Photo courtesy: Rahul Megharaj — Wikimedia Commons
Some memories you choose to forget. I did this on my last Mumbai visit. In the letters I wrote to my sister decades past, I’m shocked by my forgetfulness.
Though I have not the slightest memory of our Delhi belly experience, there’s my handwriting retelling the details. My three and one year old daughters and I had taken medicine for days, but having not recovered, we visited a doctor. My youngest, vomited straight after taking the prescribed tablet and since that didn’t work, the doctor suggested fived different types of “weird” syrups. At least my youngest seemed to like the tastes and they set my girls on the road to recovery.
After my reintroduction into India, we purchased an electric plate I plugged into any hotel light socket to cook for my daughters every night and boil their water. They ate sandwiches during the day because I was alarmed by their plight and determined to both see India and keep them healthy.
As for myself, I may have lost the chocolate pounds I gained in London over that week of torture, but Indian food was too tempting to resist.