Early last week I woke up with a fever, a blocked nose, a raw throat and a tummy that ran like a motivated Ethiopian. If you’ve lived in Mumbai long enough, these symptoms aren’t an immediate cause for worry. Maybe you ate something. Or drank something. Or you did something really reckless, like go out and have some unprotected breaths. I also diligently started on an early treatment regimen of ignoring everyone’s advice.

The next morning, I was worse. “Please go see a doctor”, texted my mother. “Take care, drink lots of fluids,” said my sister. “LOL Mubarak ho. Ebola hua hai, marega tu,” texted my best friend. And so I finally went to see the doctor. I spent some time in the waiting room and read every magazine there, because even when you’re sick, it’s important to keep up with the current affairs of 1994. My doctor is a charming, avuncular gentleman, so imagine my disappointment when I was told he wasn’t there, and I’d be attended to by his temporary replacement.