Perched on the farthest corner of the bed, I had finally built a fortress of comfort for myself with a soft back pillow, noise-canceling headphones, wifi-connected laptop and some spicy munchies on the side. I was about to begin the weekend Netflix marathon when my mother arrived , unannounced, accompanied by a steaming cup of medicinal concoction or Kashayam. With the growing stress on health, my mother had reassumed the role of a caring and worrisome parent. Thrusting the cup into the grip of my hand, she instructed me, rather authoritatively, to consume the Kashayam immediately and not let it cool down. Struggling to hold the piping hot glass in my hand, I took a tiny sip of the liquid noisily to assure her that her instructions would be duly followed. As she turned her back towards me and hurried to thrust a similar cup into my father’s hand, I started eyeing for a place to keep the volcanic liquid down for a while to save my throat from burning itself down.
Ironically, this reminded me of the times when as a child, I used to like falling sick. This was caused by a few factors- Firstly, falling sick entitled you to all undivided attention and love from mom, which is a huge blessing if you have grown up with a sibling. Secondly, my pediatrician always pampered me with a sweet mint tablet and some tasty cough drops. Another reason, which I was probably unaware of back then, was that falling sick was never as strenuous and exhausting as it is now. The best part of being sick was how I was treated by people around me for those 2-3 days. All I was expected to do is sleep, eat and drink while mom made tasty and healthy meals, excused me from the burden of my homework, and let me watch unlimited television. At nights, I was tucked into soft warm sheets with the scent of VapoRub filling up my nose, only to be noiselessly interrupted by my mother’s hand on my forehead at frequent intervals. Towards the end, she might even pamper me with a bowl of steaming hot Maggi. And the worst thing was when I was not on the receiving end of this pampering and it was my sick brother receiving all the love. I had even tried, on multiple occasions, to fake an illness just to earn back mom's attention.
As I grew up, somehow, the need to be taken care of reduced, and the will to be strong and independent surged. Falling sick meant piles of work backlog and physical and mental trauma. And presumably, falling ill became the worst dread. The only thing that has remained constant over all the years is mom’s hand thermometer and her fiery hot Kashayam.
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