Notes of a sick boy

Wintertime is up. It has started to get hot in Delhi. Soon this city will be a big blazing bakery. Heat and grime shall appear. The Sun will become a torrid oven that gets hotter each passing day. I’m frigging scared of the wicked Indian -- summer -- sun. It simply kills you.
The sky becomes a shade of alabaster from the crisp blue of winter. The clouds kind of jar and jam in summers and you can’t see any clouds shaped like forest animals. It gets that uninspiring.
And it lasts more than 222 days. That is abominable.

I was knocked out by a brief viral attack. The cretins have an old enmity with me and are almost always on an ambush. I don’t know I must have wandered close to their turf [Did I drink from something infected or was the air laden with some bug barf, I can’t remember] and these hideously pathetic creatures suddenly lunged at me.
My unsuspecting immune system must have fought gallantly, my FRCP accredited doc comforted me but you see the invading bugs are far stronger. End result: I was done in. Fever gripped me and I was in bloody pain.

Well, about twenty five years ago there was this guy. He noticed some mold growing on his bread and he started feeding it to people. Everybody said he was stupid. You know what it turned out to be? Aspirin! I popped in aspirins and several potions of that wonder drug called antibiotics before I could get back to my crazy work schedule. Life has again streamed into a rhythm.

I’ll back anon.

Sameer