench of the bathroom helped accelerate the process--hands braced on the wall, I stood over the toilet and hurled repeatedly. I have a fuzzy recollection of wiping my face with tissue, and that’s about it.

After my little nap, I opened the sliding door and wobbled out of the stall; two Indian guys at the urinals looked at me wide-eyed. I looked at myself in the mirror; a few vomit spatters on my dress shirt, and enough sweat on my face and neck to look like I was slathered in baby oil. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped myself off.

I returned to our table, feeling weirdly energized. “How long was I gone for?” I got to whisper to Jacqueline. “I just passed out in the bathroom. But I feel good now.” Jacqueline suggested we leave, but I wanted to stay.

We remained for another 30 minutes before my adrenaline wore off and the smell of the just-arrived tandoori and daal started my stomach gurgling again. I was flattered that two of our travel companions insisted on hugging me goodbye, even after I said "You’re kidding!! I’ve just been on the bathroom floor!"

It wasn’t until we got back to our hotel that we noticed the dark bruise that stretched across my ribs on my right side. I was up most the night and following morning, half-feverish, sitting on the toilet and clutching the trash can. Over the course of the night I slowly discovered other painful areas I must have hit when I fell—my tailbone, left hip, left ear, left temple and eye socket...the end of three weeks in India, what better way to make an exit?