I'm a sick child

Hate the way illness can be revelatory. Have been down with fever (again. Hmph) for less than a day at the most wickedly innopportune time of the week (always, always around the weekend, the bloody buggger).
AA and I had plans. Grand plans involving doing the cool-chicks-with-attitude-and-lappie (her word for new laptop, my paryayvachi would be 'slut') thing at Passion (wi-fi-shi et al), though I had more of 'online-sex-with-strangers' plan within plan (knew there was something out of tune about 'online' sex. Until I realised that it's been so long, I've even forgotten it's called 'cyber sex'!). Anywhoo, after the establishment of sex appeal to none in particular (since the men we want to impress are shadow-ghost delusiory creations of our sick minds), we were to be driven by Nandu to TC (rechristened henceforth teeshee by me) and spend the night reducing the length of our lives by choking, for hours, in a basement pub full of roaring loud music (that I am unfortunately not hooligan-type crazy about), carbon dioxide exhaled by millions of sweaty bodies (with very less clothing at times, so when you emerge non-Moses like from the sea of bodies in front of the loo, you might find yourself smeared with sweat you did not create), a dense massive cloud of cigarette smoke hanging low from the ceiling (as we periodically contributed more density to it), gently looking over us while we kill our livers, as we sip beerblasters. I'm not being sarcastic; illness giveth one clarity. This really is what happens, and I enjoy all the self-annihilation once in a while. This saturday was gonna be one of those, the initiative engineered by none other than yours truly. And Sunday, oh Sunday. Jive class and then girlie evening out with the rotund and anytime-into-labour Ghachi Beti, and AA. (Also had in mind taking mum to Asian Roots for free facial on Saturday, courtesy voucher flicked from freebies at work, but never mind).

Aneeeways, back to the sorry sordid state of being this very second, as I sit in a hot-hot hellhole (AC not allowed), wiping sweat off sleeve as I tap tap away, and eat sorry mouthfuls of the most boring sabzi in the world - Aloo Beans, cooked to salt-only perfection by none other than the ghoul o' the kitchen Eeshwari - with watery yellow dal and phulka. But am ashamed to admit that even this tastes wonderful after the sordid gruel I consumed in the name of lunch, consisting mainly and solely of Eeshwari's Khichadi, a recipe I imagine she must've learnt and perfected over several laborious years spent in a rat-infested kitchen, in a Bollywood-style oppressive jail where food is another form of torture. Irony it is, that the cause of my fever is always attributed to my legendary status of 'poor eater' by my folks (I repeat myself for the zillionth time - Must, must impress folks when young; whatever you do after the age of five will determine your image for the rest of your life). So while they fret over how I'm not eating any of the sabzis I did not eat as a child (inlcuding tinda, tori, ghia, eans, green leafy vegetables, all of which I consume in hearty proportions now, despite the magical touch of Eeshwari's cooking) and getting this fever shit, I'm lying half-dead on my sweaty bed, dreaming of - you could never guess it - creamy Shahi Paneer and Paneer Shimla Mirch from Colonel Kebabz. And the sorriest part of the dream is that the sabzis are leftovers from last night, which apparently, according to dream logic, pj too and Proofaholic ordered while working late. And my mouth is watering as Kamla ji takes the frozen ghee in the name of sabzi out of the fridge and dumps it unceremoniously in the frying pan. Could anything be more pathetic?

When I was a kid (ohh. Here we go again...) I used to be psychotic about the falling ill thing. I always wanted attention, but was too proud to ask for it, and so, gave the impression of being such a self-sufficently morose child. So I loved the idea of falling ill, when mummy and papa would sit by my side and put those ice cold pattis on my forehead, and people would come to meet me with red roses in their hands, and everybody would want to administer freshly made home remedies to me, for which I would slowly, sadly, tragically, pathetically, wearily hoist myself on to my elbows from my horizontal perch on bed, and open my mouth to the beat of a very, very pathetic shehnai-type background score right out of a crappy late 80's movie selection from the hollows of pre-cable matinee Doordarshan. Alas, I never hardly ever fell ill when I was a kid. Or maybe I did, and recovered so quickly that I do not have any memories of it. Now, when I do fall ill (not too often, ahem, the last time I got viral was in October, ogay?), I'm a sick mix of I Want Attention and Leave Me Alone. Like, all of last night I was sick and had no energy to get up to find a crocin, so just tried to sleep anyway, grudging the fact that my folks didn't bother to give it to me, despite their faculties of divine telepathy. In the morning, i was too tired and dead and sweaty when my father woke me up by switching on the light and shoved under my nose, a newspaper clipping carrying 'Message' by Sharad Pawar and a computer print out of the overview of goals of ICAR, to be incorporated in his next 'Message', to be drafted by me in a matter of five minutes as my father looks on expectantly. I calmly told him 'I can't do it right now', to which he bellowed a tormented 'Kyuuuuuuun?', which was when I completely blew my lid and bellowed back, 'Coz I'm ill! I have fever! Can't you see! Idiot!' which I regretted all day, especially when Pa, in very uncharacteristic manner, called me at 2 pm to check on how I'm feeling. So, after the bellowing incident, I flopped down on the bed again, exhausted by the effort, and woke up to see my mum dressed very nicely for her retirement party at office. She was a little worried about me, but in the hurried rush of getting to a meeting at 10.30 (extremely early by her standards), she couldn't properly fret over my condition, which left me feeling very angry and martyr-like (also dirty, unbathed and ill-dressed in tattered home clothes). Funny thing is, Eeshwari really took it upon herself to be my mammy while folks were to go, and insisted on enquiring if I was okay with more dal than chawal in my khichadi, if I would want to eat some phulka, brought me water for my bedside, boiled saline water for my gargles, and made adrak-shahad for the bad throat. And strangely, this unbecoming behaviour was totally putting me off (especially because she insisted on asking me hajjar questions when I could barely swallow without feeling fresh stabs of throat pain, and the gargle water was too hot and not at all saline, which is when I realised that getting pissed over this means I'm a confirmed control freak - or a controlled freak - whatever).
So anyways, cutting long story short: Will forget all about the gruel served twice a day and be nice to Eeshwari; will be less of a pain for both parents who are too old for this shit; will stick to cribbing in blogosphere coz reading this shit is optional for you, a fact I will acknowledge on blogspace, but never in my head.