Biding by misery

I suppose, the way you are supposed to view things, when you fall sick, goes something like- I feel miserable right now, but it will pass and I will be ok. And this is how most people deal with it. But not me, not in Kerala. You know why? Because it does not pass. It takes a short nap, the sickness, and it comes back again. It starts with a runny nose, then sneezing, then clogged ears, then throat infection and before you know it, I am on a staple diet of amox, betnasol, avil and some cough syrup. I don’t have sickness between periods of good health; I have a short reprieve between periods of sickness.

It’s the divine combination of old dust (no. 1 enemy), pollens, humidity and sometimes visible sometimes not so visible fungal growth that does the trick for me in Kerala. I am my healthiest best in dry places like Kuwait or Delhi, where nothing really grows and the dust is not really dust, but sand.

To add to the misery, people don’t really get it. oh its just a cold, oh, shes sneezing 100 times a day, oh, she does look like a reddish balloon about to burst, but she will be ok. Surely. Paru will be ok. And I just sit there, chanting, I hate Kerala, I hate Kerala. Mum n Nats get hurt by this. They take offence on behalf of Kerala. Poor idiots, them and their love for Kerala thudding in their hearts. Like today, mum ventured as far as to claim that it isn’t the land’s fault, that I fall sick everywhere. True, but not true enough. I don’t fall sick at this rate anywhere else.  In the last couple of months, I have fallen sick almost every second week.

Who gives a shit, right? I mean really who gives a shit. Recently, I went to B’lore for a week. During this time acha decided to fix up the house. Initiated on my request apparently, cos I told him one day that the house is falling apart, which it is. Anyhow, I was glad acha took the initiative but ofcourse, theres no way in hell that I could return to a dusty house and be OK. A week’s time was all there was and it had to be wrapped up neat and clean by then.

I returned from B’lore by train. At this point, I just wanna get home, check my mail, feed me some food and rest. When I get there tho, as much as I notice the several positive changes to the house (new paint, removal of rotting wooden almirahs etc.), what really grabs my eye are the old-dust laden items- papers, rotten wooden drawers, books, curios, strewn all across the house. I am aghast. I can’t quite believe what I am seeing. But I am in a daze. So I say nothing. I head to my room, and in their defence, this one was relatively clean compared to the other rooms. Tho it still needed another swipe n wipe to be safely occupied. I head upstairs to the living room, where the computer is, where I spend a good deal of my day and I see that its nothing short of a hell hole. I brace and tell myself, deal with this later, just check your mail and run back downstairs to your room. But the net refuses to work. Dad comes along and what follows is this coded conversation:

The nets not working, I say.

Ok… he says.

Whys the net not working.

Well, it doesn’t work….from time to time…right? Dad says.

That is not why it is not working.

What dyu mean? He says.

Its not working, I say.

And then I go ballistic. I head to my room downstairs, slam my door and sit down on the floor. I fill up a bucket of water, roll up my coudroys above my knee, pick up some old blouse of ammas and get to wiping the floor. I go at the crumbs of cement and paint tucked away at the crevices with a vengeance. I go at the dust coating the window grills, I go at it nice and steady for a good one hour, pausing in between to cry. Because I want to scream at my parents, but I am sick and tired of being a screamer.

Satisfied, yet still thirsty for some kinda vengeance, I head upstairs to the living room. This one, I realize is gonna be no mean task. The first thing I do is pick up the drawers with their stack load of papers and dump it in front of d house. This is when my parents notice that I am upto something. What are you doing? I am putting these outside, if u want them, clean it up and keep it somewhere with you. Following which we have a nice mean little argument, with me saying did you really think I would be okay with all this? That I wont fall sick? What were you thinking? What?? And amma saying something inaudible n acha grinding his teeth and going, no wonder no one ever wants to do anything for you. This sorta rings in my ear. What does it mean? Who else, besides my Acha is in this gang of people who do not want to do things for paru? I stop arguing and get back to cleaning. Mum comes in to help and I don’t stop her. We are both at it. This time I pause to smirk at the sheer quantity of webby dust hiding between and beneath the furniture (oh and, turns out, the net wasn’t working because the computer port was stuffed with dust, ha!).

By the end of it I was tired. I had red, bubbly, itchy skin. I finished it off by stacking the books back into the bookshelf. And then I gulped down my pills and fell into a comatose sleep. My parents tried to wake me up, they knocked on the door, called out gently, paru…paru…, they shook me a bit. But I slept through day, night and into the bright new morning.

Note: 
"Who gives a shit, right? I mean really who gives a shit". That’s just sick me talking. Mum n dad care plenty plenty plenty. Esp. mum. 
I hate Kerala (here): I hate its humidity and fungus infusing dampness.