In sickness and in wrath

I'm scared of falling sick.

This has less to do with my health and wellbeing.

I can take the germs and I can take the pain. 

I can take the insomnia and the pills.

What I can't take; is the anger.

Do people really believe they can scare away the harmful bacteria and viruses if they shout and yell at the person harbouring them?

My father, for one, believes in the theory.

Hypothetically, let’s say I have a cough.

It's the end of the day and my 67 year old father is sprawled out on the sofa watching his series of series.

(Honestly, Zee Marathi could issue a "best viewer" award to my father.) 

I join him not to watch the TV but to just relax on a couch beside him.

I cough. It's my first and is ignored.

The second time I cough, I look at him. He has tears in his eyes. Thankfully, someone has recently died on the show. 

He's ignored it again.

The third time I let it out. It starts. 

Already there is the serial's dramatic background music that adds to the episode that is about to take place in front of the TV.

Pure wrath is unleashed.

“Why the hell did you have the ice cream yesterday? I told you, you were looking sick last night. Have you taken anything yet? Why would you? You are a 24 year old incapable of taking care of herself."

What's worse is the tone. His words come out in the form of a loud whine. It's a bit nasal but the vocal chords are working to increase the amplitude.

His every syllable grates on your nerves. 

There is crying heard. Not mine. The relative of the person who has died is sobbing.

But tell me is that the way you treat a sick person?

Where is the compassion? The babying and the pampering? 

There have been times when I can sense a cough travelling up my windpipe, knocking vigourously on my throat that I run to a room away from him to let it all out. 
It's exhausting but it spares me the mental agony.

I dread the guilt trip he sends me on.

The guilt is inhaled, every time he breathes out between the venomous words.

It enters my blood stream and begins to kill the foreign organisms that are manufacturing the mucus. That must be my father's logic behind his actions.

No dad, it doesn't work that way. Most likely, they grow stronger inside me.

They feed on guilt and disappointment. 

Then they consume me.

The feelings, the drugs and the pain make a deadly concoction that promises to make me ache.

OK. That was a bit exaggerated.

I usually get ok in a few days.

And I love my dad. He sounds like a villain in that episode, but there is more to the story. 

The only time his third eye opens is when he sees any trace of illness.

Yes, he gets a bit cranky when it comes to anybody falling sick, but he's manageable. And so is any disease eventually.

However, I understand where this anger comes from.

The pure wrath comes from pure helplessness. 
People like him (and there many) have no idea how to make your physical suffering lesser than what it is. It manifests into a frustration, which sows the seeds of anger. 

These are the people who scream and yell and taunt and nag when you're under the weather. 

Keep those mental painfillers near you.

Mostly it's them handing out the pain killers.

Procrastationery

Whenever I walk into a store, and if there is a stationery section, you will find me there. 

I can't help but love:

those tiny little post it pads to write profound notes on;

those colorful A4 sized notebooks to pen down significant thoughts and ideas;

and those sharpened Staedtler pencils always ready to scribble, scratch out and sketch; 

Every time I browse through this section, I have this vision.

At home I would be sitting on my antique mahogany desk, writing furiously into that freshly bought designer notebook . My focus makes me proud. My life has purpose and meaning. As I write about change, the world of the future and....

In reality I have no mahogany desk at home. And it's not antique, but obsolete. 

In fact great writers, thinkers and visionaries seldom need the post it notes and expensive diaries and different colored pens. And they never wait to sit at their mahogany desk to bring their dreams to life. They probably only owned one after they made their money.

In spite of knowing this truth, we still buy those little things that make us dream of all that we can be. 

We take them home, or put them in our bags or place them on our desks. 

And when inspiration strikes, we never know where to find them.

 Why? Because you never needed them in the first place.

We buy them because they are cute.

We buy into the idea of making us look intelligent and organised. 

And most importantly we want other people to believe we are creative and persevering.

It's a love affair that ends up being a one night stand.

A relationship of pure lust and absolutely no commitment.

Do I blame myself? Never.

After-all, it's those things that seduce us. 

Recently, I walked into a store and picked up this tiny notebook held shut with an elastic band.

It was Rs.315 for 4inch by 4 inch 200 pieces of ruled paper. That is bloody expensive.

However, my rational brain stopped working as I began to read what it had to say.

It was a tiny book to catch inspiration (TM). 

Wow. What a thought.

Let's say it again. "To catch inspiration". 

Inspiration is fleeting and floating and flying through the air. And all we have to do is catch it by opening this book and shutting it tight.

And yes, inspiration can strike anytime and I need to be ready.

I need this wonderful catching mechanism.

Need it.

My insights, ideas, comments, opinions, observations all jotted down. In Rs.315.

Wow. What a philosphy. What a lifestyle. 

Spiritual. Clean. Simple.

Bullshit.

Do I need to spend Rs.315 to make something bigger out of my life? No.

Did I buy it? Obviously I did.