Saturday, March 29, 2014

I remember this one time, when I'd just moved to Delhi when I was a chubby little 14 year old, and the climate of the city had begun its course to destroy me from the inside and remake me.

Okay, that may be a little dramatic. But it was REALLY hot.

Anyway, every month that year, I was sick atleast once a week, which helped with removing the chubbiness, noted one time in the shower when I looked down and could see my toes. In the duration of one of these episodes of fever, I was lying helpless in my parents' bedroom, milking the sick card for all it was worth and enjoying the added attention. That's one thing about being sick, is that your parents stop being mad and take pity on you and bring you things to eat, pausing for once their continuous reminders of what a lazy pile of crap you are.

Then my dad decided to take my temperature, and I had to hold the thermometer under my tongue for some reason, which I now realize was probably again just my mother's made up medical ingenuity. I had to deal with these all my life, until I took biology in high school and learned that everything she'd ever told me was a lie. Now when I try to explain to her how what she said is not factually correct, she harrumphs and says I should have stayed in physics.

So my dad reads the thermometer, and looks quietly at my mom and says, "It's 104" looking all serious. Cue flashback to the time my mom said that people whose fevers go beyond 104 usually die. So while they look serious and talk in low voices as if I, sitting in between them, would not be able to hear, I start joking and telling them to stop worrying about me, as if this fever is just something I do for attention.

I don't remember much of what happened after. Obviously I survived. And as I write this from my yearly sick bed, I realize that this is another story with a pointless ending. 

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