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.