Ahchoo!

Yep, you guessed it. I’m sick.

Physically, that is, to match very well with the sick mind that most people tell me I possess. (What are you wearing to bed tonight, honey?)

It’s a Sunday, and I’ve been home suffering since Friday. In fact, I’ve been suffering since Thursday, when the fever and cold first took hold.

And since I’m suffering (I tell you, Gabbar and Mogambo got it wrong, the best torture implement is the cold virus), I’ve decided to pass some of that suffering onto you!

(Sort of like how car companies increase prices and pass some of that burden onto their consumers.)

So this will be a gross blog. Reader discretion is advised, but (since you’re reading this), obviously sadly lacking.

Started off with the sniffles. Yes, the sniffles. Leaky, runny nose. At first, white mucus was coming out. Then it became yellowish mucus. Currently it’s alternating between white and yellow, and leaving my third handkerchief of the day rather colourful. In addition to very sticky and soggy.

In fact, my nose was leaking so badly, it was dripping. I was peeing, and as all boys do, aiming the pee at various strategic corners of the toilet. Sort of imagining myself as a soldier armed with a big…er…gun…drowning invading armies, etc.

So as I looked down at myself, my nose started dripping. Right into the pot. And it continued dripping. Even after I’d won the imaginary war and sheathed the…er…gun. Small drops of clear, transparent goo. Sort of like raindrops dripping off your face? Except considerably less hygienic.

For those grossed out readers: don’t give up yet, the end is nigh.

Apart from the sniffles is the sneezing. I’ve never sneezed as much in my life as I have over the last few days. Once in an hour (and I’ve timed this), I’ll start sneezing. Five times, six times. Loudly, explosively, wetly. Little drops of cold spraying from my nose, splattering my handkerchief, or the person unfortunate enough to be sitting near me. Then, sneezing done, I wipe my wet nose, and say, “Eggsgyooze be.”

By then said unfortunate person has usually transported himself/herself a few careful feet away in disgust.

For those grossed out readers: I lied.

Now the cough. Yes, the cough. I have that too. It’s buy 2 get 1 free season. It started as a throat-ache (headache in the throat?), and quickly developed into a full-fledged congested chest. You know, the sort of chest that gurgles and gravels every time you breathe. The sort of chest that chooses the most inopportune moments (damn I’m using big words tonight!) to hack the cough out. Such as when I’m busy sneezing.

That’s the worst, though. Cough and sneeze at the same time. Honestly, you don’t know whether you’re coming or going. And then, worst of all, you end up swallowing the coughed-up phlegm. Then you’ll get to imagine those thick green-black blobs sliding down your throat into your stomach, where they’ll eventually get digested and contribute to your poor eating habits.

Yup, that’s sort of what’s happening with me. Except that the phlegm is no longer green-black, it’s just yellow-white. You know that colour – you see it every time you throw up.

But the standard colours are getting boring. Wouldn’t it be nicer if phlegm came in the colours of the rainbow, changing according to how well you are? Red could be a really bad case (blood mixed in the phlegm even), and violet could be a really mild case. And it’d be a nice indicator of how well the medicines were working.

Oh, did I mention the fever? Burning hot fever? Up almost to 101 this evening. I was so hot I sizzled. And then the feeling when the fever breaks. Suddenly you wake up, shirt drenched in sweat, like you’ve just made love with the AC off or run the Sahara Desert Marathon.

So that’s the story, that’s why I’ve been in bed (in a completely non-erotic way) for the last few days. I am on medication, and I hope to be back at work on Tuesday.

And maybe I’ll show my friends at work all that I’ve made you read through just now.

There's Something About Rachel

A.

B.













Long time, no C.

Ok, that’s enough of an apology to the three people I know for sure who missed the blog. Slappy, the Nag and Doc. So I’m back. And (armed with my trusty brand new laptop, just couldn’t resist mentioning it), hopefully this time I know it’s for real.

I’m going crazy just to let you know…
You’ll be amazed how much I love you so-o-o-o
Oh baby!!!

Alright, done digressing.

So, like every time I come back from Blogger Death, here’s a quick update on what’s going on in ze life.

(Bulleted, even, for a professional-looking post. All that’s missing is a clear plastic binder.)

• The ad agency I work for (yes, it’s still the same) sold out to its international partners. Then they gave us the money. Lots of it. So, I bought Rachel. A brand new (photos coming soon) fiery red Chevrolet Spark LS. Who’d have ever thought that my first car would be a Chevy? And that too, paid for in cash?
  
• Yes, I named her after Jennifer Aniston’s character in Friends. Spoilt, rich and sooooooooo sexy.
  
• Slappy and I are still together. Someone up there’s having a real laugh, I think.
  
• Slappy’s folks bought her a house in Colaba, ten minutes walk from home. Considering she’s shifted to an ad agency that believes in underpaying and overworking (more than most others, at least) the house means that we don’t feel like we’re in a long-distance relationship.
  
• Doc and the Nag got married.
  
• My sweetheart from college got married. Called me after a year’s gap to invite me to the wedding. In Calcutta. I didn’t go.
  
• Minty found a boyfriend. Pilot, I’ll call him.
  
• Sis found a job. She works with Legs. Yes, Legs. My close friend and first love from college, who’s now running her own production house. Touch wood, both seem happy.
  
• I asked Slappy to marry me. Formally, this time. On Republic Day, again. Ring-shing and everything. She said yes. How could she not, honestly?
  
• We told our folks. A little later, actually. Mine were very upset that I didn’t tell them about the ring. Sorry, Mom and Dad. Forgive an inexperienced, shy little bachcha.
  
• I now work on India’s number 1 tea brand, India’s number 2 bike brand and UK’s number 1 rice brand. Strange brew, but a happier brew.
  

So that’s the update, and now for the main story.

Rachel. A month after I bought her, some ass reversed into her while trying to park. Rachel was sitting in the parking lot, I was sitting in office. So I got the dent fixed, she looked as good as new.

Then one morning, a cab decided to brake right in front of me. I braked just in time – almost! The result: Rachel has a tiny bump in the licence plate. Not worth repairing, honestly. It’s the girl equivalent of the scar which makes a guy look rugged and macho and 300% masculine.

Do I need to mention that it wasn’t my fault?

Then some other ass, a taxi driver, slammed into a parked Rachel again. Big dent. This is a month before Rachel’s 6-month service, so I wait. Then we get everything fixed at one go.

I get the car back from the service, all gleaming spit and polish. Then the damn deck refuses to show me what it’s playing. Oh, it plays all right. Just that the display doesn’t light up. And the bumper’s creaking alarmingly.

Moral of the story? She’s jinxed. Somebody seems to envy her like crazy. After all, it seems like people are queuing up to bang (into?) her.

Right now, the bumper’s fixed, the stereo’s in the shop. And there’s a little unpainted, unpolished scratch on the front that’s trying really hard to hide Rachel from that evil eye.

After the first incident, I decided to try some local voodoo. I left that notch in the front bumper to ward off the buri nazar didn’t seem to work. And the traditional nimbu-mirchi is just an eyesore.

Now I’m looking for a shaman to do some mumbo-jumbo and dance around Rachel, hollering at the heavens. Contacts anyone?