4:13 PM

 

It’s 4:13 p.m.

It is the season of the southwest monsoon in the part of the country where I live. Having said that, it’s not raining outside today, for a change.

I am well tucked into my bed in my dimly lit room, lit only by the sunlight that has filtered through the purple curtains of my bedroom window.

The reason I’m in bed at this hour of the day, on a Wednesday, is because I’m sick. I think it’s a viral infection. Every other person I’ve spoken to, or know, seems to be suffering from the same thing these days. And so am I.

Being drenched in the rain the night before yesterday probably contributed to it.

I had just woken up from a not-so-deep sleep because of a call from my father. The moment I saw his name on my screen, my heartbeat quickened. Before my sleepy mind could register my own circumstances, it assumed something had happened to him.

“What happened? Are you okay?” I asked.

He laughed it off. He was fine. He had only called to ask how I was doing and whether my fever had gone up.

Hearing that question slowly brought me back to reality. I remembered why I was tucked into my bed at four in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

I told him I was doing fine, although the heaviness in my voice must have betrayed me. He, in turn, played his part by pretending to believe me, and then we hung up.

I have a tendency to become philosophical about the little things that happen in my otherwise ordinary life.

Today, I’m romanticizing the beauty of being cared for. How lucky are the people who have someone checking in on them when they feel slightly under the weather?

But that philosophy can wait for another day.

For now, my mind is occupied by the warmth of this room—and perhaps by the warmth radiating from beneath my skin because of the mild fever I’ve had since yesterday.

I think I’m romanticizing my sickness too.

Having set that thought aside, I try to take a deep breath. I can’t. My nose is blocked, my chest feels heavy, and it is moments like these that remind me how effortless breathing usually is.

I scroll through Instagram. A reel appears—someone singing a Bollywood song I dearly love. I instinctively try to hum along, only to realize that the cold has stolen my voice. My ms and ns dissolve into an embarrassingly nasal sound.

I’m quietly grateful to the people who tolerate this version of my voice, even though, in my own head, it sounds unbearably annoying.

I scroll past the reel, watch another one, and then lock my phone.

Sometimes I frustrate myself with this habit of endless scrolling. I’m down with a fever, and I’m still looking for something to watch.

When I was a child, fever came with dreams.

Whenever I was under the weather, asleep under the effect of medicines my mother gave me, I would dream that I was looking at myself from somewhere outside my body. I’d see myself lying on the bed from a third-person point of view. Those dreams terrified me.

I wonder where they disappeared.

Perhaps they were quietly replaced by YouTube videos playing in the background as white noise while I sleep.

As I’ve been writing this, it’s 4:30 now.

I don’t think I’ve been productive today.

Maybe writing this is my way of redeeming the day.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Either way, I’ll do as I please.

I’ve been sick for only two days, but, oddly enough, I’m enjoying it.

Part of the reason is embarrassingly simple: I’m not at work.

I’ll take an unexpected holiday any day.

Illness gives me permission to be completely useless without having to justify myself to that relentless voice inside my head that constantly asks whether I’ve done enough.

So I’ve spent the day exactly as I wanted to—curled up in bed with something playing on my iPad. Usually, it’s a Harry Potter movie. Occasionally, I pause it to sip hot chocolate, fully aware that the sugar probably isn’t doing me any favours.

But being sick grants certain liberties.

For a little while, it feels as though I’ve stepped into a world that runs by gentler rules. I can eat what I want, even though I’ve almost lost my sense of taste. Calories don’t count. Time doesn’t count either. I can watch my favourite films, drift in and out of sleep, and ignore the clock without feeling guilty.

The only people who call are friends and family checking in on me.

And while they’re worried, I’m strangely content.

Perhaps that’s the oddest part.

The thought of returning to my usual life once I’m completely well again doesn’t excite me as much as I think it should.

Maybe what I’m really enjoying isn’t being sick.

Maybe it’s the temporary suspension of expectations.

It’s 4:35 now.

I can hear that it’s raining outside. The soft pitter-patter of raindrops lands on the rooftops of the neighbourhood with a rhythm that’s impossible to ignore.

It’s a good day.

I’m sick.

I’m happy.

I think I’ll go back to sleep with Harry Potter playing softly in the background.

See you another day.