no walls, no boundaries;

real, indistinct and vaguely discomforting energy – a revamped version of Freud’s “das Unheimliche”, if you will;

flickering yellow light;

the smell of urine;

urban, metallic;

controlled by India;

pubes everywhere.

Beside that, the food in this restaurant was so awful that easy access to the toilet is beneficial for everyone. You never know when a screaming bout with vomit or diarrhea will occur and you could just find yourself half-way through taking a piss at the time… Suddenly you are thrown to the floor by the mighty, gut-wrenching roar of the SHIT TIKKA MASALA… “NOOOO!!!”, you scream, but your body is already alight with the fire of the STM and you can feel a molten lava substance bubbling to the surface in your underwear… Undeterred, you rise up to the toilet which is mercifully situated at your immediate right. Wiping the sweat from your brow as you eject flaming lentils and volcanic okra chunks, you murmur a short prayer to Ganesh in thanks of the post-mod, Indian two-bowl configuration…