We take a rattling ride on the Death Railway to the end of the line at Pakseng – an exhilarating 30 minute boat ride through spectacular limestone gorges. Suddenly we are in a different world – primitive, turbulent and mysterious.

Notwithstanding the fear of the dreaded disease, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, and the myriad, masked figures, Bangkok was as big, bright and beautiful as ever. Jayashree Menon, who braved the four-letter word, recently renewed her romance with the city.

It’s summer 2003 and a four-letter word has become the bane of our lives. The moment we announce that we are off to Bangkok, there is a general uproar amongst near and dear ones. ‘You must be joking’ and ‘You can’t be serious’ is the unanimous sentiment.

Someone goes as far as to suggest that we are on a suicide mission – en famille.

My hitherto gung-ho disposition deserts me after a doomsday call from my harried father-in-law, chilling me with facts and figures culled from the BBC no less.

“Maybe Sri Lanka will be better…” I suggest tremulously.

“Bangkok it is and Bangkok it will be,” my husband roars.

His logic is simple. We live in Mumbai. We travel. We inhale god knows what every day. We eat veggies grown beside railway tracks and we do know what nourishes those.

We have battle-scarred immune systems. Are we going to give up our holiday for something called SARS?