Grin And Beer It(SUDESHNA MAJUMDAR) Darjeeling, the tea growing district of West Bengal, was enchanting with its hilly terrain and forests and sights of elephants looking restlessly for food for their large bellies. After cement-laden, pollution of Calcutta and its fast cars and buses; this was just the place to come to. There was one nagging problem- an unusual gastric problem- I had brought with myself all the way from Calcutta. Although I had an extremely sympathetic host, Colonel Baichum, the burps and spasms of pain in the stomach came in the way of our many exciting plans, some of which were eventually abandoned.

In spite of my reduced mobility, there were many interesting things to discover. It was in the Colonel's bungalow that I saw for the first time, a grey greyhound. I would hear him walking as if on tip-toe, in the perfectly silent nights when he would be let loose to roam his territory. Then in the tea estate, I learnt about the berry-borer, the greedy pest that destroyed acres of tea plantations whenever a careless planter forgot to take the necessary precautions. Standing at the edge of the large pond in the estate, I realized where the great fish I had found at the table had come from.

But the gastric trouble lingered on, bothering me to distractions. The colonel was a regular runner, and had been fairly excited about having a companion to do the five kilometer stretch he did every morning. Drawing from past experience, I decided to accompany him. Some of my puzzling runner friends burn their colds, take decisions or gain insight into complicated issues while on a run. A small gastric disorder, I thought, would vanish with just one run on the undulating terrain, in air exuding the refreshing fragrance of trees, flowers and hills.

But the pain stayed, coming in occasional cramps at most inconvenient moments. In the next few days, I became a pitiable sight at the dining table. The delicacies served by Mrs. Baichum were wasted on me. Suffering from intense guilt at times I pretended my pain had disappeared and would eat heartily, but only to emerge in a worse state at the next meal. The Colonel and I would talk till late night, discussing the present and our future plans. On the last day, he even took me to the city dispensary so that my journey back home would be more bearable. However, nothing, neither diet restrictions nor medication, worked.

Eventually, by chance, something else did. I was to take a train from Jalpaiguri past midnight, that would get me to Howrah. That night, I sat sipping lemonade opposite the Colonel in a dhaba famous for its various lassies and soft drinks. Later, as if in the grip of a brilliant idea, I asked for a pitcher of draught beer. Light, frothy and delightful, the beer smoothed me like nothing else. Two pitchers later, I knew the problem had been attacked at it root. The next day I rediscovered hunger and polished off everything served on the train. Ever since I have prescribed draught beer to friends and relatives with gastric troubles and the golden liquid has usually worked wonders as an antidote.

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