It’s that time of the year again, when we soak in the festive cheer, dress up in our finest and spend glorious evenings by the bathroom sink, coughing up blobs of phlegm so large, they might soon be granted statehood.
At least that’s what happens to me every time the weather in this
city changes from ‘autumn’, which means ‘muggy and hot’, to ‘winter’, which is just code for ‘The Attack of The Mutant Nasal Virus’ (also the title of an upcoming Himesh Reshammiya film).
My chest feels like Sunny Deol has been dancing on it, and my eyes haven’t hurt this much since they were exposed to a picture of that thing growing on Jairam Ramesh’s head. It takes me about two hours to get out of bed, as opposed to regular days, where I’m out in just an hour. This is followed by a crawl to the bathroom, with about three pit-stops in between, where I catch my breath and try not to pass out, a task not helped by the fact that I’ve been prescribed a huge dose of what appear to be horse-tranquilisers.
Yes, it’s been that kind of a week.
Now I’m not usually a whiner. In the past, I’ve silently braved horrific situations that would have destroyed lesser men, like that one time I saw Kurbaan. But pit me against a smog-filled Mumbai winter, and I quickly degenerate into a whiny little brat who needs to be pacified immediately. Kind of like that KCR fellow.
Thankfully, our culture has an in-built mechanism to take care of brats like me, irrespective of age. I’m referring of course, to The Great Indian Mother, who will go out of her way to inform you that you deserve to writhe in agony, because “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t gone out drinking last week, and what are you doing with your life and good God, when will you get a haircut and...”
(SLAP)
Thanks. I needed that.
Of course, I’m not the only pansy who’s been hit by a change in the weather. I realised this via a highly scientific method of collecting data, i.e. logging on to Twitter and typing something like, ‘Ok, so who else feels like they’ve just had their throats scrubbed with sandpaper?’ In an instant, at least five other people replied in the affirmative, thus confirming my theory that people on Twitter have way too much free time.
I also spoke to a few physicians in the city, who confirmed that a rise in the number of such cases has left them with little time to pursue the smaller joys in life, such as laughing maniacally while diving into a pool of money.
I suppose things could be worse though. I could be living in North India, where I wouldn’t last a minute with my current immune system, which, I suspect, was made in China. North India was even hit by a cold wave this week. Things were so bad that people were actually ready to snuggle with Mayawati.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go dislodge another magnificent blob from my respiratory tract. In case I pass out along the way, somebody please ask my mother to not use the opportunity to cut my hair.