I knicker-dropped at warp speed and sat a while contemplating the Celine Dion muzak piped into every corner of the hotel; her pinched nasal twang really was an appropriate anthem for soiling oneself.
So much is so sacred in India: cows, temples, Brahmin, Mother Teresa, Ganesh and the Ganges.
There’s Varanasi and Vishnu – cricket’s Virat Kohliand and Bollywood’s Shahrukh Khan – the list is long.
On my list – sacred and exalted – is the holy of holies: a clean, private, flushing toilet, which so far had been present and beloved during my short time in Kolkata.
But on day two, things – loo paper included – quickly unraveled.
On the tour bus, a blonde, Danish traveller had been writhing in her seat since temple number 3 for the day, when she attempted a discreet bottom toot, which delivered more than expected.
“Stop the bus!”