Skip to main content

Dengue Musings

One day, my friend, a doctor informed me about a dengue prevention camp that he was going to conduct. A part of me, wanted to visit, but I couldn't attend because of some reason. Mostly, I wanted to go to support my friend. Why would I need a dengue prevention medicines, I haughtily wondered at that time.

But, in reality I was at a high dengue risk, unknown to anyone. My office was flooded with mosquitoes and a portion of it was flooded by water. Perhaps at the office or some other place, the mosquito attacked me. As a consequence, my platelets spiraled down, as my temperature shot up.

It was a sick time. Down on bed all the time, with nothing to do. Add to it, my heart's misery. Having lost a friend to dengue, exactly a year ago, the time that passed was tough on me. Could I be joining him? Or I am the one, destined to suffer on Earth here? Questions often tormented my mind. I think of it now, and I realize that yes, I was ready to meet the creator. (Or whomsoever you meet, when breath exits your body)

I hate being pinned down. In the hospital, I was all boxed up. I craved for freedom and freedom alone. The fuss created by parents and relatives didn't help at all. The more you visit a hospital, the more you realize, the hell India is, where medical system is worse than Manmohan Singh's governance. But no, it was not a very extraordinary time for me. Just routine, mechanical. Your body got unwell, you get it fixed and proceed to lead the same routine life. As simple as getting that punctured scooter tire fixed.

As destiny would have it, I survived and survived well. All thanks to the gem of friends that I ha ve and my family of course. But the question remains in my head; did I need this survival?

Comments

Also read

Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Why does Mrs Dalloway still speak to you after a hundred years? A human reading of Virginia Woolf’s novel A reflective and thoughtful review of Mrs Dalloway that explores why Virginia Woolf’s modernist classic continues to resonate. From memory and mental health to love, regret, and time, this article examines characters, themes, context, and craft while questioning whether the novel still challenges and comforts today’s reader. Why does a novel about one ordinary day linger in your mind for years? This long form review of Mrs Dalloway explores through its quiet power. You will find analysis, critique, history, and personal reflection on why this book continues to unsettle and comfort readers alike. Can a single ordinary day hold an entire life? Have you ever reached the end of a day and wondered where it went, and more unsettlingly, where you went within it? That question sits at the heart of Mrs Dalloway , Virginia Woolf’s 1925 novel that dares to suggest that the smallest moment...

Cutting people off isn’t strength—It is a trauma response

Your ability to cut people off and self-isolate is not a skill you should be proud of—It is a trauma response Cutting people off and self-isolating may feel like a protective shield, but it is often rooted in unresolved or unhealed trauma and an inability to depend on others. While these behaviors seem like self-preservation, they end up reinforcing isolation and blocking meaningful connections. Confronting these patterns, seeking therapy, and nurturing supportive relationships can help break this unhealthy cycle. Plus, a simple act like planting a jasmine plant can symbolise the start of your journey towards emotional healing. Why do we cut people off and isolate? If you’re someone who prides themselves on “cutting people off” or keeping a tight circle, you might believe it’s a skill—a way to protect yourself from betrayal, hurt, or unnecessary drama. I get it. I’ve been there, too. But here’s the thing: this ability to isolate yourself is not as empowering as it may seem. In fact, i...

Spill the Tea: Noor and the Silence After Doing Everything right

Noor has done everything she was supposed to do — moved out, built a life, stayed independent. Yet beneath the neat routines and functional success lies a quiet emptiness she cannot name. Part of the Spill the Tea series, this story explores high-functioning loneliness, emotional flatness, and the unsettling fear of living a life that looks complete from the outside. The verandah was brighter than Noor expected. Morning light lay flat across the tiles, showing every faint scuff mark, every water stain from old monsoons. The air smelled of detergent from a neighbour’s washed curtains flapping overhead. On the table, the paneer patties waited in a cardboard bakery box I’d emptied onto a plate. A squeeze bottle of ketchup stood beside it, slightly sticky around the cap. Two cups of tea, steam already thinning. In one corner, a bamboo palm stood in a large terracotta planter. Thin stems. Too many leaves. Trying very hard to look like it belonged indoors. Noor sat down and pulled the chair ...