Fever.

Running water, gurgling like a small happy baby. Splish splash of water on the face. The trusted Casio on his hand slowly ticking past 1130 on a Tuesday morning, getting wet. All the dirtied, with slowly deposited dust, men’s beauty cream sachets caught in the splish splash. Wet. Splish splash splish splash. He looks up at the mirror. Not a happy face. Red eyes. Dark over-sleep circles under the eyes. Red eyes. Feverish eyes. Under-eye circles mingling with the childhood scar under the eye. Big under-eye circles, socializing with scars. Illicit. Unacceptable. The high society of the face disapproves. Palm cupped in from of the face, he directs morning breath onto his face. Ugh. Beer and morning smell mingle. Ugh. Nobody approves, not even the scar and circle approvers. He runs his fingers through his hair. Dry. Now wet. Slowly receding hairline. Inching. Slyly plotting, unobserved. dy/dt=m. Bastard. He absentmindedly scratches the two-day beard. Splish splash. Brushes his teeth. Good upper line of teeth. Like his father’s. Crooked lower line. Like his mother’s. Polishes the brushing off with a good swig of mouthwash. Anti plaque it promises. Lies. Hand cup again. Pepperminty breath smell mixing with fever smell now. Pleasant. Lynyrd Skynyrd singing of Alabama on small twin USB speakers connected to a phone. He feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. Goddamn fever he mumbles. He pushes the mirror on top of the stained dish. Click. It swings outwards. Medicine cabinet. He picks and chooses. Paracetamol. Feels temperature. 650 mg. Good. Cetzine. Erythromycin tablet. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Him. Me. Bachelor. Engineer. Self-medicator. Work skipper. Feverish. Click. Splish splash splish splash. He turns off the tap. The gurgling baby is asleep. Happy sleep.

Axl Rose wants you to take him to Paradise City. Outside, someone called his friend a sister violator. Sister violator and friend laugh together. Someone is a crazy fucker and a sister violator says sister violator. More laughter. He slumps on his bed. The wobbly fan wobbly-ly rotates. Hot air. The phone buzzes. Axl Rose waits. The buzzing stops and Axl Rose resumes. Well wishers wanting to know how he is. Concerned mom wanting miscalls every hour to ensure that he is not dead. Pretentious people pretending to care. A connected world. Far too connected, far too concerned. He can’t sate everyone. He has his favourites. He calls his mom and replies a few. Axl Rose is done now. His fingers brush the arrow. Grace Slick sings. Seductive.

He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. Someone and his friend are inventing new violations outside. Gross. Fun. Guilty. Gross. Fun. Laughter. Sleep descends. Like curtains in a show. Velvety, with fringes. The characters bow. Only the flashy lightbulbs on the sides flash. The lights come on and everyone leaves. But backstage, the show goes on.

Backstage. He is thin now. Scrawny. Scrawny little boy. Kicking stones. Reined in, because he’s holding her hand. No, holding her finger. With a beautiful gold ring with a black stone. The stone rotated in it’s hold. Reined in like him. But moving. Kicking and punching. His mother and him. Everybody knows them. She nods at people. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she says. Going to the doctor. He has fever. He looks up at them. Normal hairline. Close cropped hair. Little soldier. Red eyes. Fever eyes. He smiles and sniffles. Good front teeth, just like his father’s. They walk past the local grocery store, past the STD booth, past the petrol pump, past the tyre puncture shop, past the cycle repair shop, past the goldsmith’s. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she tells everyone. Smiles and nods and sympathies. The little boy smiles. The black stone in the ring rotates. Reined in, both of them.

She is pretty. Not thin anymore. Motherly hips. Elegant. Head held high. Easy smile. Graceful. Social. Classy. Not concerned about him. Proud and sure of herself and her family. The housewife. Family runner. Has a dressing sense about her. Beautiful. They reach the clinic. He sniffles. She wipes off snot from his nose. Hand kerchief has pink flowers and frills. Girly, like Susan’s from school he thinks. Sniffle, wipe, sniffle, wipe. “Oh stop it, we are here now!” Sniffle, rough wipe, no sniffles.

A blue walled building greets them. Doctor Ramachandran’s Homoeopathic Clinic it announces. Bold red letters on a white board, and the plus sign which is mandatory for anything medical. There is a foldable board announcing the same outside. Dr. Ramachandran and Dr. Vijayan R, the board announces, followed by long acronyms singing of their academic conquers in the field of Homoeopathy. Opera music, to the sound of sad violins, shattering glasses, making people happy, and sad. We were here to meet Vijayan doctor. He was gifted, people said. A healer. People from far far away came for his appointments because of this reputation. He was a tenant at my mother’s sister’s house so we could get appointments any time. So here we were, to meet Dr Vijayan, the healer. Sniffle, wipe.

The doctor comes out of his room to see off his patient. “Ah chechi, vannolu”, he says (Ah elder sister come in). Haha. So we go in. He is short. [5’ 2”-5’ 4”]. Yes, square brackets. He smelt of santoor powder and had the sane, good natured laugh of a sane good natured man. He left his mothers hand. The ring breathed. The stone stopped turning. Abandoned. “Come, sit here”, Dr Vijayan says pointing at the steel chair smiling his sane, good natured smile. It is his favourite part. He runs to the chair, reserved for the patient. High chair. Like a bar stool. But he didn’t know what a bar stool was then. Dr Vijayan feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. His shirt is lifted and the cold stethoscope touches naked skin. Shiver. Dr Vijayan smiles at the boy “Oh it’s nothing chechi, only a small fever. It will be gone in two days. I’ll give some tablets though.” The boy smiles at Dr Vijayan and looks at his mom. She nods, well done son, nod.

Dr. Vijayan goes behind the curtains to prepare the medicines. Sweet little white balls in a transparent bottle to be had thrice a day. Four at a time initially then three then two as the fever recedes. If it doesn’t go away in three days then come back. The brown curtain is dusty, the wind makes it crack like a whip. Dust particles are thrown off. Inertia lost. The cream Ajanta clock on the wall moves slowly. Tick tock tick tock. Samuel Hahnemann’s photo on the wall, sitting comfortably alongside Mahatma Gandhi, Karl Marx and Lord Ayyappa, smiles back at you. The father of homoeopathy, it informs you. Saamuvell Haahenehmahnn, the little boy whispers to himself. His mother smiles. The doctor returns and gives him the bottles. “Sheri Vijayan, nammal poyittu varam”, she tells him. Okay Vijayan we will go and come back. As if we all look forward to coming to homoeopathic clinics. Doctor Vijayan smiles and comes out to wave goodbye. The santoor smell stays with us for a while. Then it is lost in the wind. He is holding her finger again. The black stone twists and turns. Stones are kicked. Nods. Smiles. “Doctorine kandu”. We’ve seen the doctor.

An alarm goes off. The curtains go back up. The show starts. The lights dim. An application made by a Russian is asking him to go attend a Production Meeting. Stupid thing doesn’t know he is a work skipper. He rubs his eyes and looks in his Casio. 1555 it tells him. Grace Slick stopped singing for him a long while ago. Kids are playing outside. The violations have ended. Family time has begun. 12 calls from a concerned mother and a million messages. He sates the people first. He gets up, stretches and walks to the bathroom. Red, fever eyes stare back. The circle and star are still at it. He mumbles a few obscenities. He remembers the homeo tablets and the santoor smell and the pepper water that was waiting at home. He remembers the gold ring and the black stone and the gaudy paint on the clinic walls. He remembers Susan’s handkerchief. Splish splash splish splash. Swig. Gargle. Spit. Click. Swig. Gulp. Check smell. Marilyn Manson is now telling you that some of them want to abuse you. Splish splash splish splash.