The color of curry

On Thursday when I met Patrick in Mymensingh to travel to Dhaka, he told me that his friend, Florence Happy, would be traveling with us. I had heard of Happy from Patrick as she had some attraction to him and always found ways to be around him. Initially I was excited to meet her as Patrick had told me of her flirting antics. When she arrived, she asked Patrick to carry her large bag for her and chatted non-stop. Patrick mentioned that she had said that she sometimes got carsick. At lunch he suggested that she eat nothing or very little because of that reason (He is a nurse-he does have some medical knowledge). She insisted on eating an extra large serving, because she got carsick (there's no arguing with a Bengali about health issues). When we got on the bus, I thought I would be kind and sit with her as that would be most appropriate and I didn't want to give some man the chance. After an hour or so she laid her head on my shoulder and napped. Then she said something in Bangla, and I just nodded and smiled - not understanding. She proceeded to lay her head on my lap. This felt very bizarre. A few minutes later she pulled her head up with cheeks puffed out and motioned with her hands, but didn't say anything. I can't always understand Bangla, but Bangla hand motions are even more foreign to me. Then vomit started spewing from her mouth. I was at the window seat and the window was closed. Some vomit got on the curtain as she attempted to reach the window. I opened the window and the vomit on curtain blew all over the bus. The men acrossed the aisle got some vomit on them and disgustedly stood and washed themselves. Now that the window was opened, I grabbed the possessions that I could and dived under her for the aisle. Previosly we had discussed where to store our bags - apparently if you put them on an empty seat, you had to pay for the seat. I just put my bag under my feet. My bag was covered in yellow vomit - curry had been used heavily in Happy's lunch. That morning I had just broken a zipper on a side pocket of my Bangladeshi-made bag, and vomit got on everything in that pocket. Besides my vomit covered bag, I managed to escape with only one drop of vomit on my shalvar and a bit on the only sweater I had brought. When we arrived in Dhaka and got down from the bus, one of the bus attendents offered to help me with my back, but quickly backed away when he saw all the vomit on it.