A funny feeling in my chest

Today I woke up and I had a funny feeling in my chest. I walked over to the wash basin and was making sense of which tube was toothpaste and which was shaving cream, and I knew I was unwell, because I squeezed shaving cream onto my toothbrush and it even tasted good.

I decided not to go to the Gym today. If I did indulge in strenuous physical exertions, maybe my illness would take a turn for the worse, and considering the kind of hospitals that exist in Chembur and how far it is from Mahim or Bandra, I decided to stay home.

And since I did not go to the Gym, I decided not to go to work today. Considering the events and all the rains of the last few weeks, I thought it might not be advisable to go out in the rain and attract all kinds of infections in my weakened state.

I sat down, relaxedly, to read the news papers, and the tabloids, and the broadsheets, and all their inserts and their plus pages and their supplements and their add-ons and their magazines and their advertisements, and maybe a little news in between. But I found myself unable to drool at the scantily clad Page 3 models, and the slipping clothes caught so expertly on the ace photographer's lenses, and the international bikini competition. I kept catching my breath and my chest was stuffy. I tried clearing my throat and heaving my chest a bit, and i dismissed it.

After a leisurely breakfast, and catching last night's highlights (India getting a sollid walloping from Sri Lanka), I decided I must go to the doctor. So I strolled down to the doctor, and on the way, I stopped by the carom club to play some carom since I hadn't done that in over a month. But I couldnt pocket a single coin, because I had a funny stuffy feeling in my chest.

When I reached the doctor, he checked me up and down, asked me if I had a fever (I did not), whether I had drunk water from outside my house (I had, but only bottled water), whether I had eaten something outside my house (I had not), and if I was feeling odd in any way.

He then checked my chest with his stethoscope, and pushed and prodded around my ribs. Finally, he put down his stethoscope and said, "You're absolutely fine." I replied, "what about the funny feeling in my chest? I was hoping it would be something kinda serious so I could stay home for a while." He said, "Theres nothing there. Its just your imagination."

I stomped home, snorting away at the 50 bucks he took to tell me I'm fine. He didnt know his job. What did he know about funny feelings in the chest. For all he knew, I might be dying and I might be at the terminal stage of a lifelong disease that would make me die in a single night.

Ha. That would teach him, wouldnt it. If I died the next day.

Since I had decided that I was to die of a funny feeling in my chest the next day, I decided that I was far behind in making a will and setting my matters in order.

So I went home, and laid out all my belongings in the world on the bed, and drew up my will.

The foozeball table, I give to my brother, partha. Now you can win all you want.
The laptop computer I give to my dad. You paid for it, it is only just that you inherit it.
The sports shoes, you can take, Peps. I suppose you must have already appropriated them.
My half empty tester bottles of perfume, I give to Vicky, Nishant, and Vijay Shetty.
My clothes, I donate to people on the street. Let them have some happiness too (and sorrow, especially when they wear that Polyester Shirt that bites into the back.)
My CD's I want destroyed. Nobody must have music in life after I am gone.

And with a heavy heart and a funny feeling in my chest, I called up all my friends to tell them the bad news. Some friends laughed and hung up since it was Friday and they couldnt hear me through all the noise at the discos; Some sagely heard it all and then asked who would pay them back after I was gone; Some did not even pick up the phone.

And then I went to sleep and cried a little. Because I had not done the things I promised myself I would do. Like building a business empire; like playing cricket on cross maidan in white flannels; like watching Iron Maiden or Black Sabbath or Pink Floyd or Metallica live in concert; like living alone; like finding a girlfriend; like having a house on a road, on a beach by the sea; like writing bestselling books and travelling all over the world to research the books.

But to my surprise, I woke up the next morning. And the funny feeling in my chest had gone.

I was on my way to the rickshaw stand when I met a friend of mine off to work. And I narrated my close brush with death to him, and all he replied was, "Yes, I know. I had chest congestion too.. Must be the weather."

utekkare,

Pranay