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“Mango juice from the alphonso mango.” She placed 3 iced glasses down on the table, one in front of each of us. “It will make you feel better.” She said, as she cupped my companions wan chin. “The king of mango's is my husband’s favourite.” Her husband, it transpired was an Australian gentleman and the reason that her English accent held the upward inflection so common to native Australian speakers. It was in bizarre contrast to the muted, nasal plosives of her Indian mother tongue. He had been a traveller, drawn to the winding alleys and sandstone towers of her home town, Jaisalmer. He had warned her that it wasn’t his intention to stay in India forever. Perhaps that was why she was running the cafe alone now, the presence of a Mr. Bhatia gone but for a yellowing photo, bleached by the sunlight so that it blended into the sandstone walls of the first-floor cafe. “Is it helping?” I asked. My companion sipped at the juice, her baseball capped head hanging low over the cup. Two thirds of our party looked at each other and grimaced, unsure of how to heal a Western belly in such an Indian climate. “We have to go and find long-sleeved shirts this afternoon, for our trek into the desert. Do you think you will be able to come with us?” No, she must stay here with her Indian Mama, it is too hot for her out there.” Mrs. Bhatia appeared at my elbow, removed the sweat-stained baseball cap of my friend and placed the back of her hand to her forehead. “You must eat though.” She insisted, before disappearing again. I sipped at the sweet juice in front of me, making sure to use a straw and never put my lips on the cup for fear of getting the same Delhi Belly symptoms my friend was presenting. I sucked at a sliver of the fibrous fruit that had wedged itself between my teeth and listened to the sound of oil spitting behind a screen that shielded the cafe’s kitchen. I wondered if Mrs. Bhatia was always so attentive to the customers in her cafe, or was her enthusiastic welcome of us just because we seemed to be one of very few people stopping by to sample her mango juice on this hot day. “She’s making something back there.” My healthy travel companion had returned from using the toilet, rubbing hand sanitiser religiously over her palms, along her thumbs and into the gaps between her fingers. She offered me the bottle but I waved it away, the dust from the road into the fort of Jaisalmer still on my hands didn’t bother me. “I don’t think she can eat anything.” I said, nodding at our friend who had by now led down across the wooden bench on her side on the table and draped a dusty arm over her face. The two of us stared at her for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she tried to ignore the pain in her belly. I continued to stare as my companion beside me turned her head to face the hazy windows beyond which lay the intricately carved rooftops and uniformly paved streets of Jaisalmer. The arched windows and domed roofs unique to each building but cohered together by the sandstone that made up the entire city. It would glow red in the setting sun but for now in the heat of the day it was sunshine yellow. Mazes of alleyways zigzagged before us and a cow wandered serenely past, it’s tail swishing busily to rid herself of pesky flies. “This is how I imagined India to be.” She sighed. From the next bench over we heard our friend mutter: “Me too.”